THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 
 PAUL TURNER, U.S.M.C.R. 
 
 KILLED IN ACTION, SAIPAN 
 
 JUNE, 1944
 
 LAUNCELOT AND GUENEVERE 
 A POEM IN DRAMAS 
 
 [I. THE MARRIAGE OF GUENEVERE
 
 BY RICHARD HOVEY 
 
 LAUNCELOT AND GUENEVERE 
 A POEM IN DRAMAS 
 
 I. THE QUEST OF MERLIN 
 A Masque 
 
 II. THE MARRIAGE OF GUENEVERE 
 A Tragedy 
 
 III. THE BIRTH OF GALAHAD 
 A Romantic Drama 
 
 IV. TALIESIN 
 A Masque 
 
 V. THE HOLY GRAAL AND OTHER 
 FRAGMENTS 
 
 Each volume $1.25 net; postage 5 cents. 
 The above five volumes boxed, $5.00 net ; postage 25 cents.
 
 TDE 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DUFFIELD-AND COMPANY 
 1909
 
 Copyright, 1891, 1895, 
 BY RICHARD HOVEY. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 Copyright, 1899, 
 BY SMALL, MAYNARD AND Co. 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
 
 PS 
 
 2OO7 
 
 THE MARRIAGE OF GUENEVERB 
 
 A TRAGEDY 
 
 827773
 
 Knights of 
 the Round 
 Table. 
 
 PERSONS. 
 
 ARTHUR, King of Britain. 
 
 MERLIN, his Counsellor. 
 
 GODMAR, the Lord Marshal, 
 
 LAUNCELOT DU LAC, 
 
 ECTOR DE MARIS, Brother of Launcelot, 
 
 LIONEL, \ Cousins o{ Launcelot, 
 
 BORS DE GANYS, } 
 
 GALAHAULT, 
 
 LADINAS DE LA ROUSE, 
 
 KAYE, Lord Seneschal of the Palace, 
 
 LEODEGRANCE, King of Cameliard. 
 
 PEREDURE, his Son, a Poet. 
 
 PUBLIUS, Ambassador from Rome. 
 
 PRYDERI, a Leech. 
 
 DAGONET, a Jester. 
 
 GAWAINE, a lad, son of Morgause. 
 
 BORRE, a child, illegitimate son of Arthur. 
 
 CAMALDUNA, Queen of Cameliard. 
 
 GUENEVERE, her Daughter, afterward Queen of Britain. 
 MORGAUSE, Arthur's sister, Queen of Orkney. 
 LIONORS, mother of Borre. 
 
 Knights^ Ladies, Ambassadors, Heralds^ Pages, Watch' 
 men, Attendants, etc. 
 
 Seme. Britain. 
 Time. May and June.
 
 THE MARRIAGE OF GUENEVERE. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. In the edge of a wood a cavalcade has 
 dismounted and the horses are tethered among 
 the trees. In the background MERLIN sits alone 
 on a high place, looking at the towers of Ca- 
 meliard, which are seen hazily in the distance. 
 A group of Knights, seated in the foreground 
 under a large oak tree, have just ended their re 
 past and the attendants bring them beakers of 
 wine. In this group may be noted SIR LIONEL, 
 SIR ECTOR DE MARIS, SIR BORS DE GANYS, 
 and SIR GALAHAULT. KING ARTHUR and 
 SIR LAUNCELOT walk apart in private talk. 
 
 ECTOR. Thou hast not loved, Sir Bors. 
 LIONEL. But / love, cousin 
 
 As fair a maid as e'er wore taffeta.
 
 By the Round Table, lords, I think no knight 
 
 A truer lover ! Yet hold I with my brother, 
 
 f 
 Friendship is nobler. 
 
 ECTOR. Were thy lady here, 
 Thou durst not say it. 
 
 LIONEL. Why, who tells truth to women ? 
 They love us better for a soft deceit 
 And feed on lies like sweetmeats. 
 
 ECTOR. There are friends 
 
 Who play the rogue too and are branded false. 
 But false in love too often is a jest 
 Or flaunts itself for virtue. Still my faith is 
 That loyal love is the most goodly fruit 
 That grows out of men's hearts. 
 
 BORS. But loyal friendship, 
 
 A fruit let fall by angels out of heaven, 
 A thing to die for ! 
 
 GALAHAULT. Ay, at need ; but love 
 A thing to live for this is bitterer. 
 
 LIONEL. Call you life bitter ? 
 
 GALAHAULT. Is the rind so sweet ? 
 
 I can conceive a man so weary of life
 
 That he would quaff mandragora to the drains 
 As revellers drink wine. Do you conceive, 
 His nearest friend beseeching, such a man 
 Would forego his carouse ? But if his love 
 Came to him saying " Live, for I bid thee live," 
 Though life and love alike were bitterness, 
 He would pour out the sweet death in the dust. 
 
 BORS. Love seeks a guerdon ; friendship is as God, 
 Who gives and asks no payment. 
 
 GALAHAULT. Tut, ye are boys. 
 
 Ye deem of love as children play at arms 
 And wit not what a slain man is. Heard ye 
 Never of Arcite and of Palamon 
 That were good knights of old and as true friends 
 As e'er faced death together ? Yet one day, 
 Seeing a fair lady in a garden close, 
 They fell a-wrangling. Faith, they were as twins, 
 Inseparate from the womb ; and yet swift love, 
 In less space than a man might look and say 
 " Lo there ! " hath sundered them. 
 
 BORS. Look where the King 
 
 And Launcelot walk together. Think you that they 
 Would fall out for a girl ?
 
 GALAHAULT. Strange things ere now 
 
 Have happened and the memory of men 
 Outlived them. Yonder, dreaming in the sun, 
 Behold the towers of Cameliard ! Think you 
 The King, for love of Launcelot, would yield 
 The white enlacing arms of Guenevere, 
 Who waits there for the splendor of his coming 
 To make her Queen of Britain ? 
 
 LIONEL. Launcelot would, 
 
 If he were Arthur and Arthur Launcelot. 
 And yet I think that Arthur's love is thin 
 And substanceless to that which Launcelot 
 Bears the mysterious Lady of the Hills 
 Whom none have ever seen. 
 
 GALAHAULT. No fickle lover 
 
 Can prove the glory and the might of love. 
 The King has loved and more than twice, I think. 
 
 LIONEL. Ay, he has been a gay dog in his day. 
 
 BORS. He is the sun. If there be spots in him, 
 I wfll not look upon them. 
 
 LIONEL. Nay, brother, 
 
 God shield I speak ill of the King. No man 
 This side of dotage loves him more than I.
 
 I spoke of trivial faults. What one of us, 
 Unless it be yourself or Launcelot, 
 Hath not the like to answer ? Even the tale 
 The common tongue hath of the Queen of Ork 
 ney 
 
 How is it more ? They knew not of the bond 
 That made their sin more than the heat of youth 
 Might 
 
 BORS. Hush ! it is half treason but to think 
 What we give words to. 
 
 ECTOR. Morgause, the Queen of Orkney I 
 
 A strange dark woman ! 
 
 GALAHAULT. But a beauteous one. 
 
 [ The Knights rise at the approach of the King.] 
 
 ARTHUR. We almost touch our journey's end, 
 
 my lords. 
 
 Expected joy is like a maid that nears 
 With coy delay and timorous advance, 
 Eluding our stretched hands. So have I thought 
 To-day would never reach us ; yet it dawns. 
 And ere the sun sets in the western sea, 
 Your swords shall serve a Queen. 
 
 ECTOR. Long live the Princess 1
 
 LIONEL. But not as princess long ! Long live the 
 
 Queen ! 
 
 A beaker to the bride ! 
 ALL. Long live the Queen ! 
 
 [Enter a LADY, attended by a DWARF. She throws 
 herself at the King* s feet.] 
 
 LADY. If ever you inclined your ear to sorrow, 
 Be pitiful and hear me ! 
 
 ARTHUR. Pray you, rise. 
 
 LADY. Nay, I will statue here until you grant 
 My prayer. 
 
 ARTHUR. You wrong yourself. What is your grief? 
 
 LADY. Far back within the impenetrable hills 
 The mighty Turquine dwells of those fierce tribes 
 Who yet acknowledge not our Saviour Christ 
 But worship barbarous and obscure gods, 
 A wicked knave ! a cruel, treacherous villain ! 
 One whose delight is chiefly to work wrong 
 To all that call on Mary and her Son ! 
 This unbelieving dog in his foul lair 
 With momentary tortures racks the bones 
 Of my true lover. Me, as well, he seized 
 
 6
 
 And set his love on me if that be love 
 
 Which such a beast so names and swore an oath 
 
 To bind us each, if I received him not, 
 
 And make my living lord the pillow to 
 
 His savage purpose. But I, by God's help, 
 
 Beguiled him and escaped ; and with this weak 
 
 But faithful servitor, through lidless nights 
 
 And days that burned like fever in my brain, 
 
 Lurked in the caverns of the hills and made 
 
 The wild goats my companions. Now, for thine 
 
 oath's sake 
 
 And in the name of all fair ladies wronged, 
 O King, I cry you, do me right. 
 
 ARTHUR. Now by 
 
 My sword Excalibur, it were great shame 
 Forever to all knighthood if thy plight 
 Went unredressed. But I have that in hand 
 To-day which more imports me than the wrongs 
 Of all the world. To-day I take a wife. 
 It were a great dishonor if the feast 
 Were furnished and the bridegroom came not. 
 
 Therefore 
 Set on with us to Cameliard. To-morrow 
 
 7
 
 We will set forth with all our chivalry 
 To hawk at this foul quarry. 
 
 LADY. Oh, my lord, 
 
 Think how each lapsing moment the quick groans 
 Of my chained lover clamor for release. 
 Wilt thou be like that recreant who said, 
 " I have a wife and therefore cannot come," 
 When the Lord of Heaven bade him ? Nay then, I see 
 You are even as other men, whom I had thought 
 To be almost divine. I know I come 
 Unseasonably. Grief hath, my lord, a license 
 To overpass the bounds of courtesy. 
 Oh, is there none in all this chivalry 
 To piece his prayers to mine ? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. My lord the King, 
 
 I claim this quest. Go you to Cameliard 
 And have no care at heart. I, with three others, 
 Will seek and slay this Turquine, and set free 
 His mangled captives. 
 
 LADY. Thou and but three else ? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. It is sufficient. 
 
 LADY. Alas, you do not know 
 
 The peril of the enterprise !
 
 ARTHUR. Fear not. 
 
 It is Sir Launcelot of the Lake. He wonts not 
 To fail of his pledged word. My Launcelot, 
 I had wished that you should be on my right hand ; 
 But since it may not be Our Lady speed you ! 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Amen. Fair joy be to your bridal, 
 
 Arthur ! 
 Farewell ! Now who's with me ? 
 
 LIONEL. I. 
 
 BORS. I. 
 
 ECTOR. And I. 
 
 LADY. You are brave men. Come victory or 
 
 defeat, 
 I am bound to you forever. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Nay, we do 
 
 No more but our mere duties. Lead us on. 
 I know the mountain paths of old. Armor 
 And steeds would cumber us. We'll go afoot, 
 Armed no more heavily than now we stand. 
 Farewell, my liege ! And farewell, gentlemen ! 
 We'll drink your healths ere long in Camelot. 
 
 [Exeunt LAUNCELOT, BORS, ECTOR, LIO 
 NEL, the LADY, and the DWARF.]
 
 ARTHUR. Ah, Galahault, with fifty men like that, 
 I would shape this old world like a putty-ball. 
 Set on to Cameliard. 
 
 [Enter a MESSENGER.] 
 
 MESSENGER. My lord the King ! 
 
 King Mark of Cornwall has renounced his fealty 
 And with a mighty army is encamped 
 Upon your borders. Sir Godmar, the Lord Marshal, 
 Has ta'en the field against him, but beseeches 
 You haste to his relief. 
 
 ARTHUR. Now, by my crown, 
 
 I will not go. The heavens conspire to block 
 My progress to the towers that hold my bride. 
 But stood the Archangel Michael in the way, 
 This marriage should not wait. We will go on ; 
 To-morrow morn is time enough for Mark. 
 Sir Galahault, our Queen shall be your charge 
 Until these wars are over. Come, set on ! 
 
 [While the cavalcade is preparing to move 
 the scene closes.]
 
 SCENE II. A rocky pass in the mountains. Enter 
 LAUNCELOT, BORS, LIONEL, ECTOR, the LADY, 
 and the DWARF. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Let me rest here a moment. Nay, 
 
 go on ; 
 
 I shall o'ertake you ere you gain the crest. 
 Cousin, a word with you. 
 
 [Exeunt all but BORS and LAUNCELOT.] 
 
 What blessed chance 
 Has led me hither ? 
 
 BORS. Cousin, you called me back. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Why, but to have you with me, 
 
 Bors. This place 
 
 Is like a sudden scene of other days 
 That starts up in the middle of a dream ; 
 
 BORS. Have you been here ere now ? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Ay, and that time 
 Would stand erect and vivid in my brain 
 Though all the other puppets of the past 
 Reeled into smoke. This is the very spot.
 
 I lay here, cousin, even here where this gaunt bram 
 ble 
 
 Still tugs a meagre life out of the cleft 
 Where it is rooted, faint almost to death ; 
 For I had struggled through these cruel hills 
 Three days without a crust, and my head swam 
 And my legs wavered under me and would not 
 Bear me upright. Down these precipitous crags 
 And o'er these dizzy ledges I could pass 
 No more than I could leap across yon gulf, 
 And I lay down and thought of death, as of 
 A gulf into whose blackness one might leap 
 And fall forever. A long time lay I so, 
 Too weak to struggle with impending doom, 
 And death seemed like to yawn and swallow 
 me. 
 
 BORS. And yet you are not dead. How 'scaped 
 you, then? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. God sent a blessed angel to my 
 
 aid. 
 
 There on the peak beyond the gulf I saw her, 
 Standing against the sky, with garments blown, 
 The mistress of the winds ! An angel, said I ?
 
 God was more kind, he sent a woman to me. 
 
 BORS. The Lady of the Hills ! 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Ay, so I call her, 
 
 For other name I know not. 
 
 BORS. The unknown lady, 
 
 Whom you have made more famous than a queen ! 
 Here saw you her the first time ? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. And the last time. 
 
 She was attended by a motley Fool, 
 Who stretched his hand and pointed where I lay. 
 She saw me and in pity of my case 
 Sent Master Dagonet so the Fool was called 
 But he nowise would tell the lady's name 
 To help me down the pass. But she went on 
 Alone across the summits of the hills 
 Like some grand free Diana of the North 
 And passed out of my sight, as daylight fades 
 Out of the western sky. But I no more 
 Was faint, and went my way, considering. 
 
 BORS. But could you nowise find out who she 
 was? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Nowise, for Merlin met me there 
 upon,
 
 And brought me suddenly to Camelot, 
 Where I was knighted. I had fain delayed 
 But boy -like shamed to say wherefore my heart 
 Hung back toward the hills. And so I passed 
 Away from her and never saw her more. 
 
 BORS. Even here it was you saw her ? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Ay, even here. 
 
 Bt)RS. Why, then, should you not meet her here 
 again ? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. The hope of that is as the morning- 
 star, 
 
 The messenger of dawn. And in good sooth 
 I have a feeling in my heart that soon 
 My long and lightless service shall have end 
 And I shall serve her seeing. But our friends 
 Await us. I shall serve my lady better 
 With noble actions than with idle dreams. 
 
 [Exeunt.] 
 
 SCENE III. Cameliard. The Palace of Leode- 
 grance. A chamber hung with rich embroider 
 ies. At the centre a wide entrance with heavy 
 curtains, which conceal a corridor. At the
 
 upper right corner a windra) opening on a bal 
 cony which overlooks the sea. GUENEVERE is 
 seated before this window with a harp. 
 
 GUENEVERE. [Sings], The flower-born Blodueda, 
 Great joy of love was hers ; 
 Now lonely is the life she leads 
 Among the moonlit firs. 
 
 The white enchantress, Arianrod, 
 
 The daughter of King Don, 
 Hath hidden in a secret place 
 
 And borne a goodly son. 
 
 But he shall have nor name nor arms 
 
 Wherewith to get him fame, 
 Unless his mother's heart relent 
 
 And give him arms and name. 
 
 Twice hath she cursed him from her heart 
 
 Twice and yet once again, 
 That he shall never take a wife 
 
 Of all the seed of men.
 
 Yet all unwitting she gave him arms, 
 When the foe was in the land ; 
 
 And all unwitting a goodly name, 
 Llew of the Steady Hand. 
 
 And Gwydion, the son of Don, 
 Hath wrought with mighty charms 
 
 A mystery of maidenhood 
 To lie within his arms. 
 
 He took the blossoms of the oak 
 And the blossoms of the broom 
 
 And the blossoms of the meadow-sweet 
 And fashioned her therefrom. 
 
 Of all the maidens on the earth 
 
 She was by far most fair, 
 And the memory of the meadow-sweet 
 
 Was odors in her hair. 
 
 But she hath given her heart away 
 To the stout lord of Penllyn, 
 
 And he is slain by Cynvael's banks, 
 Betrayed by all his kin.
 
 And oh, and she were light of heart 
 
 Had they but slain her so ! 
 In likeness of a mournful owl, 
 
 She grieves her nightly woe. 
 
 The motherless Blodueda 
 
 Shall never find release ; 
 From eve till morn she makes her moan 
 
 Among the moonlit trees. 
 
 {While GUENEVERE sings, MORGAUSE has entered, 
 
 MORGAUSE. It is a sad song for a bride to sing. 
 
 GUENEVERE. I did not know that anyone was 
 near. 
 
 MORGAUSE. I did not mean to be an eaves 
 
 dropper, 
 
 But as I entered I was charmed to silence 
 And could not break in on so sweet a sound 
 Before the singer ceased. 
 
 GUENEVERE. I thank you, madam ; 
 
 I am not in the mood for compliments to-day. 
 
 MORGAUSE. Not to-day of all days in the year, 
 
 a 7
 
 In which the sun shines on you as a bride ? 
 Fair weather weddings make fair weather lives. 
 
 GUENEVERE. I care not much for omens. 
 
 MORGAUSE. Come, sweetheart, 
 
 There is a time to mask and to unmask, 
 And on a wedding morn the light of joy 
 Should frolic on the face as in the heart. 
 The courtiers will set up a silly tale 
 That this alliance is against your will. 
 
 GUENEVERE. But I do nothing, save of my free will ; 
 Let the vain gossips babble as they please. 
 
 MORGAUSE. I have just come from the Great 
 
 Hall. You'll have 
 
 A royal ritual, sweetheart, such a retinue 
 Of dames and damosels, barons and knights, 
 As Caesar's self could hardly muster in 
 Imperial Rome. 
 
 GUENEVERE. Is Peredure without ? 
 
 MORGAUSE. Gods, hear this woman ! I tell her 
 
 of her wedding ; 
 
 She answers me " Is Peredure without? " 
 Ha, ha, ha, ha ! Now what would Arthur say 
 To find himself so hindward in your thoughts ?
 
 GUENEVERE. Peredure is not like my other 
 
 brothers, 
 
 Wolf-eyed, thick-bearded, fond of dealing blows. 
 There's something of the woman in his nature 
 That makes his manliness a finer thing. 
 He has the courage of a gentle heart 
 
 MORGAUSE. And he writes the prettiest rhymes 
 
 that ever were 
 
 About some marvellous woman that he loves 
 But whom he dare not woo. Poor boy, when he 
 Is older, he will find the woman lives not 
 Too virtuous to be flattered by a conquest 
 I left him in the throng about the throne 
 With such a woful look upon his face, 
 As if the rhymes of his last virelay 
 Were all at loggerheads. 
 
 GUENEVERE. Does he not go 
 
 With us to Camelot ? 
 
 MORGAUSE. 'T is so determined, 
 
 I marvel that Sir Launcelot is not here. 
 A month ago, ere I left Camelot 
 To seek a friend where I must find a sister, 
 
 It was supposed that Launcelot would be 
 19
 
 The chief of Arthur's groomsmen. Arthur and he 
 Are like two almonds in a single shell 
 That silly maids make matron wishes on. 
 
 GUENEVERE. I had a strange dream yesternight 
 
 Methought 
 
 An unknown knight stood by my bed, and as 
 I lay spell-bound in dim bewilderment, 
 Cried " I am Launcelot ! " and I awoke. 
 
 MORGAUSE. He came, then, in a dream. I 
 
 thought he would not 
 Be so discourteous as to keep away 
 Entirely. 
 
 GUENEVERE. Why talk ye all of Launcelot ? 
 His fame spreads westward over Wales like dawn. 
 MORGAUSE. He has the reputation of all virtue. 
 GUENEVERE. And does his reputation top him 
 self? 
 MORGAUSE. Sometimes a bonfire imitates the 
 
 dawn. 
 GUENEVERE. Sometimes, too, dawn is taken for 
 
 a bonfire ; 
 
 I care not. Dawn or bonfire, it is nothing 
 To me.
 
 MORGAUSE. Nor to me neither, but I chafe 
 To hear the gabble that they make about him. 
 Why, child, the world is gone mad at his heels ! 
 They tell of valor that despises odds, 
 And courtesy that throws prudence to the drains 
 Such tales they tell of him ! And as for women, 
 There is not maid nor wife in Camelot 
 Whose heart is not a spaniel at his feet. 
 And yet they say he takes no fruit of it 
 But is as spotless as Saint Dorothy 
 With such a tittle-tattle of his purity ! 
 Bah, when the King and he are in one cry ! 
 
 GUENEVERE [truiRiJi What do you mean ? 
 
 MORGAUSE. Oh, nothing I mean nothing. 
 Your husband is no worse than other men. 
 The Lady Lionors has a little boy, 
 But, though he certainly looks like the King 
 
 GUENEVERE. Why do you tell me this ? 
 
 MORGAUSE. You must know some time 
 
 What you had better learn from friends than 
 
 foes. 
 
 You are leaving now the world of fairy tales, 
 Where all the men are true of heart and chaste
 
 And all the women chaste and true of heart. 
 You enter now the world in which we live ; 
 You'll find it peopled in another fashion. 
 Here comes a very wise philosopher 
 Ask him. 
 
 [Enter DAGONET.J 
 
 GUENEVERE. How now, sir ? You look soberly. 
 
 DAGONET. I ? I am as merry as a skull, and that 
 is always grinning, as you would see if you could but 
 look beneath the skin. 
 
 GUENEVERE. A grim jest, sirrah. 
 
 DAGONET. Ay, it is ill jesting at a wedding. 
 Aristophanes himself, who first wore motley, would 
 go hang for lack of a laugh. For your good unctuous 
 jest must have a soil of light hearts or it will not 
 grow ; and there is a predisposition at weddings to 
 solemnity. 
 
 GUENEVERE. Nay, now you are out ; for a wed 
 ding is a joyous matter. 
 
 DAGONET. But no laughing matter, my lady. 
 For various wise philosophers have observed that in 
 moments of most exquisite pleasure the expression
 
 of the face is solemn. What signifies a wedding ? 
 Harmony. Now the essence of a jest is contradic 
 tion, but that comes after the wedding. So no more 
 jests from me, my lady, till you have done with eat 
 ing green cheese, which is excellent diet for the 
 moonstruck but I prefer Stilton. 
 
 MORGAUSE. Tell us, then, good Dagonet, what 
 is the most pregnant occasion of jesting. 
 
 DAGONET. A funeral, for the long faces of the 
 company provoke the merry devil in the brain as 
 inevitably as a Puritan calls out mockery from the 
 reprobate. I have known an accidental rasp on a 
 viol to set all the mourners except the paid ones 
 in a titter. 
 
 [Sings.] With ribald chalkings on his coat 
 
 Sir Pompous struts the street, 
 And wanton boys put walnut-shells 
 On stately Tabby's feet. 
 
 Ri fol de riddle rol. 
 
 GUENEVERE. Make jests at my funeral, I prithee, 
 
 Dagonet. 
 
 23
 
 DAGONET. Death himself is the greatest jester. 
 He is the farce that follows all tragedies. For is it 
 not supremely ridiculous that I myself, about whom 
 to-day the universe revolves, may to-morrow be re 
 duced to the level of Alexander or any common 
 dead body? 
 
 MORGAUSE. Do you make yourself greater than 
 Alexander, Fool ? 
 
 DAGONET. Ay, or any other corpse, for I am 
 alive and " a dead lion " But the worms have eaten 
 that, too. But here come the King and Queen. I 
 was sent to announce them, but these lofty matters 
 have made me forget my duty. Philosophy will 
 undo me yet. 
 
 [Enter LEODEGRANCE, CAMALDUNA, PRYDERI. 
 MERLIN, GALAHAULT, and Attendants.} 
 
 MERLIN. May Britain find its peace in you, my 
 
 child. 
 
 I have given my life to make a State. I found 
 The Saxons ravaging our fields, our King 
 The traitor Vortigern, within ourselves 
 
 Each petty lord in arms against his neighbor, 
 24
 
 And man to man belligerent. But I 
 Shall leave my country one, victorious, 
 Organic and at peace. And in the top 
 Of this great arch of empire you are set 
 A keystone, that it may not fall, when Arthur 
 And I take our supporting hands away. 
 Your destiny is glorious, to be 
 Mother of kings and mother of a realm. 
 
 GUENEVERE. And mother of my people, sir, I 
 
 trust. 
 GALAHAULT. The homage duty soon must pay 
 
 my queen, 
 
 Beauty compels beforehand to the woman. 
 GUENEVERE. You use fair words at Camelot, my 
 
 lord; 
 
 Our mountain courtiers have a blunter speech. 
 MERLIN [to Morgause], Still where the quarry is 
 
 the falcons fly. 
 MORGAUSE. This riddle has no key. Why do 
 
 you speak, 
 If you desire not to be understood ? 
 
 MERLIN. I wish and I wisu not to be divined, 
 And you divine me and divine me not.
 
 For you are not so subtle as you think 
 Nor half so simple as you would be thought. 
 
 [Returns to the King. GUENEVERE, MOR- 
 GAUSE, GALAHAULT, and DAGONET walk 
 apart and after a little go out upon the bal 
 cony!] 
 LEODEGRANCE. Why interchange you with the 
 
 Queen of Orkney 
 These hostile brows ? 
 
 MERLIN. Though she be Arthur's sister, 
 
 .Near is too near, unless 
 
 LEODEGRANCE. I understand you. 
 
 Happy the man in whose own household lurks 
 No secret enemy to undermine 
 
 His purpose and his joy. But she will make 
 No mischief here. My girl feels honor keenly 
 And will not stoop to listen to intrigue. 
 
 MERLIN. I doubt it not. The very waywardness 
 That rumor speaks of her, shows a great soul, 
 That feels too prisoned even upon a throne. 
 CAMALDUNA. Indeed, she is not like a common 
 
 girl, 
 And I could never make her do as others.
 
 LEODEGRANCE. Wild as the sea-mew, restless 
 
 of restraint, 
 
 She roams the jutting capes of Cameliard, 
 Like some strange dweller of the mountain winds, 
 Half kelpie and half woman. The highlander, 
 Chasing the roe o'er cliff and chasm, has often 
 Seen her lithe form rise from the treeless crag 
 Like smoke from a hunter's fire, and crossed himself, 
 Thinking he saw a creature not of earth. 
 
 MERLIN. I know her kind. It is a temperament 
 That suffers and achieves. 
 
 CAMALDUNA. A little girl, 
 
 She frighted the nurses more with her strange 
 
 thoughts 
 
 Than ever they her with bogles. I remember 
 Her creeping from her bed once in midwinter 
 To ask if moonbuds only bloomed at night 
 That dead men, when they leave their graves to 
 
 walk, 
 Might have their flowers also like the living. 
 
 PRYDERI. As the young limbs enlarge, the bones 
 will ache ; 
 
 Our oldwives call such ailments " growing pains." 
 27
 
 What our young princess needs is that her thoughts 
 Be drawn away from looking on herself. 
 The duties and responsibilities 
 That push us from our dreams and make us sane 
 By contact with the solid stuff of life, 
 These things a woman finds in household cares. 
 The wife and mother has no time to break 
 The wings of girlish thoughts with idle beating 
 Against the bars of Fate. Our princess, too, 
 Must bear the dignity of greater burdens, 
 Which for a soul imperious is good fortune. 
 Therefore, as a physician, who must watch 
 Both mind and body as they interact, 
 I have prescribed this marriage as a medicine. 
 LEODEGRANCE. This counsel of our wise and 
 
 learned leech 
 
 Inclined us much to urge on Guenevere 
 A speedy yes to Arthur's suit. At first 
 She was, indeed, rebellious to our wish 
 And marriage thoughts were wormwood to her will. 
 Nathless I was unwilling to assert 
 My power as King and father to compel 
 
 Her course ; for still I find the easy yoke 
 28
 
 The popular. Yet, short of straight command, 
 The Queen and Pryderi, and I myself, 
 Have day and night reiterated words, 
 Soliciting with cogent argument, 
 Till she consented. She herself now chooses 
 The man of all men I would have her lord. 
 For I have not forgotten how King Arthur 
 With Ban and Bors routed my enemies 
 And with their triple armies saved my crown. 
 Go, call the princess hither. Yet in sooth, 
 What should an old man say to a young maid ? 
 The Queen shall speak to her. Madam, we shall 
 Withdraw and leave her to your tutelage. 
 
 GUENEVERE. You called me, sire. 
 
 LEODEGRANCE. To say farewell, my child, 
 
 Before I yield thee to thy bridegroom's arms. 
 Our Lady Mary keep thee ! Come, my lords. 
 
 MERLIN. I wish you greatness, lady. 
 
 MORGAUSE. And I goodness. 
 
 PRYDERI. I health and length of days. 
 
 GALAHAULT. I happiness. 
 
 [Exeunt LEODEGRANCE, MERLIN, PRYDERI, 
 MORGAUSE, and GALAHAULT.]
 
 DAGONET. And I a light heart and an easy pal 
 frey that the way may seem short to Camelot. 
 
 [Sings.} Merrily canter on through life 
 And joy shall be your store, 
 But if you ride a trotting nag 
 Your buttocks will be sore. 
 Ri fol de riddle roL 
 
 {Exit.} 
 
 CAMALDUNA. So far, my daughter, you have 
 
 walked your way, 
 
 Self-willed, imperious, like a wanton child 
 That will not let her parents hold her hand, 
 Yet knows them near to save her if she fall. 
 Now they will not be near, and you may find 
 That freedom lays a weight upon our souls 
 That often we would like to shift to others. 
 I fear that counsel is poured out on you 
 Like an effectless wind ; yet hear my words. 
 Take you no woman in your confidence, 
 But seem to do so. Each has her own ends, 
 And would betray you seventy times over, 
 
 And yet, repulsed, her selfishness through pique 
 3
 
 May aggravate to active enmity. 
 Speak freely, but say little. Do not strive 
 Too far to outshine the ladies of the court 
 In jewelled ornaments and regal garb ; 
 They'll hate you for it. Be profuse of favors ; 
 They cost you little and will buy you hearts. 
 Yet do not play the braggart with your bounty- 
 Scorn lies beneath too much magnificence 
 But always give as if the gifts were trifles 
 To eyes that see to whom the gifts are given. 
 All women are your natural enemies ; 
 Think your end gained if they refrain from hate, 
 But seek your friends among the other sex. 
 Men have no quarrel with your eminence ; 
 Your glory with their glory does not war, 
 But each may gain some splendor from the other. 
 Therefore, they may be faithful ; but admit them 
 Only to the antechamber of your thoughts, 
 That their imagination may have scope 
 To fashion a dream-Guenevere to serve. 
 Not what we are but what men deem of us, 
 Is the true prince. Be faithful to your husband, 
 
 Yet not so servient as to jade his fondness. 
 31
 
 Let him be often foreign to your life 
 That he may feel your lack and woo you over. 
 Be not too common to him. Hold him off 
 That you may bind him to you. For in him 
 Your domination lies. See that he has 
 No friend that is not yours, no counsellor 
 Whose secret thoughts are not your interests. 
 Be chaste as snow in heart as well as deed ; 
 One spark of love may light a fire to burn 
 The edifice of your greatness to an ash. 
 Nor be contented with the innocent fact 
 But make your seeming lock the lips of slander. 
 And yet you may have lovers if you will ; 
 The more the better, so you love not them. 
 For till we yield we are our lovers' tyrants, 
 But afterward their slaves. Remember this. 
 GUENEVERE. Pray you, a little space alone, good 
 mother. 
 [CAMALDUNA kisses Guenevere, and then goes 
 
 out,} 
 
 Why, what a thing is woman ! She is brought 
 Into the world unwelcome. The mother weeps 
 
 That she has born a daughter to endure 
 32
 
 A woman's fate. The father knits his brows 
 And mutters " Pish, 't is but a girl ! " A boy 
 The very hounds had bayed for with delight. 
 Her childhood is a petty tyranny. 
 Her brothers cross her ; she must not resist, 
 Her father laughs to see the little men 
 So masterful already. Even the mother 
 Looks on her truculent sons with pride and bids 
 Her yield, not thwart them "You are but a 
 
 girl." 
 
 A girl ! and must give way ! She must be quiet, 
 Demure not have her freedom with the boys. 
 While they are running on the battlements, 
 Playing at war or at the chase, she sits 
 Eating her heart out at embroidery frames 
 Among old dames that chatter of a world 
 Where women are put up as merchandise. 
 Oh, I have slipped away a thousand times 
 Into the garden close and scaled the wall 
 And fled from them to freedom and the hills. 
 And I have passed the women in the fields, 
 With stupid faces dulled by long constraint, 
 Bowing their backs beneath the double burden 
 
 3 33
 
 Of labor and unkindness all alike, 
 
 Princess and peasant, bondslaves, by their sex ! 
 
 Ah, the gray crags up whose sheer precipices 
 
 I have so often toiled, to throw myself 
 
 Panting upon their crests at last and lie 
 
 For whole long afternoons upon the hard 
 
 Delicious rock in that sweet weariness 
 
 That follows effort, with a silent joy 
 
 In obstacles that I could overcome. 
 
 They never called me girl, those mighty peaks ! 
 
 They knew no sex, they took me to their hearts 
 
 As if I were a boy. Oh, the wild thrill 
 
 That tingled in the veins, when the strong winds 
 
 Came howling like a pack of hungry wolves 
 
 That make the wintry forests terrible 
 
 Beneath the Norland moon ! " Shriek on," I cried, 
 
 "Rave, howl, roar, bellow, till .you split your 
 
 throats ! 
 
 You cannot mar the pinnacled repose 
 Of these huge mountain-tops. They are not 
 
 women ! " 
 
 Why, what an idle rage is this ! Am I 
 The Guenevere those still grand mountains know ? 
 
 34
 
 This is a bridal garment that I wear. 
 I am another Guenevere, a thing 
 I know not what. I go to a new life. 
 I have ordered a new pair of manacles. 
 Arthur? As well Arthur as another 
 I care not. If I must, I must. To live 
 The old life is no longer tolerable. 
 
 [Enter PEREDURE.] 
 
 My brother ! You have come to see my gown. 
 Is it not beautiful ? And see, this diadem 
 To show I 
 
 PEREDURE. Guenevere ! How is it with you ? 
 
 GUENEVERE. Why, as it should be with a bride. 
 
 It seems 
 
 You ask strange questions, brother. I had thought 
 I should be greeted with felicitations. 
 They say, a maid upon her wedding morn 
 Is timorous, fluttered, casts regretful eyes 
 Or so she fancies on her maidenhood, 
 And yet is glad withal. Seem I not so, 
 My brother ? Am I ? 
 
 35
 
 PEREDURE. All's not well with you. 
 
 You seem as one that in a waking dream 
 Does what, she knows not with mechanic limbs. 
 My sister, dost thou act of thy free will ? 
 
 GUENEVERE. Who acts so? Life and custom 
 
 close us in 
 
 Between such granite walls of circumstance 
 That, when we choose, it is not as we would 
 But between courses where each likes us not. 
 No, Peredure, it is not by constraint, 
 Save of the iron skies, I meet my lot. 
 I have not chosen it, but I accept it. 
 
 PEREDURE. Think well. Once done, this can- 
 not be undone. 
 
 You love not Arthur. This is not the face 
 Of one that hastens to her lover's arms. 
 Think you that you will ever love him ? 
 
 GUENEVERE. Love ? 
 
 I have heard of it. Poets sing of it. 
 It must be a strange thing, this love. 
 
 PEREDURE. Alas,
 
 If thou shouldst learn what thing it is too late ! 
 Girl, knowest thou what marriage means ? Oh, if 
 When once the fatal ring is on thy finger, 
 Thou shouldst encounter some one who should 
 
 kindle 
 
 Thy latent heart to flame. To be caressed 
 When thou art cold this is a bitter thing. 
 But to be fondled by an unloved hand, 
 When all the soul is in another's arms 
 That were a horror and a sacrilege. 
 
 GUENEVERE. I shall not love. But sometime I 
 
 must wed. 
 
 It is the law for women that they marry ; 
 Else they endure a scorned inactive fate, 
 Unwelcome hangers-on at others' tables. 
 Besides, a girl's life is a cabined one; 
 A married woman has a wider scope. 
 She, too, is chained but with a longer tether ; 
 She moves in the great world, and by that craft 
 God gives to creatures that have little strength, 
 May leave her impress on it. As for Arthur, 
 He is a very princely gentleman, 
 One whom at least I never shall despise. 
 
 37
 
 PEREDURE. Men say he is the crown of chivalry. 
 The pattern of the virtues of a knight. 
 But should he cloud the clear sky of thy life, 
 I ne'er should pardon him. 
 
 GUENEVERE. My brother! 
 
 PEREDURE. Dear, 
 
 I fear that Arthur ne'er will know as I 
 The gentleness of this imperious spirit. 
 I have asked Morgause much 
 
 GUENEVERE. I hate that woman. 
 
 PEREDURE. Oh, say not so, she is so fair ! O 
 
 sister, 
 
 I did not think to tell thee of my sorrows 
 At such a season. When I spoke of love 
 And pleaded with thee to have fear of it, 
 I had good reason for my earnestness. 
 I know myself too well the hopeless woe 
 Of love debarred, against which Fate is set. 
 I love Morgause 
 
 GUENEVERE. Morgause? The Queen oi 
 
 Orkney ? 
 The wife of Lot ? 
 
 PEREDURE. Ay, Guenevere, even so 
 38
 
 I love her. I would give my hopes of heaven 
 
 To press my lips against that flower-like mouth 
 
 And call her mine ! Ay, I would die to feel 
 
 Once on my cheek the swan-soft touch of hers ! 
 
 But I must make a dungeon of my heart 
 
 To hide my love in like a malefactor, 
 
 Or like some hapless prisoner of state 
 
 Who ne'er did wrong but must be shut from the sun 
 
 For the realm's safety and in some dark cell 
 
 Is numbered with the dead. Oh, think of this 
 
 And do not build a prison for thyself 
 
 From whose barred windows thou may'st sometime 
 
 see 
 
 Love beckoning to thee when thou canst not come I 
 There is no sorrow like a love denied 
 Nor any joy like love that has its will. 
 Oh, keep thy feet unbound to follow Love 
 When he shall come to lead thee to his rest ! 
 Keep thy hands free to take his proffered gifts, 
 Thy heart unbound by barriers that prevent 
 The joy he would, but for our blindness, bring 
 To make a rapture and a song of life ! 
 Believe 
 
 39
 
 GUENEVERE. You talk of songs and raptures ! 
 
 Go 
 
 Back to your poetry, you child of dream ! , 
 Life is to be supported, not enjoyed. 
 PEREDURE. Oh, no ! it is \o be enjoyed. Why 
 
 else 
 
 Should God have made the world so beautiful ? 
 And yet for me the glory of the hills, 
 The beauty of the sky's dissolving blue, 
 And all the woven magic of the grass 
 Have dulled their loveliness, and all their splendor 
 Cannot arouse again the ancient thrill. 
 There is a grayness over all the world. 
 Love is not to be mocked at, Guenevere. 
 Take heed ! Look in thy heart, and be assured 
 That thou hast read it rightly. If a doubt, 
 If but the faint foreboding of a scruple 
 
 Be there, delay, break off this rash 
 
 GUENEVERE. Too late ! 
 
 \The curtains at the centre are drawn apart, re 
 vealing a company of ladies in festal attire, 
 with garlands, etc. A distant sound of 
 chanting.~\
 
 See where my bridesmaids wait with wreaths of 
 
 roses 
 To lead me to the altar and the prince. 
 
 PEREDURE. Is it a triumph or a sacrifice? 
 GUENEVERE. God knows ! Forme, I have chosen 
 
 to go this course, 
 And I will keep to it till the event. 
 
 Exit with bridesmaids.] 
 
 CURTAIN.
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. Camelot. The gardens, MORGAUSE, 
 PEREDURE, LIONORS, GAWAINE, DAGONET, 
 KAYE, and others. 
 
 MORGAUSE. The day is dull. Shall we have 
 music ? 
 
 KAYE. Ay, 
 A rousing song ! 
 
 LIONORS. He's all for tavern catches 
 
 Or martial strains of braggadocio. 
 
 DAGONET. It is the finitude of his wit, whereof 
 he has neither enough to be merry without drinking 
 nor to be silent when drunk. 
 
 KAYE. Drunk, varlet ? 
 
 DAGONET. If I called it a finer name, you would 
 not follow me. 
 
 LIONORS. Nay, for that would be false manners. 
 Would you have the nobleman follow the fool ? 
 
 DAGONET. No more than I would have the ass 
 42
 
 follow the driver. Let me but carry the whip and 
 he shall take precedence as much as he will. 
 
 MORGAUSE. Peredure, is there not a madrigal 
 Knocking against your heart to be let out ? 
 Our idleness feeds on the empty day 
 As a chameleon on the air. Come, sing 
 And give us richer nurture. 
 
 PEREDURE. As you will. 
 
 There is a story written in this book 
 Of two young lovers in far Italy 
 And how they dreamed away a summer noon 
 Upon the Arno. Reading this but now, 
 /fell a-dreaming, /was in the boat, 
 And round my neck her wondrous arms were 
 
 thrown 
 And then, I scarce know how, the song was made. 
 
 [Sings.] Love me ! 
 
 I care not for this one brief hour 
 
 If blue calm smile or tempest lower 
 
 Above me. 
 
 I care not though the boat sink now 
 If only thou 
 
 Wilt love me. 
 
 43
 
 Kiss! 
 
 Ah sweet, what joy hi fame or years 
 Or yellow gold ? Life burns through tears 
 
 For this. 
 
 Ah, what though God should cast away 
 The world to-day ! 
 
 Kiss! 
 
 GAWAINE. A silly song! That's not the way to 
 
 love. 
 MORGAUSE. What do you know of love, Ga- 
 
 waine? 
 
 GAWAIXE. Enough 
 
 To know that it is a silly song, my mother. 
 MORGAUSE. Are you but sixteen and know love 
 
 already? 
 
 [Enter PUBLIUS and LADIN AS . ] 
 
 The age has grown so forward that our children 
 Will make us grandams ere our heads are gray. 
 You join us late, Sir Ladinas. 
 
 LADINAS. Royal Orkney, 
 
 The courtesy of Camelot to a guest
 
 Must be my plea. Lord Publius comes from Rome 
 With weighty missives from the Emperor. 
 While he awaits the King's return from Cornwall, 
 He must not sigh for the Campagna. 
 
 MORGAUSE. Welcome. 
 
 Will you make one of our too idle party ? 
 We have been merry with inconsequences, 
 Tossing our empty fancies back and forth 
 Like shuttlecocks, for wantonness. I fear 
 You are too serious for these bagatelles. 
 
 PUBLIUS. Let me not spoil your entertainment, 
 
 madam. 
 
 So many fair young faces are about me, 
 Such a spring-burst of beauty and of youth, 
 I shall grow young myself for sympathy. 
 
 GAWAINE [apart to LIONORS]. What an old flub ! 
 
 \Aloud.\ Now, madam, if you like, 
 I'll sing a song I learned the other day 
 And wager twenty pounds against a shilling 
 Mine is the better love -song of the two. 
 
 MORGAUSE. What say you, ladies? Shall this 
 fledgling sing ? 
 
 LIONORS. I am sure he will sing well. 
 
 45
 
 GAWAINE [apart to LIONORS]. I'll pay thai 
 
 speech 
 With twenty kisses for a word to-night. 
 
 {Sings. MORGAUSE, PUBLIUS, and LADINAS 
 converse apart earnestly^ 
 
 It was a sonsie shepherd lass 
 
 So early in the morning 
 That tripped across the dewy grass 
 
 And tossed her curls for scorning. 
 
 But ere she passed the brook, she cast 
 
 A look across her shoulder 
 That made the pitapats come fast 
 
 And yet my heart grew bolder. 
 
 A look, a smile, a jest, a sigh, 
 
 A kiss and, ere we're madder, 
 A glance to see that no one's nigh 
 
 And this is Cupid's ladder. 
 
 LIONORS. Oh, fie ! it is a jade's song. Naughty 
 boy, 
 
 You must be good or you'll be sent to bed. 
 4 6
 
 DAGONET [to Peredure]. She cries "boy" too 
 loudly. Oh, la la ! Ostriches, ostriches ! 
 
 MORGAUSE. Come, let's to tennis. \To Peredure. \ 
 Will you play with me ? 
 
 DAGONET [aside]. Ay, that he will, and lose the 
 game too, for all your faults. 
 
 [Some play and the others gather about as spec 
 tators^ 
 
 LADINAS \to Publius}. What think you ? Have 
 I not achieved an ally of great price ? 
 
 PUBLIUS. It is well done. And no one of the 
 
 court 
 Suspects you are Rome's secret emissary? 
 
 LADINAS. Suspect a Knight of the Round Table ? 
 
 They would 
 As soon suspect the blessed angels. 
 
 PUBLIUS. Yet 
 
 There was a Lucifer 
 
 LADINAS. No more of that ! 
 I do not mean to sell my contraband 
 For barren rank or tinsel decorations. 
 I am no barbarous chieftain of the Zaire 
 
 47
 
 To trade my ivory for a string of beads. 
 
 I must have money ; you must make me rich 
 
 Beyond the power of prodigality 
 
 To dissipate rich, rich ; the rest is toys 
 
 For babes to play with t 
 
 PUBLIUS. You shall have your will. 
 
 But say what motive pricks the Queen of Orkney ? 
 
 LADINAS. She hates the King as none can hate 
 
 but they 
 
 Who once have loved. It is the tale that ere 
 The mystery of Arthur's parentage 
 Was by his mother's oath made clear, he fought 
 With Lot of Orkney and defeated him. 
 Then came this queen, Morgause, the wife of Lot, 
 And Arthur's sister, but they knew it not ; 
 And Arthur was enamoured, nor was she 
 Unwilling. And, indeed, men say a child 
 Was born and hidden somewhere in the hills, 
 And that by him his father shall be slain. 
 And others say the King is free from stain, 
 None knows. But 't is most certain that they loved ; 
 And still the Queen of Orkney will not think 
 That Arthur is her brother, but believes
 
 That for the crown he cast her love away. 
 Judge how she hates him. 
 
 PUBLIUS. And you love this woman ? 
 
 LADINAS. Ay, as the lost knight in the hollow hill 
 Loves Venus ! . . . . See you the fair lady 
 
 yonder, 
 
 Who leads the stripling prince, Gawaine, at heel 
 Like a pet greyhound ? 
 
 PUBLIUS. Well, and what of her ? 
 
 LADINAS. Her name is Lionors, and of old time 
 She was the mistress of the King ; but now 
 The Queen of Orkney keeps her in her train 
 That she may flaunt in Guenevere's proud face 
 Her bridegroom's old adulteries. 
 
 MORGAUSE. Love game ! 
 
 It is the set, my lord. [A trumpet without.] 
 
 PUBLIUS. Is it a herald of the King's return ? 
 
 LADINAS. He will not come so soon. We shall 
 
 have time 
 
 To spread a snare that he cannot escape, 
 Though how is all uncertain yet. 
 
 49
 
 [Enter GALAHAULT.] 
 
 GALAHAULT. Good news ! 
 Ladies, glad news ! Sir Launcelot is returned. 
 
 SEVERAL. What say you ? Launcelot ? 
 
 GALAHAULT. Launcelot and his kinsmen, 
 Lionel and Ector and the good Sir Bors. 
 
 [Enter LAUNCELOT and BORS.] 
 
 MORGAUSE. All honor to the realm's pre-eminent 
 
 knight, 
 
 Returned, I doubt not, from a glorious quest ! 
 Honor and welcome to the good Sir Bors ! 
 LAUNCELOT. Thanks, gentle lady. Joy be with 
 
 you all ! 
 Where is the King ? 
 
 DAGONET. Welcome to Camelot 
 
 To my new capital of Foolery ! 
 
 LAUNCELOT. What, Dagonet ! [Aside,] The Fool ! 
 
 Where is the lady ? 
 
 DAGONET. You have too good a memory, sir, for 
 a man of place. But, indeed, I knew not it was you 
 
 when I saved you. Nathless, without me you had 
 s
 
 not done these great deeds ; ergo, you must have 
 done them with me. Now see what it is to be mod 
 est ; I had no idea I was a man of this mettle. 
 
 MORGAUSE [aside]. What's this ? What's this ? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Now, by my sword, I am 
 
 Right glad to see your merry face again. 
 Where is the King ? 
 
 DAGONET. Why, I am king now and these are my 
 subjects. See you not how, like good courtiers, they 
 mimic me ? 
 
 KAYE. How do we mimic you, sirrah ? 
 
 DAGONET. Marry, by making fools of yourselves. 
 
 LADINAS. The King, sir, is in Cornwall at the 
 wars. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. I am right sorry that he is not here, 
 For since I set my face toward Camelot, 
 For joy that I should see him I have been 
 Light-hearted as a boy. I would clasp hands 
 And wish him happiness with his young bride ! 
 The rumor of her beauty has gone out 
 From end to end of Britain. I have heard 
 She moves among our gardens like a dream 
 Of empired loveliness in far Cathay. 
 
 5'
 
 Lead me to her, Sir Galahault. I must 
 Do homage to my queen. Ah, gentle lady 
 She shall not find in Camelot, I swear, 
 A heart more leal to her than Launcelot's. 
 Henceforth I'll wear no colors in the lists 
 But those of Arthur's bride. 
 
 [Enter GUENEVERE and LADIES. She stops in the 
 centre, looking at LAUNCELOT.] 
 
 Dear Galahault, 
 
 'T is my first duty both to king and friend 
 To lay my good sword at his lady's feet. 
 
 Lead me to her 
 
 Bors ! Galahault ! Is it ? It is 
 
 GALAHAULT. The Queen! 
 
 LAUNCELOT. I shall be leal to her indeed. Just 
 God! 
 
 \He recovers himself. As he steps forward 
 with GALAHAULT toward the QUEEN the 
 scene closes.]
 
 SCENE II. The Apartments of GALAHAULT. En 
 ter LAUNCELOT, GALAHAULT, and BORS. 
 
 BORS. Prithee, Galahault, a stoup of wine ! I have 
 the dust of seven kingdoms in my throat 
 
 GALAHAULT. Some wine, ho ! 
 
 BORS. What, Launcelot, not a word ? I have not 
 seen thee so cast down since Ector was taken cap 
 tive by that rude infidel, Sir Turquine, whom thou 
 slew'st. 
 
 [Enter a SERVANT with wine.] 
 
 What, man, gladden thy heart with this. 
 
 [Drinks.] 
 
 LAUNCELOT. I think that wine will never be 
 aught but bitter to me again, and that I shall hate 
 the perfume of flowers and the melody of lutes and 
 mandolins as long as I live. Oh, my friends, I am 
 but the husk of what I was, and all that was savory 
 in me is consumed. 
 
 [Exit SERVANT with cups, etc.] 
 
 BORS. Thou'st not been thyself since we were 
 
 53
 
 presented to the Queen. I mind me now how thou 
 didst start then and heave thy sides, as if thou 'dst 
 seen a spirit. What Galahault is 't possible ? 
 
 GALAHAULT. O Bors, Bors, Bors, the maids of 
 
 Camelot 
 
 Say rightly that thou hast not loved ; for else 
 His sorrow were no riddle. 
 
 BORS. Nay, to me 
 
 A riddle darker with increasing light. 
 What, is the Lady of the Hills forgot ? 
 Have human hearts no stronger faith ? For I 
 Had looked to thee, O cousin, as the type 
 Of faith. Wilt thou betray the King, thy friend, 
 Even in thought ? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Peace, peace ! What ails that I 
 Should e'er be false to Arthur ? Rest you safe, 
 I have no lady if it be not she 
 Whom I have called the Lady of the Hills. 
 
 BORS. Nay, cousin, use me frankly. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Betray the King ? 
 
 Thou talkest of thou knowest not what. Is 't pos 
 sible 
 That I betray the King ? 
 
 54
 
 BORS. What name was it 
 
 You gave the jester that we met below ? 
 
 GALAHAULT. What, here ? His name is Dagonet. 
 
 The Queen 
 Brought him with her from Cameliard. 
 
 BORS. The Queen ? 
 
 Dagonet ? By heaven, it is as clear as noon. 
 This is the very Fool that saved his life 
 For he did call him Dagonet that day 
 He told the story to me. And the Queen, 
 The Queen herself s the Lady of the Hills. 
 Thou lovest her. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Ay, as the lost love heaven ! 
 
 BORS. Alas, I pity thee ; thy stars are evil. 
 But thou art noble and wilt not forget 
 Thy triple duty, God, the King, thy friend. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Duty? The word is colder than 
 
 the moon. 
 
 Thou art an icy counsellor. Dost think 
 That love will, like a hound that licks my hand, 
 Down at my bidding ? Nay, thou hast not loved, 
 Nor dost not know that when Love enters in, 
 
 He enters as a master, not a slave. 
 
 ' 55
 
 GALAHAULT. True, Launcelot, Love is tameless- 
 
 as wild beasts. 
 
 Chains for his limbs but leave his spirit more free 
 To think the thing it may not act. Hunger 
 Is his best nourishment and he grows apace 
 Upon starvation. If he die at all, 
 He dies of surfeit, not of abstinence. 
 
 BORS. But shall our champion of an hundred 
 
 fights, 
 
 Whose name is one with valor's, be o'erthrown 
 By an effeminate longing, like a girl ? 
 
 GALAHAULT. Speak not in scorn of love, Sir 
 
 Bors. There are 
 
 But two things under heaven unconquerable 
 And certain, Love and Death. 
 
 [Enter a PAGE.] 
 
 PAGE \to LAUNCELOT]. My lord, your brothers 
 Have sent to seek you. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Good, my cousin Bors, 
 
 Go thou for me ; I cannot see them now ; 
 I have no heart. 
 
 56
 
 BORS. Go, tell them I come quickly. 
 
 [Exit PAGE.] 
 
 You will be your great self and turn this love, 
 If it be true that 't will not be cast out, 
 To something high and noble. It may be, 
 As I can hardly think but that you live 
 Under some special warrant, that God means 
 You should do great deeds in your lady's name, 
 And in the chronicles of Time be set 
 For an example to the yet unborn 
 How love may cast out love's disloyalties, 
 And lovers, marvelling at such sacrifice, 
 Shall say, " So loved the good knight Launcelot." 
 
 [Exit.} 
 
 LAUNCELOT. " The traitor Launcelot ! " for I 
 
 hear them now, 
 Cold, scornful voices of futurity 
 That speak so cruel-calmly of the dead ! 
 Oh, Galahault, for love of my good name 
 Pluck out your sword and kill me, for I see 
 Whate'er I do, it will be violence 
 To soul or body, others or myself. 
 You will not? It would be a kindly deed. 
 
 57
 
 And yet I saw her first. What right had he 
 To steal her from me ? I have served her well 
 Two years, laid all my laurels at her feet, 
 Won all my victories in her sweet name, 
 
 Though yet I knew it not. What right had he ? 
 
 Nay, nay, she loves him who could love him not ? 
 And I shall hate him, hate my dearest friend, 
 Because oh, God ! oh, God ! 
 
 GALAHAULT. Why grieve so soon ? 
 
 You know not yet if she denies your love. 
 What if she should not ? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Galahault ! You make 
 My poor head dizzy with quick-coming hopes. 
 What ! you mean ? it cannot be 
 
 GALAHAULT. Why not ? 
 
 She does not love the King ; of that I am certain. 
 Sure, you are worth the love of any woman, 
 Were she ten times a queen ! 
 
 LAUNCELOT. She does not love him ? 
 
 Are you sure, sir ? Are you sure ? I dare not hope it. 
 
 GALAHAULT. She is as virgin of the thought of 
 love 
 
 As winter is of flowers. 
 
 58
 
 LAUNCELOT. But he loves her ; 
 
 And it would rive his heart. He is my friend, 
 Think, Galahault, my friend ! 
 
 GALAHAULT. Love knows no friend 
 Nor foe save friends and foes to his desire. 
 Seek not to palter with him, for he is 
 More tyrannous than Nero in his cups. 
 He will endure no bargains, so much love 
 And so much virtue. You must yield him all 
 Or he'll not grant you anything. What profits 
 The King if for his sake you let all slip ? 
 Why, that were chivalry run mad, for though 
 She love not you, she ne'er will love the King. 
 Seek other rivals, for not all the charms 
 Of Merlin and the Lady of the Lake 
 Would now avail to quicken in her lone heart 
 A pulse of love for Arthur. Did she hate him, 
 That might turn love ; but when a husband seems 
 A mere indifferent covenanted thing, 
 She's like to love the Devil sooner. And can 
 You calmly think that even your friend of friends, 
 Lacking her heart, should call her body his, 
 Should sting that throat with kisses and ?
 
 LAUNCELOT. Damnation ! 
 
 Her body ? 
 
 GALAHAULT. Ay, I said so. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Not if he 
 
 Were fifty friends or fifty hundred kings ! 
 
 GALAHAULT. Why, now you are a lover. Come 
 
 with me. 
 The Queen is in the orchard. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Galahault ! 
 
 GALAHAULT. Look through the casement here. 
 
 See where she walks, 
 As if a rose grew on a lily's stem, 
 So blending passionate life and stately mien. 
 How like a lioness she steps and pauses, 
 With grand, slow-moving eyes 
 
 LAUNCELOT. No more ! no more ! [Exeunt.] 
 
 SCENE III. A Bower in the Gardens. GUENE- 
 VERE and LADIES. 
 
 GUENEVERE. You may withdraw, ladies. 
 
 [Exeunt LADIES.] 
 60
 
 They did him wrong 
 
 Who called him but the goodliest of men, 
 For he is like a god. What did she say ? 
 " There is not maid nor wife in Camelot 
 Whose heart is not a spaniel at his feet." 
 Oh, I should hate them if they loved him not, 
 And hate them that they love him. What if he 
 
 hide 
 
 Unworth behind that fair exterior ! 
 And shall he add me to his list of slaves ? 
 Yet, though I hate myself that am so cheap, 
 And love myself that he should be so dear, 
 And am a thousand things at once, each eyewink 
 In arms against its neighbor what should I do, 
 
 If he ? I am too poor a thing to live, 
 
 And yet so happy that I am so poor ! 
 And yet so wretched that I am so happy ! 
 Why, had he laughed into my startled eyes 
 And asked "Dost thou adore me ? " I had lacked 
 Power to keep back the " Yes " within my soul. 
 Or had he clutched my wrist and pulled me to 
 
 him 
 And bade me love him, there before them all, 
 
 61
 
 I would have put my lips up for a kiss. 
 
 . . . Yonder he comes. Why should he seek me 
 
 out? 
 
 I am nought to him, one of a thousand women 
 Whose lives have crossed his somewhere and then 
 
 passed 
 
 Into the dark. His Queen a stupid word ! 
 His Queen, when he may hear the lightest wish 
 Some other utters, as a Queen's command ? 
 No Queen at all, unless his Queen in all ! 
 I will not love and he shall never know. 
 I would I had not sent my maids away. 
 I lie ; I am glad they are not here. I felt 
 That he was coming when I bade them go. 
 
 [Enter LAUNCELOT.] 
 
 Does he do reverence to the Queen or me ? 
 Good-morrow, sir. You like our gardens, too. 
 'T is a sweet place ; June lays her heart bare here 
 And sighs her soul out through the passionate air. 
 LAUNCELOT. There is no garden like it in the 
 
 world. 
 
 62
 
 GUENEVERE. I did not guess you were so fond of 
 
 gardens. 
 
 I thought of you with lance and battle-axe 
 In the forefront of war yet not as one 
 That kills his fellows with a savage joy 
 But with pale brow where anger never writ 
 His ugly name in frowns. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. You thought of me ? 
 
 GUENEVERE. Who does not think of you? Your 
 
 fame is blown 
 Further than Cameliard. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. And you thought of me 
 
 As hard and cruel ? 
 
 GUENEVERE. Never for a breath ! 
 And yet I did not think that you would feel 
 The strange delicious sweet of such a place. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. I never felt it as I do to-day, 
 Though I remember, when I was a boy, 
 There was a beautiful lady who would come 
 Across the lake and take me in her skiff 
 And tell me wondrous tales, tales which still make 
 A low confused murmur in my brain 
 
 Like the vague undertone of many bees. 
 63
 
 I called her " fairy mother" then, but now 
 
 Men tell me that she was that Nimue, 
 
 The Lady of the Lake, whom Merlin loves. 
 
 I know not. I remember only how 
 
 I leaned my head over the boat's edge, looking 
 
 Deep through the water to another sky, 
 
 So clear the water was ; and, as I leaned, 
 
 My soul went swooning down that crystal space, 
 
 Down, down forever, till sinking seemed to turn 
 
 To rising, with the sky not far away. 
 
 GUENEVERE. Tell me more of your life. You 
 
 must have seen 
 So much in its young course have done so much. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Nay, little that I can remember. 
 
 I am 
 
 Strangely unable to distinguish one 
 Good or ill hap out of the blur of things, 
 Battles and tourneys, one much like the other, 
 And lost already in the murmurous past. 
 I feel as if I were just born to-day 
 With life before me like this summer air, 
 Hushed, as in waiting for a bird to sing, 
 Who yet delays, and all is fresh and fair, 
 
 64
 
 And hope stands flushing like a rosy boy 
 Upon a threshold which he fears to cross. 
 But what I fear or what I hope, indeed 
 I hardly know and yet I hope and fear. 
 
 GUENEVERE. But surely some recognizable peak 
 Soars up among the mountains of your deeds 
 That you can show me. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Indeed there is a height 
 
 So near me that it shuts out all my life ; 
 But I have not attained it. One event 
 I well remember, but it was a vision, 
 Not an achievement. That was when I first 
 Beheld you. 
 
 GUENEVERE. Have you seen me, then, before ? 
 And you remember it and I forget ? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. I should have died of faintness in 
 
 the hills 
 If you had not stood by. 
 
 GUENEVERE. What, were you he 
 
 Whom Dagonet the Fool saved ? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. I am he. 
 
 Gu ENEVERE. How strangely are the threads of life 
 inwoven ! 
 
 c 5
 
 Yet since you will not tell me of your deeds, 
 Tell me at least for whom you do them. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Ah, me ! 
 
 GUENEVERE. I know that for some dame or dam- 
 
 osel 
 
 You do them. Tell me, by the faith you owe me, 
 Who is the lady ? For I know thou lovest. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Say that I do so, were it not far bet 
 ter 
 
 That this new birth had never been conceived ; 
 Since even while I babble of its joy, 
 Grief glooms above it like the shadow of death ? 
 
 GUENEVERE. What part hath grief in thee, Sir 
 
 Launcelot ? 
 
 I might as soon paint sorrow on the face 
 Of blessed Michael standing in the sun. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Queen, that I love is true ; and love 
 
 should be 
 
 More joy on earth than Michael hath in heaven. 
 But I have been too much beloved of Fortune ; 
 And she hath dowered me with all goodly gifts 
 Only in the end to turn them to a gibe. 
 For all my feats of arms were done for you, 
 
 66
 
 And if you love me not, it had been better 
 
 My mother died a maid and should you love, 
 
 Which yet I dare not hope, our lives must be 
 
 Like outcast angels, glorious with shade, 
 
 A bitter gladness and a radiant AVOC. 
 
 Ay, for 't is you I love. Love leaped to life 
 
 Within me when I saw you in the hills, 
 
 As Saint John leaped within his mother's womb 
 
 When Mary drew near, childing of the Christ. 
 
 Speak to me ! Will you outstare marble ? God ! 
 
 I say, I love you. See, I crawl to you ! 
 
 I pray you pardon me. I see you are 
 
 Too merciful to speak. I give you pain ; 
 
 I have spoken wildly. Fare you well ! I will not 
 
 {Rushes oJT.] 
 GUENEVERE. He loves me ! Oh, how good it is 
 
 to draw 
 
 Deep breaths of this rich-scented air. The odor 
 Seems to pass into me. Does love transfigure 
 The world like this ? Nay, then it is a god, 
 That's certain.
 
 [Enter GALAHAULT at the back among the trees. 
 LAUNCELOT follows him, beseeching.} 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Oh, be silent for my sake 
 Or I shall die of shame. 
 
 [Throws himself on his face under a willow in 
 the background.} 
 
 GALAHAULT [advancing}. O cruel Queen ! 
 What have you done to my poor friend ? Look 
 
 where 
 
 He lies upon his face and heaves his sides, 
 Like a dumb animal hurt unto death. 
 Oh, what a loss were there, if he indeed, 
 Pierced with your scorn, should die ! 
 
 GUENEVERE [musing, unconscious of GALA- 
 
 HAULT'S presence]. The greater loss 
 Were mine. O heart, my heart, rememberest thou 
 What he has said ? 
 
 GALAHAULT. What ? 
 
 GUENEVERE. If his words be true, 
 
 He has done all his deeds of arms wherewith 
 The sky's blue concave rings, for me, me only. 
 
 G. ALAHAULT. He may well be believed, for as he is
 
 Of all men the most valiant, so he hath 
 A truer heart than others. 
 
 GUENEVERE. They say well 
 
 That he of all men is most valorous, 
 For he has done such doughty feats of arms 
 As no knight else. And this, all this he did 
 For me. 
 
 GALAHAULT. Why, then, you should be pitiful. 
 
 GUENEVERE. How pitiful, in sooth ? The cliffs 
 
 and crags 
 
 Of Cameliard have left me ignorant 
 Of much, I doubt not, that our Camelot dames 
 Suck with their mother's milk. But yesterday 
 Love was to me an idle poet's song. 
 
 GALAHAULT. This is not yesterday ; for now you 
 
 know 
 
 How more than all fair women he loves you, 
 More than his life, yes, more than his own soul ; 
 And that for you he has done more than knight 
 Did ever yet for lady. 
 
 GUENEVERE. More indeed 
 
 Than I can ever merit. Could he ask 
 
 Anything of me that I could deny ? 
 69
 
 But he has asked me nothing. Only he is 
 So sorrowful that it is marvellous. 
 
 GALAHAULT. Then heal that sorrow, madam, for 
 you may. 
 
 GUENEVERE. He asked me nothing. 
 
 GALAHAULT. Nor would never ask, 
 
 Love is so fearful when it is new-born. 
 But I plead for him. This is what he would, 
 That you should love him and retain him ever 
 To be your knight, and that you should become 
 His loyal lady for your whole life long. 
 Grant this and you will make him richer far 
 Than if you gave the world. 
 
 GUENEVERE. I have given him all 
 
 The world I have, the world of my own thoughts, 
 Desires and aspirations, hopes and fears. 
 You see, I trust you, sir. I know not how 
 You come upon my dream, like a strange shape 
 That casts a shadow where no shadows are. 
 But you are here, although you be but thickened 
 Out of the air before me, as my thoughts 
 In like wise now round to a definite orb. 
 
 I know that he is mine and I all his, 
 70
 
 And that you somehow, strangely, have been part 
 Of things ill done and mended. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. No, I dream. 
 
 It is not she that speaks. Dear God, if this 
 Be but a dream, oh let me die and find 
 That heaven is just to dream forever thus. 
 
 GALAHAULT. Gramercy. Now 'tis fit you enter on 
 Love's service. Kiss him once before me, madam, 
 For the beginning of true love. 
 
 GUENEVERE. Those yonder, sure, 
 
 Would marvel much that we should do such deeds. 
 
 GALAHAULT. No one will see. [Turns away.] 
 
 GUENEVERE. And if they did ? Why, Launcelot, 
 You tremble like a leaf. Will you not kiss me ? 
 Are you afraid ? Nay, then I will kiss you. 
 
 [She takes him by the chin and kisses him.} 
 
 CURTAIN.
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. Camelot, Gallery and portico in the 
 apartments of the Queen of Orkney, overlooking 
 a great water. LlONORS and BORRE. 
 
 BORRE. Mamma, 
 I like to talk to you about Gawaine. 
 
 LlONORS. Why, darling ? 
 
 BORRE. Because you hold me close to you, 
 
 And kiss me so. 
 
 LlONORS. My little innocent wisdom ! 
 
 BORRE. Gawaine never kisses me. And yet he is 
 kind; 
 
 He gives me sweets and Oh, mamma, look ! look ! 
 
 The moon how big it is ! It comes right up, 
 Right up out of the mere, just like Gawaine 
 When he is swimming. You know, he plunges under 
 And then his head comes up 'way over yonder, 
 And then he shakes the drops out of his hair 
 And wipes his eyes with his fingers. The moon is bald 
 Like poor old Hugh the gardener. That's why 
 The water doesn't stick to it.
 
 LlONORS [kissing hini\. Sweetheart! See 
 How still the moonlight lies upon the water ! 
 
 BORRE. It's like a silver road. 
 
 LIONORS. How would you like 
 
 For you and me to go out hand in hand 
 As we do i' the meadows, and pluck those flowers 
 That grow on the waves by moonlight, and so go on 
 And on and on until we came to Fairyland ? 
 
 BORRE. I'm 'fraid we'd get our feet wet. 
 
 LIONORS. I'm afraid we might. 
 
 BORRE. But what's a road for, if you mayn't walk 
 
 on it ? 
 
 Mamma, I don't think it's a road at all ; 
 It's a river. 
 
 LIONORS. A river, love ? 
 
 BORRE. A river of shine ; 
 
 The fairies go swimming in 't. 
 
 [Enter PEREDURE.] 
 
 LIONORS. Good even, sir. 
 
 The Queen of Orkney is engaged within. 
 So please you wait with me a little while, 
 She'll see you presently.
 
 PEREDURE. I will remain ; 
 
 You are very gracious. Well, my little dreamer ! 
 What are you thinking of, with your great brown eyes 
 Looking so wistfully on the mere ? Come, kiss me. 
 What do you see out there ? 
 
 BORRE. My lord, who lives 
 
 I' the sea ? 
 
 PEREDURE. Why, the fishes, Borre. 
 
 BORRE. And the old crabs 
 
 With their great ugly claws I know. But I think 
 A princess lives there in a crystal palace, 
 All white and cool, with crabs to guard the gates. 
 That's why their arms are so long, you know to 
 
 catch 
 The robbers with. 
 
 PEREDURE. Are there robbers in the sea ? 
 
 BORRE. Oh, yes ! that's such a pretty story. 
 
 Mamma, 
 
 Tell it to him you know, the one you told 
 Last night about the water-kelpies that tried 
 To steal the princess' treasure. 
 
 LIONORS. Some other time, 
 
 Sweetheart. 
 
 74
 
 BORRE. Oh, please, mamma, please tell it J 
 
 LlONORS. Not 
 
 To-night, dear. It grows late, and it is time 
 For little folk to be abed. Come, Borre, 
 We'll go find nurse. Excuse me, pray, my lord ; 
 I will return soon. 
 
 BORRE. I don't want to go ; 
 
 I am not sleepy. 
 
 PEREDURE. Let me carry him. 
 Wouldn't you like a ride upon my shoulder ? 
 That's it. Now we go. Lead on, my lady. 
 
 BORRE. Hey! 
 
 [Exeunt LIONORS, PEREDURE, and BORRE.J 
 
 [Enter MORGAUSE and PUBLIUS.] 
 
 PUBLIUS. If it be true, as you suspect 
 
 MORGAUSE. No fear ! 
 
 You are very wise and subtle, good my lord, 
 
 But trust a woman's wit as subtler still 
 
 Where woman's heart's at question. You were 
 there ; 
 
 Your eyes were fixed, as all eyes, on the Queen ; 
 
 Yet you nor no man there saw what I saw. 
 
 75
 
 I tell you, when a woman's eyes are lit 
 
 With such a light as that I saw in hers 
 
 The while she gazed at Launcelot, 'tis small matter 
 
 Whether she flinch or falter to the world 
 
 She loves. 
 
 PUBLIUS. Well, let us grant, then, that she 
 
 loves ; 
 
 You women sometimes prove absurdly right, 
 And I incline to trust you. But the King 
 Will ask more solid proofs. 
 
 MORGAUSE. And he shall have them ! 
 
 Ay, if I pull the ruin on myself, 
 I'll find the engines somewhere to upheave 
 The pillars of his peace. Oh, he doth vex me 
 Beyond endurance with that calm of his, 
 That silly satisfaction on his face, 
 As if he were some god, forsooth, and deigned 
 To live with men as a sun might deign to shine. 
 
 PUBLIUS. Do not forget the most important 
 
 thing, 
 
 That Launcelot must quarrel with the King ; 
 For thence I see a great advantage grow 
 
 For Rome, and you will not forget, I hope, 
 7 6
 
 That Caesar's vantage wins for Arthur's ruin, * 
 
 I do not ask you why you hate the King ; 
 Work for my ends and I will work for yours. 
 
 MORGAUSE. Agreed. But we must cast our lines 
 
 for proofs, 
 
 And yonder comes an angle for my hook. 
 Withdraw, my lord ; leave me alone with him. 
 PUBLIUS. My humble duty, madam. 
 
 [Exit.} 
 
 [Enter PEREDURE.] 
 
 MORGAUSE. Peredure ! 
 
 It is kind in you to come to me, my lord. 
 Sit by me here. I am sad to-night and know not 
 What 'tis oppresses me. 
 
 PEREDURE. Would that I had 
 
 The power to shield off sorrow from you, madam ! 
 
 MORGAUSE. Why, would you use it if you had, 
 
 my lord ? 
 
 A little thing might do it for the nonce, 
 But yet I fear me you would scruple. 
 
 PEREDURE. Scruple ? 
 
 I am no coward ; I would die to serve you. 
 
 77
 
 MORGAUSE. I know you are no coward, and I think 
 You are indeed my friend. Too much of this ! 
 You are a poet. Sing me a sweet song, 
 Whose music may caress my pained heart. 
 
 PEREDURE. Lend me your cithern, lady. 
 
 MORGAUSE. Who says now 
 
 That I am not the royalest queen alive, 
 That have a king's son for my troubadour ? 
 
 PEREDURE [sings], 
 
 You remind me, sweeting, 
 
 Of the glow, 
 
 Warm and pure and fleeting, 
 Blush of apple-blossoms 
 
 On cloud-bosoms, 
 When the sun is low. 
 
 Like a golden apple, 
 
 ' Mid the far 
 
 Topmost leaves that dapple 
 Stretch of summer blue 
 
 There are you, 
 
 Sky-set like a star. 
 78
 
 Fearful lest I bruise you, 
 
 How should I 
 
 Dare to reach you, choose you, 
 Stain you with my touch ? 
 
 It is much 
 That you star the sky. 
 
 Why should I be climbing, 
 
 So to seize 
 
 All that sets me rhyming 
 In my hand enfold 
 
 All that gold 
 Of Hesperides ? 
 
 I would not enfold you, 
 
 If I might. 
 
 I would just behold you, 
 Sigh and turn away, 
 
 While the day 
 Darkens into night. 
 
 MORGAUSE. You sigh, my lord. Did not the 
 
 lady yield, 
 After so sweet a plaining in her ear ? 
 
 79
 
 . . . Methinks I had not been so obdurate. 
 To give unsought is sweetest to the giver. 
 Love such as yours, that asks no recompense, 
 Pleads for that reason more persuasively. 
 . . . Men love not often so in Camelot. 
 
 PEREDURE. The beautiful lady of my soul, for 
 
 whom 
 My song was made, knows not my love for 
 
 her. 
 
 The greatest happiness that I can hope 
 Is to sing for her, sitting at her feet, 
 As I do now at yours. I dare not vex 
 Her spirit with the story of my love, 
 Lest I should lose the little bliss I have 
 Nor gain no greater neither. 
 
 MORGAUSE. You are too fearful. 
 
 Who would not throw a bit of glass aside 
 To win a diamond ? You cheat yourself 
 With the vain semblance of a love, my lord. 
 Be bold and snatch the real. Why, who knows 
 But that your lady pines to yield herself 
 As you to win her ? 
 
 PEREDURE. Oh, do not stir up 
 
 80
 
 The devil in my, soul ! There is a chasm 
 Between our ways. 
 
 MORGAUSE. And will you let her droop 
 
 And die, poor lady, dreaming that her life 
 Is wasted ointment spilt out on the floor, 
 When but a word were Siloam to her eyes 
 To let her see she had poured a priceless chrism 
 Over the very body of Love ? If she 
 Were I and spoke to you as I do now, 
 How would you answer her ? 
 
 PEREDURE. Upon my knees. 
 
 Forgive me, my beloved. 
 
 MORGAUSE. What do you mean ? 
 
 PEREDURE. That you indeed are she. 
 
 MORGAUSE. Alas, alas ! 
 
 What must you think ? Indeed I knew not this. 
 
 PEREDURE. Oh, kill me with your hands, not 
 
 with your grief. 
 
 Oh love, love, love, I ne'er had thus offended, 
 But all my brain was whirling with your words. 
 
 MORGAUSE. We are most fortunate and unfortu 
 nate. 
 
 PEREDURE. And dost thou love, then, too ? 
 
 6 81
 
 MORGAUSE. I have loved thee long. 
 
 Why do you tremble so ? Surely it is 
 No sin that we should love. 
 
 PEREDURE. Can that be sin 
 
 Which makes me greater-hearted than before ? 
 
 MORGAUSE. Why do you stand apart ? Let me 
 
 lean on you. 
 
 Oh, take me in your strong arms, Peredure ! 
 Surely it is no sin for us to kiss. 
 
 PEREDURE. God help me, I scarce know where 
 
 sin begins ; 
 
 For I am caught up in a wind of passion 
 That sweeps me where it will. 
 
 [ The tinkling of a lute without^ 
 
 MORGAUSE [starting]. It is not safe 
 
 For you to be found here so late. I hear 
 My women with their lutes. Nay, do not go 
 Nay, but you must but first one kiss, my love. 
 Give me the key to your secret door. I'll come 
 To you ; we shall be more secure than here. 
 
 PEREDURE. Come quickly, then, or I shall scarce 
 believe 
 
 But I have slept i' the moonlight and seen visions. 
 82
 
 Yet one more kiss, as sweet as the perfume 
 Of sandal burning in a darkened room ! 
 I am drunk with this new joy. 
 
 MORGAUSE. Within two hours. 
 
 PEREDURE. I live not till you come. 
 
 MORGAUSE. Oh, leave me, leave me ! 
 
 You will be found. Farewell ! 
 
 PEREDURE. Love, love ! [Exit.'] 
 
 MORGAUSE. This key 
 
 Shall unlock more secrets than a secret door. 
 
 [LADINAS climbs up from below with a lute. 
 The scene closes :] 
 
 SCENE II. A street in Camelot. Enter THE 
 WATCH. 
 
 FIRST WATCHMAN. I say it and I say it again, 
 that the King hath the strongest arm in the king 
 dom. 
 
 SECOND WATCHMAN. Not a doubt of that ! 
 
 THIRD WATCHMAN. Our King be a powerful 
 fighter. 
 
 83
 
 FOURTH WATCHMAN. Not but I think our Owen, 
 the blacksmith, would run him hard. 
 
 FIRST WATCHMAN. Oh, you think, do you? 
 You're a fine one to think. Owen, the blacksmith ! 
 
 THIRD WATCHMAN. They as thinks, goes to 
 hell ; leastwise Father Aurelian says so. 
 
 FIRST WATCHMAN. Owen, the blacksmith ! 
 
 FOURTH WATCHMAN. Well, I suppose a black 
 smith may have muscle in his arm, as well as a 
 king. 
 
 FIRST WATCHMAN. Ah, there you goes a-sup- 
 posing. The King, sir, is the King, and is not to 
 be supposed. 
 
 THIRD WATCHMAN. Ay, 'tis a hanging matter to 
 suppose the King except for the Pope. The Pope 
 can suppose anything. 
 
 FIRST WATCHMAN. You go too much to the 
 priests, David. Father Aurelian knows not every 
 thing, though I will not deny that he can say mass 
 quicker than any priest in Camelot. The Pope can 
 not touch the King except in the way of cursing, 
 and it's not likely the Holy Father would curse any 
 body unless he were mightily provoked. 
 84
 
 SECOND WATCHMAN. That's true, neighbor. 
 
 FIRST WATCHMAN. The King is the head in 
 things temporary, and the Pope in things spirit 
 uous. 
 
 SECOND WATCHMAN. And that's true, too. 
 
 FIRST WATCHMAN. And I say again, the King is 
 the strongest man in the kingdom. Before he was 
 crowned, he pulled the great sword out o' the stone 
 at Canterbury, where it was fast stuck, so that all 
 the nobles in Britain had tugged away at it and 
 none o' them so much as budged it. And they say 
 the devil put it there, but that is not likely, for the 
 Archbishop said that whoever should pull it out 
 should be king, and it's not to be believed that the 
 Archbishop would meddle with the devil. Well, at 
 last the King came, but he was not King then, 
 but no matter for that ; and he heaved away at it 
 and out it came so sudden that away went His 
 Majesty heels over head backward and was near 
 to break 's neck. And they call the place Arthur's 
 Feat to this day, because there Arthur lost his 
 feet. And I say, the King is the strongest man in 
 
 Britain. 
 
 8s
 
 THIRD WATCHMAN. But that was a magic 
 sword ; it vanished afterward. 
 
 FIRST WATCHMAN. Magic ! Poh, David, you'll 
 believe anything. 
 
 THIRD WATCHMAN. If it did not vanish, where 
 is it now ? Answer me that. 
 
 FIRST WATCHMAN. Masters, we are set here to 
 apprehend benefactors. But I take it that no bene 
 factors will be in the street at this hour, for there is 
 a law that no one be abroad after nine o' the clock 
 but the King's watch. Let us go into Master How- 
 ell's tavern. If there be any benefactors they will 
 be there. 
 
 FOURTH WATCHMAN. Ay, we'll go have a pot of 
 ale. But we must come back anon, for there might 
 be honest men abroad. 
 
 FIRST WATCHMAN. Truly, and if any honest 
 men be stirring, they will take it ill that the watch 
 be not by to protect them. 
 
 THIRD WATCHMAN. But 'tis against the law to 
 be out at this time o' the night ; and can a man be a 
 true man and break the law ? 
 
 FIRST WATCHMAN. In a case of necessity he 
 
 86
 
 may, for necessity knows no law. And I feel 
 myself a pressing necessity now for strong waters. 
 Come, masters. [Exeunt.'] 
 
 [Enter GUENEVERE, disguised as a Page, and GAL- 
 
 AHAULT.] 
 
 GUENEVERE. Pray, how much farther is it ? We 
 
 have come 
 A long way from the palace. 
 
 GALAHAULT. We have but 
 
 To cross the little bridge beyond and pass 
 Under the row of willows to the left, 
 And we are there. It is a place I built 
 Some years ago when I had use for it. 
 But now the flowers have sown themselves at will 
 And the wild vines, untrimmed, have overflowed 
 The trellises and run along the ground, 
 Tangled with violets, and hollyhocks 
 Start straight and sudden in the very walks. 
 The simple people of the neighborhood 
 Say it is haunted, having no way else 
 To explain infrequent lights and seldom signs 
 
 Of habitation in such solitude. 
 87
 
 Yet though it has a barbarous outside, 
 
 You'll find within that all has been made ready 
 
 Even for a queen's sojourn. 
 
 GUENEVERE. I thank you, sir. 
 
 How looked he when you left him ? 
 
 GALAHAULT. Why, as one 
 
 Who is about to die and has seen heaven 
 Opening before him. 
 
 GUENEVERE. But did he send no word ? 
 
 Oh, pardon me, I have lost all my pride, 
 And I must hear you speak of him. 
 
 WATCH \within] . Ho, there ! 
 
 GALAHAULT. Stand close, it is the watch ; and 
 
 speak no word, 
 But keep your face in shadow. 
 
 [Enter the WATCH.] 
 
 FIRST WATCHMAN. Stand all together that they 
 may not rush upon us suddenly and overpower us. 
 Who goes there ? 
 
 GALAHAULT. What, old Griffith ! What do you 
 mean, you old oracle ? Do you forget me ? 
 
 FIRST WATCHMAN. Bless us, masters, if it be 
 
 88
 
 not the Prince ! I hope your Highness will pardon 
 me. Now who'd a-thought 't 't would a-been your 
 Highness ? Ah, your Highness knows what's what, 
 a-going about in the night, when all honest folk is 
 a-bed. But it's not for me to say when your High 
 ness should go in or come out. And I hope your 
 Highness will not forget the watch. 
 
 GALAHAULT [throwing purse]. Drink my health, 
 Griffith, you and your fellows. And if you get 
 very drunk, I'll see you are none the worse for it, 
 Come, boy. 
 
 [Exeunt GALAHAULT and GUENEVERE.] 
 
 SECOND WATCHMAN. What did he give you ? 
 
 FIRST WATCHMAN. Gold ! Ah, there's a prince 
 for you, he is ! I have carried him home drunk 
 these many times. He knows what belongs to a 
 gentleman. And did you hear what he called me ? 
 An oracle. That's as much as to say, a man of 
 parts. Mark Antony was an oracle he that killed 
 Caesar in the play. He killed him oracularly. 
 
 FOURTH WATCHMAN. Not a one of you had 
 come back but for me. You were so thirsty you 
 could see naught but the tavern window.
 
 FIRST WATCHMAN. Never you mind. We'll 
 have a drink now as is a drink and none the worse 
 for waiting and letting our mouths water. [Exeunt.] 
 
 SCENE III. Merlin's Tower. MERLIN. Enter 
 DAGONET, unperceived. 
 
 MERLIN. Burn, burn, ye leaping flames! And 
 
 yet in vain. 
 
 Ye cannot burn away the prison-bars 
 That gaol my soul from knowledge. Yet burn on ; 
 A little and a little still I learn. 
 Yet all the knowledge man can win avails 
 But to avoid the shock of mighty forces 
 Which he can neither deviate nor control. 
 I look out on the rushing of the world 
 As one who sees the gloom of swirling waters 
 In the abyss of midnight. On they sweep, 
 Fatal, resistless, plunging as one mass 
 From turbulence to booming turbulence. 
 Whence ? Whither ? Ye occult unconscious Powers \ 
 How shall I call upon you ? By what names ? 
 
 What incantations ? Fool, what do you here ? 
 
 90
 
 DAGONET. Father Merlin, when will the devils 
 appear ? 
 
 MERLIN. What mean you, Fool ? 
 
 DAGONET. Were you not conjuring ? I cry you 
 mercy, I thought it was an invocation to Flibberti 
 gibbet. Sir Kaye says that Asmodeus was your 
 father, but the Devil himself will be saved ere his 
 wits stop leaking. 
 
 MERLIN. I do not take that. How should his 
 wits leak ? 
 
 DAGONET. Marry, I am sure his brain's cracked. 
 He put me in the pillory the other day for making 
 a jest that passed his understanding, but he will be 
 pilloried with my jest long after I have ceased jest 
 ing with his pillory. 
 
 MERLIN. What, were you in the pillory, Dagonet ? 
 
 DAGONET. Long enough to feel an imaginary ruff 
 about my neck still. But by the intercession of the 
 Queen, I was delivered. I hope her issue may be 
 nobler. 
 
 MERLIN. Her issue ? Where is the sequence in 
 this? 
 
 DAGONET. That if her issue be no nobler than
 
 mine, it will be something scrofulous, for I was de 
 livered of a galled neck. Father Merlin, can you 
 undo a spell as well as contrive one ? 
 
 MERLIN. Why, Fool? 
 
 DAGONET. The Prince of Cameliard is be 
 witched ; he does nothing but sigh. 
 
 MERLIN. Why, you should be the physician to 
 heal him of that ailment. For what purpose else 
 does the King keep you ? 
 
 DAGONET. Nay, the jester is a physician that 
 heals none but the well. The sick will have none of 
 him, neither the sick in body nor in wit nor in 
 heart ; for the sick in their bodies desire the sympa 
 thy of long faces ; and the sick in their wits think 
 they are mocked, because they do not understand 
 what is said ; and the sick in their hearts speak 
 another language laughter is bitterness to them 
 and their recreation is in groans. And Prince Pere- 
 dure is in the third of these categories, he is in 
 love. Indeed, Father Merlin, he is past my medi- 
 cining, arid I would you would cure him. 
 
 MERLIN. Would you have me cure youth of love ? 
 Then I were a magician indeed.
 
 And yet I know, in part, of what you speak ; 
 
 And I would counsel you, good Dagonet, 
 
 To have an eye upon the Queen of Orkney. 
 
 She works with devious indirections, and 
 
 This love of Peredure may be to her 
 
 A point to rest the lever on, wherewith 
 
 She pries at greater matters. Come with me ; 
 
 I have employment for you. 'T works so, does 't ? 
 
 Fate lays on her a bitter-hearted life ; 
 
 Even as long ago I prophesied 
 
 That woe should whelm her past all woman's woe 
 
 And woe past woman's from her heart should flow 
 
 To whelm the world and Time unwinds it so. 
 
 [Exeunt,] 
 
 SCENE IV. A forsaken garden. LAUNCELOT. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. It is the hour ; and yet they do not 
 
 come. 
 
 The sentinels grow drowsy at their posts ; 
 And the wind rustles through the moonlit leaves 
 Like one that tosses on a sleepless bed 
 And wishes for the dawn. The shadows sleep, 
 
 93
 
 Silent as time, beneath the silent stars ; 
 
 And distant dogs behowl the loneliness. 
 
 O Moon, look down and lead my love to me ! . . . 
 
 Sir Galahault ! Sir Galahault ! I wonder 
 
 If it were wise to trust to you so far. 
 
 Nay, 't is unknightly in me to misdoubt 
 
 So true a heart. Who else but he had made 
 
 The evil fortune of my love his own 
 
 And dared for me all I myself can dare ? 
 
 And yet to take my joy within his doors, 
 
 With secret entrance like a midnight thief, 
 
 It irks me. Bah, I am a fool ! What's place 
 
 Or time, when I clasp hands with Guenevere ? 
 
 To look into her eyes is to forget 
 
 That space exists, beyond her circling arms ! 
 
 Hark ! did I hear the rustle of a cloak ? 
 
 Or was 't the wind i' the lilacs ? 
 
 [Enter GALAHAULT.] 
 
 Galahault ! 
 Alone ? 
 
 GALAHAULT. Are you alone ? And is all safe ? 
 For what I bring with me is worth all Britain. 
 LAUNCELOT. All Britain ? All the world !
 
 [Enter GUENEVERE.] 
 
 My queen ! my queen ! 
 
 GUENEVERE. Sir Galahault, needs must that once 
 
 you loved. 
 
 'T is some lost lady's memory, sure, that stirs 
 Your will to do these gentle deeds. 
 
 GALAHAULT. I know 
 
 Love is the one intelligible word 
 Life utters. But I pray you, pardon me [smiling], 
 I know, besides, that though you throw an alms 
 Of kind thoughts to a man whose life is lived, 
 The fleet-foot hours are restless to become 
 Spendthrift of richer treasure. Fare you well ! 
 I will not irk you with a formal leave. \Exit^\ 
 
 GUENEVERE. Now ! 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Heart to heart ! 
 
 GUENEVERE. Oh, do not jar with speech 
 
 This perfect chord of silence ! Nay, there needs 
 Thy throat's deep music. Let thy lips drop words, 
 Like pearls, between thy kisses. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Thy speech breaks 
 
 Against the interruption of my lips, 
 
 95
 
 Like the low laughter of a summer brook 
 Over perpetual pebbles. 
 
 GUENEVERE. Nay but, love, 
 
 It is the saucy pebbles that provoke 
 The brook's discourse ; for, where the bed is 
 
 smooth, 
 
 The waters glide as silent as a Dryad 
 That disappears among the silent trees. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. And so our kisses still provoke our 
 
 speech. 
 GUENEVERE. Why, if the night must first be 
 
 smooth of kisses, 
 
 I fear that I shall talk until the dawn. 
 LAUNCELOT. Alas, that dawn should be so 
 
 soon ! 
 
 GUENEVERE. We will 
 
 Divide each moment in a thousand parts, 
 And every part a pearl ; and they shall make 
 A rosary of little lucent globes, 
 Innumerous as the dewdrops of the dawn : 
 And, counting them, night shall seem infinite. 
 LAUNCELOT. Yet even now we count them, and 
 they pass. 
 
 96
 
 Sit, Guenevere, here where the moonlight laughs 
 Across your hair, and the night wind may 
 
 touch 
 Your throat and chin, as I do now. 
 
 GUENEVERE. O love, 
 
 My lips will weary you, too often kissed. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Why, then the night will weary of 
 
 the moon. 
 GUENEVERE. But I'll be strange and chide ; and 
 
 then a cloud 
 Will pass between you and the moon. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Nay, then 
 
 The moon will 'broider with her light the cloud, 
 And I will kiss again, to hear your chiding. 
 
 GUENEVERE. My voice will weary you, too rarely 
 
 still. 
 LAUNCELOT. Then will the leaves grow weary of 
 
 the wind. 
 
 Hark, how they laugh into each other's ears 
 And whisper secrets for pure merriment ! 
 
 GUENEVERE. My love will weary you, too un 
 disguised, 
 Too wild, too headlong, too unlimited ! 
 
 7 97
 
 LAUNCELOT. Then God will weary of the joy of 
 
 heaven ! 
 
 O love, in whom even Love's perversity 
 Is lovely ! O chameleon-colored heart ! 
 Look, I have seen a sky at sunset lapse 
 From gold and flame to misted violet 
 And through a thousand shifting colors more, 
 Olive and pearl and myriad hues of rose, 
 Each lovelier than the last. Even such a sky 
 Thy heart is. 
 
 GUENEVERE. Then must thou be like the 
 
 sun, 
 
 For from his kiss the sky takes on her hue. 
 And surely, if the sun took human shape, 
 He would become even such a man as thou, 
 My live Apollo ! Spendthrift of thy brightness ! 
 Nay, let us stay awhile yet, for the night 
 Doth seem attuned to our hearts and they 
 Incorporate with the night. Was e'er before 
 Such rapture in the air? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. O teasing Queen ! 
 
 You slip through my desires and glide away 
 
 As a seal swims. Ah, why will you be coy ? 
 98
 
 Yet coy or bold, each shifting mood you wear 
 More than the last entrains. 
 
 GUENEVERE. I give you all ; 
 
 I am no niggard to keep something back. 
 But yet, I pray you, stay a little while. 
 There is a sweetness in all things that pass ; 
 We love the moonlight better for the sun, 
 And the day better when the night is near ; 
 The last look on a place where we have dwelt 
 Reveals more beauty than we dreamed before, 
 When it was daily. This is my last hour 
 Of girlhood ; and, although the wider days 
 Bring greater guerdons and more large delights, 
 Yet this one thing they shall not bring again. 
 Love, yet a little while ! 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Your girlhood, say you ? 
 
 GUENEVERE. I know not how to tell you 
 The morn that followed on my wedding 
 
 night, 
 War called the King to Cornwall, since which 
 
 hour 
 I have not seen him. That one night, indeed, 
 
 99
 
 We lay down side by side ; but, seeing I shrank 
 And shook as one that fears she knows not 
 
 what, 
 
 The King unsheathed his sword Excalibur 
 And placed it for a sign between us twain, 
 And all night long the sword divided us, 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Mine, mine, all mine ! 
 
 GUENEVERE. All thine, my Launcelot, 
 
 Body and soul ! My husband ! 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Ay, dear wife, 
 
 Although the cowled monastic trees have been 
 The only priests of our great bridal. 
 
 GUENEVERE. Husband ! 
 
 I laugh into your hair with the mere joy 
 Of saying it over so. ... The wicked stars 
 Are twinkling with a mischievous delight 
 To spy on us. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Then are they like you now, 
 The roguery of heaven. Anon, you'll change 
 And be its splendor and its mystery. 
 Let us go in ; I have seen you as a vision 
 Of morning in the hills, and as a Queen, 
 And as the dainty mimicry of a boy ;
 
 But I would see you grand and undisguised 
 And clothed upon with moonlight and sweet air. 
 
 [They enter the house. Then all is silent, save 
 for a rustle of wind in the leaves and the 
 voice of a distant 'watchman, calling the 
 hour. A nightingale begins to sing in the 
 thicket.'} 
 
 CURTAIN.
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. The Same. Enter LAUNCELOT and 
 
 GUENEVERE. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. It is the morning star that hangs so 
 
 high; 
 Love, you must leave me. 
 
 GUENEVERE. Must I so indeed ? 
 
 How can I leave you ? For I live in you. 
 You are the only concord in my life ; 
 Without you I am but a jarring note 
 And all the world mere noise. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. No, leave me not. 
 
 "What though the world outcast us ! We will be 
 A world unto ourselves. Let Britain sink 
 Beneath the Atlantic and the solid base 
 And universal dome of things dissolve 
 And like the architecture of a cloud 
 Melt in the blue inane ! You are my country, 
 My world, my faith, my rounded orb of life.
 
 GUENEVERE. Without you life would be but 
 breathing death. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Oh, we will find some island in the 
 
 seas, 
 
 Some place forsaken of the unjust world, 
 A larger image of this garden here, 
 Where nature's luxury and Art's decay 
 Proclaim emancipation 
 
 GUENEVERE. There's no such place. 
 
 The greedy world would rush in at your heels 
 And turn your paradise into a mart. 
 Nay, you were right, and 1 must leave you, love, 
 And ere yon pale streaks ripen into rose, 
 Resume the Queen. But yet one breath beneath 
 These morning-cool old elms before we part, 
 One last love-dreaming ! How can I be sure 
 Thou lovest me ? Is life so generous 
 Of joy ? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Oh, look in my true eyes and 
 
 say 
 If thou canst doubt me ! 
 
 GUENEVERE. Nay, I doubt thee not. 
 
 If I had doubted, could I thus have stolen 
 103
 
 At midnight in a shameless page's suit 
 And oh, thou knowest I could not ! 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Sweet and true ! 
 
 GUENEVERE. I feel as if I had put off the Queen 
 With the Queen's robes and had become your page. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. You are my Queen, whatever garb 
 
 you wear, 
 
 And I your knight forever. But, thus clad, 
 A thousand beauties are revealed, before 
 Known only to surmise, or by foreknowledge 
 That every beauty must be yours divined. 
 Ay, cover 't with thy cloak ! The prettiness 
 O' the action o'er-repays my beggared eyes, 
 Robbed of the treasure of that loveliness. 
 
 GUENEVERE. For thy delight, love, I will dress 
 
 me so 
 
 Ten times a day but never as a mask 
 Again. Why wouldst thou send Sir Galahault 
 To bring me here ? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. For thy security. 
 Here we are free from Argus-eyed intrigue. 
 
 GUENEVERE. I like it not or rather would not 
 like it,
 
 Were I not too content to let my head 
 
 Lie on your shoulder here so while Time seems 
 
 To pause awhile and dream, beholding us. 
 
 It is too much as if we shrank some peril ; 
 
 And I would shrink from nothing. Prithee, love, 
 
 Henceforward let us meet without these shifts. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. O royal-hearted ! 
 
 GUENEVERE. Sweet, you hurt me. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Nay, 
 
 I would not hurt you. I would have my love 
 A furnace fiery as the orient king's, 
 But you should walk in it and be unharmed. 
 
 GUENEVERE. Was ever woman loved as you love 
 me ? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. I think there never was ; 't is some 
 thing new 
 Whereof I am discoverer. [Exeunt among the trees.} 
 
 SCENE II. The adjacent country. Before the tent 
 of Arthur. ARTHUR and GODMAR. 
 
 GODMAR. Sire ! 
 
 ARTHUR. What is it, Godmar ?
 
 GODMAR. From the crest 
 
 Of yonder hill one can see Camelot. 
 
 ARTHUR. A forced march would have brought us 
 
 there to-day ; 
 But to what end ? The soldiers are fatigued. 
 
 GODMAR. Sire, we have marched but fifteen miles 
 
 to-day. 
 
 We started late and are already camped 
 While it is hardly afternoon. Besides, 
 The camp is careless as a hunt. 
 
 ARTHUR. What then ? 
 
 GODMAR. You will destroy all discipline. 
 
 ARTHUR. No, Godmar. 
 
 They have earned a little ease ; let them enjoy it. 
 For tension unrelieved relieves itself 
 And is ne'er taut again. Let them have time 
 To talk and tell old stories in their tents 
 And they'll forget their hardships, and each soldier 
 Will presently begin to find himself 
 Of moment to the State, no mere machine 
 Useful and used as bows and catapults, 
 But personal ; and Britain thus will grow 
 A thing wherein he hath a stake himself, 
 
 106
 
 And he will fight the better and submit 
 More willing to her rule in that his will 
 By head and heart alike is reinforced. 
 Have couriers been sent forward ? 
 [Enter MERLIN.] 
 
 GODMAR. One at dawn 
 
 And one when we encamped. 
 
 ARTHUR. How earnest thou here ? 
 
 MERLIN. On no enchanted steed ; a plain mule 
 
 brought me. 
 
 I set out when your messenger arrived 
 This morning. I have tidings you must hear 
 Before your entry. 
 
 ARTHUR. Well. 
 
 MERLIN. The Emperor 
 
 Has sent a special envoy to your court, 
 Whose undivulged commission, though with care 
 And shrewdly hid, I have smelled out. In brief, 
 Rome sends to bully you with warlike threats 
 To pay the tribute. 
 
 ARTHUR. You are my counsellors ; 
 
 What are your minds on this ? 
 
 GODMAR. I am for war. 
 
 107
 
 Here is occasion for new victories 
 
 And a world-wider glory. For my part, 
 
 I think that peace is when the nation sleeps 
 
 And when it wakes, that's war. For men in peace, 
 
 Lacking brave emulation and the zeal 
 
 Of a great cause, fall to their petty ends 
 
 And, letting their high virtues atrophy, 
 
 Wallow in lust and avarice, till the heart 
 
 And nobler functions 1 rot away and leave 
 
 A people like an oyster, all stomach. 
 
 Our men are bold with long success, valiant, 
 
 Well-disciplined, far better warriors 
 
 Than Roman libertines, and mercenaries 
 
 That fight with half their hearts. The cause is just ; 
 
 For while Rome kept her legions in the land, 
 
 Defending us from the sea-robbing Jutes 
 
 And Saxons and against the mountain hordes 
 
 Of barbarous Picts, there was a show of reason 
 
 Why she should tax us ; now we stand alone 
 
 And ask and yield no favors. 
 
 MERLIN. Nor would I 
 
 Advise your Majesty to yield an inch 
 To this preposterous impudence. And yet 
 
 108
 
 Delay advantages the crescent power, 
 And we are growing stronger every year 
 And Rome declining. If we match her now, 
 Ere long we'll have the odds. Her boundless wealth 
 Gives her resources which our general 
 Too lightly weighs. Nor should we overrate 
 Our own security. We are one in rule 
 But not in spirit yet, and local feeling 
 Still outruns national. The Jutes in Kent 
 Are yet a daily threat. Therefore, my liege, 
 My counsel is that we meet words with words, 
 Gain time to expel the aliens from our shores 
 And discord from our hearts. Indeed I think 
 The glory of your reign will more consist 
 In leaving to the world a living State 
 Than in your victories. And what most imports you 
 Is to secure by wise executive 
 The unity and welfare of the realm. 
 ARTHUR. You have each spoken well, but I in 
 cline 
 
 To Godmar's thought. You, Merlin, know full well 
 The unity of Britain is the heart 
 
 And purpose of my life ; but I conceive 
 109
 
 This war will make the country more at one 
 Than all our statecraft, for old enmities 
 Will melt away into one common heart 
 When Britons fight against a common foe. 
 Besides, you shall yourself be deputy 
 At Camelot, and our home management 
 Shall be no loser. For the Jutes in Kent, 
 We'll make them our allies, confirm their lands 
 In fealty to ourself and win them over 
 With promises o' the richer spoils of Rome. 
 For I intend to sack her opulent towns 
 And pay my soldiers from their treasuries ; 
 And this sea-people will supply me ships 
 And sailors cunning in sea-faring war. 
 And, more than this, I have ancestral claims 
 To the imperial crown. We'll not return 
 Until the Pope has crowned me Emperor. 
 
 GODMAR. No man on earth save Arthur, King of 
 
 Britain, 
 Could wield so glorious an enterprise. 
 
 ARTHUR. What say you, Merlin? 
 
 MERLIN. 'T is a noble plan, 
 
 Better than mine though something hazardous,
 
 And for a lesser captain foolhardy. 
 
 And yet it has a weakness, for I fear 
 
 The greatening power and riches of the Jutes. 
 
 If Britain ever fall, 't will be by them. 
 
 ARTHUR. They are too dangerous to be enemies; 
 They must be friends. 
 
 MERLIN. My liege, a word with you 
 
 In private. 
 
 GODMAR. Sire, permit that I withdraw. [Exit.} 
 
 ARTHUR. What bitter news now, Merlin ? 
 
 MERLIN. Be prepared 
 
 For any unexpected blow you will. 
 I fear your sister has some plot in hand 
 Which I have not unravelled. 
 
 ARTHUR. Morgause again ! 
 
 I have a senseless superstitious dread 
 That from her comes my ruin ; but that's a dream. 
 I'll not be goblin-ridden. Come within 
 The tent and tell me more of your suspicion. 
 
 [Exeunt.]
 
 SCENE III. Camelot. Night. The Gardens. 
 Through the trees the towers and battlements. 
 Enter MORGAUSE and LADINAS from opposite 
 sides, meeting. 
 
 MORGAUSE. Well ? 
 
 LADINAS. I have seen them. 
 
 MORGAUSE. Seen them ? 
 
 LADINAS. From the arbor 
 
 I watched them as they strolled ; yet too far off 
 To hear their words and yet their words were 
 
 sweet. 
 
 I could tell that although I heard them not, 
 They leaned so to each other, like a pair 
 Of rutting deer that rub their heads together 
 Before they couple. What they said, no doubt, 
 Had made a pretty song for the King's ear, 
 Could it have been re-worded. 
 
 MORGAUSE. Was this all 
 
 You saw ? 
 
 LADINAS. Be patient. I have not done yet. 
 I saw them kiss and Launcelot looked about
 
 With guilty fear, but Guenevere looked not 
 But hung upon him motionless and dumb, 
 Reckless of all the world. Much more I saw, 
 But to be brief at last, after what words 
 I know not, they departed, she with head 
 Erect, poised firmly on her royal throat, 
 But he with wild eyes and a haggard face. 
 I followed them. They went in by the wicket 
 O' the private stairway of the Queen's apartments. 
 
 MORGAUSE. What say you ? In broad noon ? 
 
 LADINAS. Ay, in broad noon. 
 
 At least, she sins with royal carelessness. 
 
 MORGAUSE. Her royal carelessness ! Her royal 
 
 throat ! 
 
 Is she the only queen, then, in the world ? 
 Doth she bewitch you, too ? Where got she 
 
 drugs 
 
 To make men love her ? Do you find her fairer ? 
 Beware, La Rouse ! You know how I can hate. 
 
 LADINAS. Fairer ? There are three fair ladies 
 
 in the world, 
 
 Iseult of Ireland, Guenevere, and thou 
 And thou art first among them. I will not
 
 Deny how beautiful she is, my queen 
 Thou art the fairer that she is so fair. 
 
 MORGAUSE. Leave courtly phrases till another 
 
 time. 
 
 What did you when her royalty had passed 
 Into the palace ? 
 
 LADINAS. I bethought me then 
 
 Of Peredure's apartments and the key. 
 I had no thought to find an use so soon 
 For that love-trinket. I ensconced myself 
 Behind a pillar in the gallery 
 That overlooks the window of the Queen, 
 
 MORGAUSE. And there you saw ? 
 
 LADINAS. Enough ! Not all I would, 
 
 There was a tantalizing incompleteness 
 In what I saw ; something, indeed, as when 
 One thinks one sees more than one really does 
 When the wind frolics with the petticoats. 
 And yet I saw enough to make the Queen 
 A laughter and a byword to the world. 
 
 MORGAUSE. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 So then my virtuous brother will receive 
 A douse of dirty water for a welcome,
 
 .When he returns to-morrow morn. The pomp 
 Of his victorious arms will only serve 
 To pageant out his shame. 
 
 LADINAS. I have set down 
 A formal notice with the Seneschal 
 That at high noon to-morrow, when the King 
 Ascends the throne in the Great Hall to hear 
 The grievances and quarrels of his knights 
 And render justice, I shall then appear 
 And in the presence of the court " impeach 
 Guenevere, Queen of Britain, Sovran ,Lady 
 Of the Most Knightly and Christian Fellowship 
 Of the Round Table, et cetera, of treason 
 To the most gracious person of the King 
 And to the safety of the realm, in living 
 In shameless license with Sir Launcelot ; 
 And also I impeach for the same cause 
 Sir Launcelot du Lac, the son of Ban " 
 
 MORGAUSE. Spare me the legal rigmarole. By 
 
 this, 
 The noise is bruited over the whole palace. 
 
 LADINAS. Be sure of that ; Sir Kaye will never keep 
 So rare a bit of scandal to himself.
 
 MORGAUSE. Why, then we have won the throw. 
 
 Oh, Ladinas, 
 
 You have done that to-day that shall shake thrones ! 
 Launcelot will not tamely yield himself; 
 Still less will he sit by and see his leman 
 Dragged from him to the stake. This work of 
 
 ours 
 
 Casts Britain to the pit for the beasts of war 
 To glut their bloodthirst on. What's that to 
 
 us ? 
 
 This upstart Queen and that false-hearted prig 
 Who calls himself her husband and my brother 
 She lied, my mother, when she said she bore 
 
 him ! 
 
 And, if he be her husband, what proves that 
 But that he is a perjurer? If she 'scape, 
 He may be slain ; and if they live, the shame 
 Will daub them till they die. In any case 
 I 'have revenge. I could carouse to-night 
 Till the elves s..artled in the glens to hear 
 The echo of my revelry. Come, kiss me ! 
 Oh, Ladinas, I am drunk with merriment. 
 
 Again ! again ! My blood is flames of fire. 
 1 16
 
 LADINAS. Your lips burn and your cheeks are 
 
 hot. Morgause ! 
 My pantheress ! My splendid devil ! 
 
 [Enter MERLIN.] 
 
 MORGAUSE. Beware ! 
 
 MERLIN. You need no mock propriety. I am 
 Too gray for envy and too well aware 
 Of what you do for this play of concealment. 
 And other things I know ; be warned in time, 
 Let your intents take wing. 
 
 MORGAUSE. You are too late. 
 
 Go to Sir Kaye and ask the news of him. 
 I do not fear you, Merlin. 
 
 MERLIN. Fear you God ? 
 
 MORGAUSE. God cheated me you know of what 
 
 I speak. 
 I am his enemy as He is mine. 
 
 [Exeunt MORGAUSE and LADINAS.] 
 
 DAGONET [springing up from behind a clump of 
 
 i 
 
 bushes]. Poor God ! Oh, Father Merlin, such rogue 
 ry as I have overheard ! But I will tell you anon, 
 for now I must see whither they are going. [Exit.]
 
 [Enter KAYE, GAWAINE, and PEREDURE.] 
 
 KAYE. It is even as I tell you, gentlemen. Sir 
 Ladinas has accused the Queen of high treason, for 
 amours with Sir Launcelot. 
 
 PEREDURE. Impossible ! He dare not. 
 
 KAYE. The indictment was placed in my hand 
 not above an hour ago. God knows how 't will all 
 end. 
 
 PEREDURE. By heaven, he is not chary of his 
 life! 
 
 GAWAINE. I say 't is an outrage. What an if it 
 were true ? They are the royalest pair in Christen 
 dom ; 't is shameful to seek to dishonor them. 
 
 PEREDURE. True? Why, you lily-livered boy, 
 
 you dare 
 
 To hint it ? By all the saints, if you were not 
 Your mother's son, that word had been your last 
 
 \A light appears in a window above.} 
 
 GAWAINE. I pray you, pardon me ; she is your 
 
 sister. 
 I had forgot it. But I mean to say 
 
 118
 
 That, were Sir Launcelot guilty twenty times, 
 
 He doth as far this Ladinas o'erpeer 
 
 As mountains anthills. Fie, a worm, a snail ! 
 
 KAYE. 'T is most deplorable. Let us bring the 
 
 news 
 To Galahault and the others. 
 
 [Exeunt KAYE and GAWAINE.] 
 
 MERLIN. Prince, do you see the light in yonder 
 casement ? 
 
 PEREDURE. It is the chamber of the Queen of 
 
 Orkney. 
 What of it ? 
 
 MERLIN. Would you know who has set on 
 This foul conspiracy against the Queen, 
 Make you that light your searchlamp. 
 
 PEREDURE. What, you mean ? 
 
 MERLIN. I mean that if you follow up my clue 
 To thread the meaning of this labyrinth, 
 'T will draw you, like a moth, into that flame. 
 I mean that in that dark unriddled heart 
 That beats beneath the beauteous breasts of Orkney, 
 Lies like a cancer the true reason why 
 Your sister's fame is smirched.
 
 PEREDURE. By heaven, 't is false ! 
 
 As soon the rosy labor of the dawn 
 Might bring forth darkness. Now, by all hell's 
 
 fiends 
 
 Unless I meet an enemy ere long 
 Beside old age and boyhood, I shall break 
 My sword against the senseless stones ! What, she ? 
 
 MERLIN. Alas, I pity you, but truth will not ; 
 It is the truth. [Exit,} 
 
 PEREDURE. By the five wounds of Christ, 
 It is the foulest lie that e'er was told. 
 Lamp of my soul, behind yon lattice lies 
 More mystery, more beauty, more delight 
 Than grizzled Merlin with his lapse of years 
 Has ever dreamed of. There 's more credit writ 
 In thy dear smile than all his subtleties. 
 Ah, opal-hearted ! now she doth unclothe 
 The solemn sweep of her majestic limbs, 
 The mystery of her awful loveliness ; 
 And draws the curtains of her couch about her 
 As some earth-goddess of old northern tales 
 Might draw the heavy drapery of the night.
 
 [Enter DAGONET.] 
 
 DAGONET. My lord ! My lord ! Even her case 
 ment throws him into a catalepsy. " Now what brew 
 hath the witch borrowed from Circe, that this poor 
 poet should be transformed into an ass ? What ho, 
 my lord ! 
 
 PEREDURE. Is it you, Dagonet ? 
 
 DAGONET. Like a chair in a dark room ; you wish 
 I were out of the way. (Aside). Oh, that I were any 
 thing but what I am, the bearer of ill news ! I could 
 wish I were a dog, a mongrelly cur, with somebody 
 kicking me. (Aloud.) Are you brave, my lord ? 
 
 PEREDURE. Brave ? 
 
 DAGONET. I know you are as quick in a quarrel as 
 a Spaniard, and will whip out your rapier on less prov 
 ocation than any man at the court. But are you brave ? 
 
 (Sings) For there are worser ills to face 
 
 Than foemen in the fray ; 
 And many a man has fought because 
 He feared to run away. 
 
 Ri fol de riddle rol. 
 Are you brave, sir ?
 
 PEREDURE. Sure, the Fool's mad. Good Dago- 
 net, I am not in the humor for these fopperies. 
 
 DAGONET. Said I not that I was in the way ? But, 
 cry you mercy now, would you not thank even a 
 joint-stool, if barking your shins against it saved you 
 from a stumble into the kitchen water-butt ? 
 
 PEREDURE. Past doubt, Dagonet. What have I 
 to do with this ? 
 
 DAGONET. Prithee, bark your shins against me, 
 then, and save yourself from drowning, for the butt 
 that lies in your path is bottomless. 
 
 PEREDURE. I am in a mood to be exasperated by 
 trifles. If you have ought to me, say it ; if not, pray 
 leave me to myself. 
 
 DAGONET. Indeed I have something to say, but 
 I know not rightly how to go about it. Sir, you are 
 in love 
 
 PEREDURE. Zounds ! 
 
 DAGONET. And I would not have you made the 
 tool of an unworthy woman. 
 
 PEREDURE. Why, you piebald rascally slave 
 
 DAGONET. Be patient with me, sir ; and if I 
 do not prove your love a lewd trickster and trait-
 
 ress, beat me from here to Orkney and back 
 again. 
 
 PEREDURE. Lewd ? traitress ? Oh, Christ in 
 heaven ! You rogue ! you varlet ! do you dare ? 
 
 DAGONET. Hear me, for I swear I speak no more 
 but the truth ! Sir, I have loved you since you were a 
 child on my knee and used to play with my bauble 
 for a toy. Do you think I would tell you so bitter a 
 thing for wantonness ? 
 
 PEREDURE. Nay, it cannot be but you are 
 abused ; some villain, some scurvy rancorous vil 
 lain hath abused you but 't was I he aimed at with 
 his knavery. Who was it, Dagonet ? Tell me and 
 if I do not run him through with my sword as I 
 
 would a snake My God, if I do not find some 
 
 tangible enemy, I shall burst my heart. 
 
 DAGONET. An I thought my eyes were such ras 
 cals as you have called them, I would pluck them 
 out. Oh, my lord, tear this false woman out of your 
 heart. She is not worthy that you grieve for her. 
 
 PEREDURE. What, will you persuade me the 
 world's a madman's dream ? have a care, have a 
 care ! I grow dangerous. 
 
 "3
 
 DAGONET. Come with me and see for yourself. 
 I would I could not show you what I must. 
 
 PEREDURE. Lead on ; but if you have played me 
 false, you had better have fallen in a tiger's jaws. 
 
 DAGONET. I have no more to say. If you will 
 not hear, see. 
 
 [Exeunt DAGONET and PEREDURE.] 
 
 [Enter LAUNCELOT and GUENEVERE.] 
 
 GUENEVERE. I know that we must take up the 
 
 old life 
 
 Again, made harder than it was before 
 But sweeter too. And yet it is all so new, 
 So glad ! A little longer we will dream. 
 To-day we will not think of anything 
 But the dear joy of loving. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. The kind Fates 
 
 Have given to us this hour. We will not mar it. 
 To-morrow's riddles let to-morrow solve. 
 
 GUENEVERE. I am so glad I am a woman, love. 
 I have quarrelled with my sex ; but now I see 
 The heart is keener to recoil from wrong 
 Than to divine the right, for all my life
 
 Was thwarted but I guessed not why. But now 
 I would not be a man for all the world. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Nay, I must pity you that you are 
 a woman, for so you miss life's greatest gift the joy 
 of loving one. 
 
 GUENEVERE. I would love the woman's way. It 
 is great to be a man, but it is delicious to be a 
 woman. 
 [Enter MERLIN at some distance, with an astrolabe^ 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Look yonder ! How like a visioned 
 
 memory 
 Old Merlin glides among the trees 
 
 GUENEVERE. He comes 
 
 This way ; I will accost him. Merlin, ho, 
 What have you there ? 
 
 MERLIN. An instrument to measure 
 
 The motions of the stars. 
 
 GUENEVERE. Then have you been 
 
 In converse with them of the weirds of men ; 
 For you are Destiny's familiar. 
 
 MERLIN. As 
 
 The child is of its mother, who unfolds 
 What shreds of wisdom it may comprehend. 
 
 "5
 
 Yon skies, that look so mild, are threatening ; 
 Some evil passes in the dark but what 
 Its name or form the stars will not declare 
 Till it unclose its formidable jaws 
 And fire-like eat its prey and then itself. 
 
 GUENEVERE. How wisely they look down from 
 
 their high heaven, 
 
 Meeting our baffled eyes with that clear sight 
 Which no enigmas barrier ! It must be 
 In them, if anywhere, our eyes may read 
 The secrets of our dooms. 
 
 MERLIN. Would you yourself 
 
 Interrogate their silence ? 
 
 GUENEVERE. Nay, for then 
 
 With each succeeding day I must renew 
 The burden of the accumulated ills 
 Of a whole life. Let all be unforeseen 
 And then we shall not suffer till our time. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Speak not so sadly. I seem to 
 
 have just found out 
 
 That human suffering is but a cheap price 
 We pay for heavenly bliss. Think rather, then, 
 Of joy 
 
 GUENEVERE. The greatest joy is greater still, 
 126
 
 When it comes sharp and sudden. What was 
 
 that? 
 
 MERLIN. Why, I heard nothing. 
 GUENEVERE. Nothing ? And you, my lord ? 
 LAUNCELOT. Nothing. {The light in the window 
 
 is extinguished^ 
 GUENEVERE. I heard a woman's shriek. Who 
 
 comes ? 
 
 {Enter GALAHAULT.] 
 
 GALAHAULT. Madam, I have sought you every 
 where. Have you heard 
 This tale that flies from lip to lip ? 
 
 GUENEVERE. What tale ? 
 
 GALAHAULT. Then you must hear 't from me. 
 
 Sir Ladinas 
 
 Has made a formal accusation, touching 
 The friendship you have shown for Launcelot, 
 Which he misconstrues for a lawless love, 
 Disloyal to the King. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. The dream is done 
 
 So suddenly 
 
 MERLIN (apart). Alas, then, it is true.
 
 GALAHAULT (to LAUNCELOT). Be scanter of 
 
 your speech, lest Merlin note. 
 The Queen's good name's at stake. 
 
 GUENEVERE. Why, gentlemen, 
 
 What ails it with you that you stand aghast ? 
 It is the penalty of eminence 
 That people grow familiar with our names ; 
 So reverence becomes garrulity, 
 Then flippancy, then foulness, till the highest 
 Is made most common, and even the Sacred Name 
 Debased to vile and lewd profanities. 
 Come, Launcelot, I shall keep you at my side 
 Even more than hitherto, that men may know 
 That what I do is not for them to question. 
 
 [Exeunt GUENEVERE and LAUNCELOT.] 
 
 MERLIN. How royally she carries it ! Sir Gala- 
 hault, you are the greatest and most powerful prince 
 in the kingdom, and you have a shrewd knowledge 
 of men and things. Why will you be an onlooker in 
 life, not a participant ? 
 
 GALAHAULT. I have drained my cup, and now I 
 drink the air. There is nothing left for me but the 
 
 ideas of things. What is all this in search of? 
 128
 
 MERLIN. Sir, I grow old and I need younger 
 
 men 
 
 To hold my hands up, like the Hebrew statesman. 
 You are a man fit for diplomacy 
 And I would have you for co-laborer 
 In the affairs of state ; but chiefly now 
 I would have you assist me to undo 
 This plot against the Queen. Guilty or guiltless, 
 The credence of her guilt would rend asunder 
 Our scarce yet welded kingdom. 
 
 GALAHAULT. I will do 
 
 All that I may for Launcelot and the Queen. 
 She has bound me to her with her regal ways ; 
 And he not only conquered my domain 
 And won me in allegiance to the King, 
 His courtesy finished what his sword began, 
 And won my heart too. 
 
 MERLIN. So with me as well 
 
 The personal wish chimes with the general good. 
 For Launcelot, as you know, was in some sort 
 My foster-son ; the Lady of the Lake 
 Guided his first dream-thinking and myself 
 Taught his quick-summered youth. Go, then, about 
 
 9 129
 
 Among the lords and ladies of the court 
 And everywhere proclaim her innocence. 
 Opinion propagates itself ; your stout 
 Maintenance of her honor will convince 
 Many by its mere confidence and make 
 A party in her favor. In two hours 
 Meet me in the laboratory in the tower. 
 GALAHAULT. Wisely devised; I'll set about it 
 
 straight. \xtt.] 
 
 MERLIN. Runic charactery, engraved in stars 
 Upon the everlasting vault ! wilt thou 
 Forever mock us with unriddled speech ? 
 Has thought no cleverness to cheat from Time 
 The knowledge of thy grammar ? And ye spirits 
 Of earth and air that with uncertain voice 
 Speak into too frail words divinities ! 
 Ye oracles and inspirations vague ! 
 We hear your utterance but we miss the sense. 
 I am the wisest brain of them that know, 
 And I'm Time's fool. ' The Queen, from whom I 
 
 thought 
 The perpetuity of the State should grow, 
 
 Even she herself is the first sundering 
 130
 
 From whence disintegration spreads to all ! 
 
 Her fate has come upon her and the King's, 
 
 And I foresaw not and forewarned them not. 
 
 Nay, I myself wrought Arthur to her suit, 
 
 Forethinking the realm's welfare. Alas, alas ! 
 
 I feel the bode of prophecy within me, 
 
 And now surely I know that all my craft 
 
 Shall be undone and all the King's high dream, 
 
 And the Round Table shall pass utterly 
 
 Which, like a sacrament, showed forth the round 
 
 world 
 
 In that ideal unto which it moves. 
 How can this be? Blind Chance, that seems at 
 
 times 
 To have malevolent intelligence 
 
 [Enter PEREDURE, with dress disordered and 
 without his sword.} 
 
 The Prince of Cameliard ? In this disorder ? 
 What is the matter, sir ? 
 
 PEREDURE. Art thou not Merlin ? 
 
 I think thou art ; but make me sure, for I 
 Cannot believe my eyes are truth-tellers.
 
 MERLIN. For certain, I am Merlin. But, my 
 
 lord, 
 Why start you so and stare ? You are not well. 
 
 PEREDURE. Why, I am glad to hear it. To be 
 
 well 
 
 Is to be one in millions. I am glad 
 That you are well, sir very glad, by heaven ! 
 
 MERLIN. This is too serious for the matter, and 
 Attention is not in it. What would you say ? 
 What ill has happened ? Alas, he hears me not. 
 
 PEREDURE. I killed him in her bed. 
 
 MERLIN. Killed, say you, sir? 
 
 PEREDURE. I see you have white hairs and a 
 
 white beard ; 
 
 But yet I know what you, for all your wrinkles, 
 Have never dreamed of. There is not a woman 
 In all the kingdom, ay, in all the world, 
 But she's a magpie. Let's be merry, then ! 
 Let us have cantharids and wine ! 
 
 MERLIN. My lord, 
 
 Withdraw with me. There's wine within. 
 
 PEREDURE. There's blood 
 
 Within wine, dp you call it ? Ay, the butt's
 
 Split open now and all the wine's on the floor. 
 The thirsty planks drink it up gloriously. 
 In her bed, did you hear ? Just heaven ! I tell you 
 I killed him in her bed. 
 MERLIN. Whom did you kill ? 
 
 PEREDURE. Not her, not her ! Look you, how 
 
 modestly 
 
 She gathers up her kirtle as she walks ; 
 And yet within 's twelve hours she hath been 
 
 Faugh ! 
 
 MERLIN. What look you on ? 
 PEREDURE. Not her ! She was too fair ; 
 
 I could not dapple that white skin with blood. 
 Give me your hand ; I would touch something. 
 
 Death ? 
 
 She is not dead. How can her spirit walk : 
 Why, so ! Why, so ! She is gone again. Oh, 
 
 Merlin, 
 
 The moveless stars in heaven shift and reel 
 And there is nothing stable in the world. 
 
 MERLIN. Come in with me out o' the damp night 
 
 air; 
 It is too chill to stand without your mantle.
 
 PEREDURE. Off, strange old man ! I have a 
 
 poniard yet. 
 
 Off! I will kill the man that hinders me. 
 Why, how it glistens in the treacherous moonlight ! 
 Is it alive, that it should look on me 
 With such a haunted silence ? 'T is like the gleam 
 Of death-fires in the cruel sea at night. 
 What does it say with its cold eye ? Why, now 
 God ! it comes back that pallid room Morgause 
 How fearfully a dead man glares by moonlight ! 
 False, false ! O Christ ! O pitiful Virgin ! false ! 
 
 [He kills himself. As he falls, MERLIN bends 
 over him in the moonlight.] 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 34
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE. Camelot. The Great Hall of the Palace. 
 On the left, two thrones and other raised seats, 
 not quite so high, DAGONET, BORS, and 
 ATTENDANTS. 
 
 FIRST ATTENDANT. Careful there, careful ! 
 Have you no respect for cloth of gold ? Will you 
 handle velvet like fustian ? 
 
 DAGONET \to BORS]. No, but they will wear 
 fustian like velvet. And you heard them in the 
 servants' hall, you would swear they were all dukes, 
 every man of them. 
 
 FIRST ATTENDANT. That will do. There is 
 much elsewhere to be made ready and the King -is 
 even now at the gates of the city. 
 
 [Exeunt ATTENDANTS.] 
 
 BORS. It is the saddest tale I ever heard. 
 
 DAGONET. I'll never attempt to undeceive a 
 135
 
 ilaoOM.T. Knoviag yoa to be a. 
 
 Peace, tweak yov off ! Ucic is 
 
 \Emta- 
 
 _.'^ r;T~- 
 
 GUESTVZRE. r .r I : rs 
 
 Yon are y friead, I drink; yon are 
 
 Yo kaov {fee worid kaovs all but Arthur kncrsr. 
 
 That we are gnfltlfss 
 front a grnkj dooHL. 
 We kave eedaow o/frKds. Oar dawfieslKxe
 
 Give me scant courtesy. I will not 
 That you too hold me cheaply or mistrust 
 The faultless knighthood of Sir Launcelot. 
 
 Boas. I know that Launcelot loves yon with 
 
 such love 
 
 As a true knight may offer when his lady 
 Is wedded to another. And I would, _ 
 
 In frankness, lady, you had been his bride. 
 You had been none the less a queen ; his father 
 Was King of Benwick and his father's brother, 
 My father, Bors, the King of GauL We both 
 Are of as royal blood as Arthur is 
 And might be kings, but that we love the King. 
 For him we have resigned our ancient thrones, 
 Content to be his liegemen, simple knights 
 Of that Round Table which is the great sign 
 Of brotherhood and true equality, 
 Such is the love we bear him ; but if he 
 Should do dishonor to Sir Launcelot 
 Or thee, whose knight Sir Launcelot is sworn, 
 Let him take heed. We may resume our crowns, 
 
 GUEXEVERE. I thank you, sir. You are a noble 
 friend.
 
 Sir Ector de Maris will be with us, 
 Pelleas, Lionel, and Bleoberis 
 
 BORS. Ay, madam, all our kin. 
 
 GUENEVERK. It will be much 
 To have so strong a party in the court. 
 Among the knights I brought from Cameliard 
 Some must be faithful. There is great devotion 
 Among them to my brother, and my brother 
 Loves me as his own soul. He will not fail 
 
 BORS. Alas, my lady, then you have not heard 1 
 
 GUENEVERE. Heard ? What ? Has aught ? 
 
 BORS. Oh, steel yourself, my Queen, 
 
 For I must be the advertisement of woe. 
 Peredure 
 
 GUENEVERE. Speak ! What ill has happened 
 to him ? 
 
 BORS. He is dead. 
 
 GUENEVERE. Dead ? my brother dead ! 
 
 BORS. Alas, 
 
 It is so dead, and slain by his own hand. 
 
 GUENEVERE. Grief loves to shoot twice at the 
 selfsame mark, 
 
 Ah, like a skilful archer whose first shaft 
 138
 
 Hath pierced the centre, sends a second after, 
 That with unerring niceness splits the first. 
 Where did he this ? 
 
 BORS. There were two witnesses, 
 
 Merlin and Dagonet. Let him tell the rest. 
 
 DAGONET. It happened on this wise, my lady. 
 Your brother was enamoured of the Queen of Ork 
 ney, but in honorable fashion, for he fancied her 
 to be as spotless as a Glastonbury nun. And with 
 this he was fallen into such a melancholy that I 
 feared he would lose his wits. I loved your brother 
 and in my folly I sought to deliver him. I knew 
 what a false jade was the theme of his idolatry and, 
 indeed, that she was this six months coddling with 
 that fine-feathered incontinent French magpie, Sir 
 Ladinas de la Rouse. So I lay in watch for the 
 couple, thinking that the truth, though a vile -tasting 
 medicine, would cure him ; and yesternight, finding 
 the two together, I brought Peredure word. 
 
 GUENEVERE. You did well, Dagonet ; for 'tis far 
 
 better 
 
 To know and suffer than to be deceived 
 And dote on loathsomeness. I knew myself 
 
 '39
 
 Of this infatuation of my brother, 
 Yet in the thick and tumult of my sorrows 
 I took no heed of his. You have done well ; 
 Nc knight of the Round Table sheathes within 
 His corselet a more true-steeled heart than you 
 Cloak with your motley. 
 
 DAGONET. I thank you for that speech. 
 I did not this, forgetful of my Queen. 
 When first I came on Ladinas and Morgause, 
 Their talk was all of you, how he had used 
 A key that she had begged from Peredure, 
 To gain an entrance to the prince's rooms, 
 From whence he said, he had seen 
 
 GUENEVERE. I shall not fail 
 
 To recognize this service at its worth. 
 Go on ! When you told this to Peredure ? 
 
 DAGONET. Then was he like a man that puts his 
 
 feet 
 
 On ice whose wintry firmness has grown rotten 
 With the April in the air, and when he thinks 
 All steadfast, feels it sink from under him. 
 Away he starts, wild as the tameless horse 
 Of Tartary, and comes to where they lie.
 
 When I, less swift of foot, came up with him, 
 I found him standing dumb, with bloody sword, 
 Over the twitching corpse of that false knight, 
 His senseless eyes fixed on Morgause, who cowered 
 Behind the curtains, silent for dismay. 
 Me she saw not, for ere I crossed the sill, 
 He threw the hot sword at her feet and fled, 
 Crying, " She is too fair, she is too fair ! " 
 
 GUENEVERE. Oh, better were it if his righteous 
 
 heel 
 Had stamped that viper out o' the world. Go on ! 
 
 DAGONET. There is no more to tell. I followed 
 
 him, 
 
 But ere I reached the gardens, he was dead. 
 I found him lying pallid in the moonlight 
 And ancient Merlin bending over him. 
 
 GUENEVERE. He was too delicate to face the blasts 
 Of this world's winter. He was all compassion, 
 All gentleness, all love, all tender heart, 
 So sensitive of thought that he could scarce 
 Endure the passing of an aimless sigh, 
 So frail of spirit that the silent days 
 Were in themselves too burdensome a load.
 
 So, let him rest. The jarring of the world 
 Frets his fine ear no longer. Gentlemen, 
 Pray, leave me. I would think of him alone. 
 
 BORS. Our hearts are with you. 
 
 [Exeunt BORS and DAGONET.] 
 
 GUENEVERE. Oh, that I could weep 
 
 The copious blubber of a village maid, 
 Uncurbed by royal pride, or consciousness 
 That o'ermistrusts and will not slack the bit ! 
 Oh, could I weep and empty woe with weeping ! 
 There is a swelling passion in my heart 
 Will split all yet. I cannot like a girl 
 Draw 't off in driblets. Oh, my blameless brother, 
 Undone for a guilty world ! And that which led 
 To the discovery that was thy doom, 
 A plot born of a woman's hate for me 
 And of my reckless fate-contending love ! 
 Oh, what a tangled anarchy is life ! 
 If the rash Will strive in the helter-skelter 
 To weave for itself a little ordered space, 
 Its skilless touch pulls unexpected threads 
 That tighten to 'ts own strangling. Peredure 
 Is but the first. The implacable net is drawn 
 
 I4Z
 
 About the feet of all that love us. Bors 
 
 Poor faithful, merry Dagonet all who hold 
 
 To Launcelot's cause must all these spend their 
 
 hearts 
 
 That we may love ? Do I love Launcelot ? 
 Oh, if I loved him, could I draw him on 
 So to his own undoing ? Shall his name 
 That even in the young April of his deeds 
 Greatens in splendor like the northering sun, 
 Be made a refuse for the ragman world 
 To fret and fumble with a prodding stick ? 
 O God ! Shall I uncage the captive wolves 
 Of war, to harry the whole land and rend 
 The offenceless kern, to give my sorrow ease ? 
 It must not be. What right have I to love, 
 What right have I to joy, that 'should so play 
 The Tambourlaine and scourge so many woes 
 To drag its chariot like his captive kings ? 
 It must not be. Oh, let me^take an oath 
 Before high heaven! Launcelot, I must save 
 
 ^^* 
 
 thee ! 
 
 Oh, heavy fate, to love and be a queen ! 
 Ay, Peredure, I know it now too late ! 
 
 M3
 
 Had I but hearkened to your pleading foresight ! 
 Oh, Peredure, my brother ! 
 
 {Enter LAUNCELOT.] 
 
 Launcelot ! 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Dear heart 1 
 
 GUENEVERE. Whence come you ? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Speakest thou so coldly ? 
 
 I passed Sir Bors without and Dagonet ; 
 They sent me hither, saying I should find 
 The Queen here. So, indeed, I do and not 
 The woman, not the eyes that met .my eyes 
 With proud confession, not the lips that spoke 
 Quivering but dauntless, saying, " I love thee, 
 Launcelot." 
 
 Guenevere, hast thou forgot so soon 
 
 That thou canst speak with this mechanic voice 
 And look on me so vacantly ? 
 GUENEVERE. Forgot ? 
 
 1 never shall forget. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Then thou repentest. 
 
 Ay, now I see the longing in thy face 
 
 That thou hadst ne'er beheld me. Be it so. 
 144
 
 I was a selfish monster when I thrust 
 
 My love into the forecourt of thy life. . . . 
 
 And yet you loved me once. And oh, those hours 
 
 When I could feel the warm breath from your lips 
 
 Creep o'er my cheek and mingle with my hair ! 
 
 The sweet long hours whose lingering moments 
 
 dripped 
 
 Like rhythmic water-drops into a pool 
 With silver parsimony of sweet sound 
 As if Time grudged each globule ! Why, now I see 
 Tears in your eyes. 
 
 GUENEVERE. O Launcelot, my king ! 
 
 LAUNCELOT. My own true wife ! 
 
 GUENEVERE. Do not call back that time 
 
 With any farewell cadence in your voice ! 
 And oh, do not reproach yourself, my god, 
 For opening to me those golden doors ! 
 We lived then. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. There is honey on your lips 
 As on the Theban child's. I am the bees 
 That gather it so. 
 
 GUENEVERE. Launcelot ! No, no ! 
 
 I had forgot. Am I, then, like the rest ? 
 
 10 MS
 
 Is there so much o' the woman in my veins 
 
 That resolution, buttressed in with vows, 
 
 Cannot endure the first assault of love ? 
 
 We have had a radiant dream ; we have beheld 
 
 The trellises and temples of the south 
 
 And wandered in the vineyards of the sun : 
 
 'T is morning now ; the vision fades away, 
 
 And we must face the barren norland hills. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. And must this be ? 
 
 GUENEVERE. Nay, Launcelot, it is. 
 
 How shall we stand alone against the world ? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. More lonely in it than against it ! 
 
 What's 
 The world to us ? 
 
 GUENEVERE. The place in which we live. 
 We cannot slip it from us like a garment, 
 For it is like the air if we should flee 
 To the remotest steppes of Tartary, 
 Arabia or the sources of the Nile, 
 Or that dim region lying in the west, 
 Where Brandan's holy ships found anchorage, 
 It still is there, nor can it be eluded 
 Save in the airless emptiness of death.
 
 LAUNCELOT. Say rather, like the miasmatic 
 
 breath 
 
 Of swamps that swarm to rankness. In the clear 
 And unpolluted air of mountain-tops 
 Freedom and solitude companion. Oh, 
 Let the dense earth bring forth its venomous growths ! 
 It cannot harm us on the heights. 
 
 GUENEVERE. We must not 
 
 Attempt the ascent. The perils are too great 
 That ward the way. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. What reck I of the perils 
 
 Between me and the graal of my desires ? 
 
 GUENEVERE. To plunge the land in war ! To 
 
 rend the kingdom ! 
 LAUNCELOT. You are worth all the kingdoms in 
 
 the world. 
 GUENEVERE. To drag our friends down with us 
 
 in our fall ! 
 LAUNCELOT. We shall not fall. And what is 
 
 friendship worth 
 That will not face adversity for us ? 
 
 GUENEVERE. We rend the holiest bond, the 
 family. 
 
 '47
 
 LAUNCELOT. We but destroy the false, build up 
 the true. 
 
 GUENEVERE. Think of your childhood's home, 
 
 your father's hearth, 
 
 Helen, your mother, at her household cares, 
 The sacred bond from which your life began, 
 Within whose circle boyhood grew to youth 
 Knit by the gentle hand of ageless custom 
 And consecrate with immemorial rites. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. I think of this ; I, too, would have 
 a home. 
 
 GUENEVERE. You have the world ; the family 
 
 alone 
 
 Is woman's, it alone is her protection, 
 Her mission and her opportunity. 
 In it alone she lives, and she defends it, 
 Even when its knife is in her heart. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. And I 
 
 I, too, defend it, when it is a family, 
 As I would kneel before the sacred Host 
 When through the still aisles sounds the sacring-bell. 
 But if a jester strutted through the forms 
 And turned the holy Mass into a mock,
 
 Would I still kneel, or would I rise in anger 
 And make an end of that foul mimicry ? 
 
 GUENEVERE. Believest thou, then, the power of 
 
 the Church ? 
 The Church would give our love an ugly name. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Faith, I believe and I do not be 
 lieve. 
 
 The shocks of life oft startle us to thought, 
 Rouse us from acquiescence and reveal 
 That what we took for credence was but custom. 
 Though the priests be the channels of God's grace, 
 Yet otherwise they are but men ; they err 
 As others, may mistake for falsehood truth, 
 And holiness for sin. God help me, sweet, 
 I cannot reason it I only know 
 I love you. 
 
 GUENEVERE. You are Arthur's friend. Your 
 
 love 
 Stands this within the honor of your friendship ? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Mother of God! Have you no 
 pity? 
 
 GUENEVERE. I would 
 
 I could be pitiful and yet do right. 
 M9
 
 Alas, how heavy your tears move me more 
 Than all (What am I saying ? Dare I trust 
 So faint a heart ? I must make turning back 
 Impossible.) Best know the worst ! I jested 
 I God ! I do not love you. Go ! 'T was 
 
 all 
 
 Mockery wanton, cruelty what you will lech 
 ery ! 
 I 
 
 [LAUNCELOT looks at her dumbly, then slowly 
 turns to go. As he draws aside the cur 
 tains of the doorway, ] 
 
 Launcelot ! 
 
 LAUNCELOT. What does the Queen desire ? 
 GUENEVERE. Oh, no, I am not the Queen I am 
 
 your wife ! 
 
 Take me away with you ! Let me not lie 
 To you, of all My whole life is a lie. 
 To one, at least, let it be truth. I I 
 
 Launcelot, do you not understand ? 
 
 1 love you oh, I cannot let you go. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. I pray you do not jest a second 
 
 time ; 
 
 150
 
 I scarce could bear it. Yet your eyes speak true. 
 Tell me you speak the truth. 
 
 GUENEVERE. I speak the truth. 
 
 Call me your wife ! 
 
 LAUNCELOT. My wife, my wife, my wife ! 
 
 GUENEVERE. Love, I will fly with thee where'er 
 thou wilt. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Speak not of flight ; I have played 
 
 him false the King, 
 
 My friend. I ne'er can wipe that smirch away 
 At least, I will not add a second shame 
 And blazon out the insult to the world. 
 
 GUENEVERE. What I have given thee was ne'er 
 
 another's. 
 How has another, then, been wronged ? 
 
 LAUNCELOT. What's done 
 
 Is done, nor right nor wrong, as help me heaven, 
 Would I undo it if I could. But more 
 I will not do. I will not be the Brutus 
 To stab with mine own hand my dearest friend. 
 It must suffice me that you love me, sweet, 
 And sometime, somewhere, somehow must be mine. 
 I know not it may be some dim land
 
 Beyond the shadows, where the King himself, 
 Still calling me his friend, shall place your hand 
 In my hand, saying " She was always thine." 
 
 GUENEVERE. I will do as thou wilt, m this and 
 
 all things. 
 But oh, the weary days ! 
 
 LAUNCELOT. It is enough 
 
 To know thou lovest me sometimes, perhaps 
 Oh, I am but a man ! to feel as now 
 Thy cheek against my own. 
 
 GUENEVERE. Oh, Launcelot, 
 
 Peredure is dead. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Thy brother ? 
 
 GUENEVERE. He is dead. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. I do not wonder that you were dis 
 traught. 
 
 [Shouting, etc., without.] 
 
 GUENEVERE. It is the silly rabble that toss up 
 Their caps for Arthur. He will soon be here, 
 Though a king's progress is a tedious one. 
 
 [MORGAUSE, about to enter, perceives LAUNCE 
 LOT and GUENEVERE and withdraws. A 
 152
 
 slight stir of the curtain shows that she is 
 listening.} 
 
 I must go to get me ready for the pageant. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Be not afraid. The charge that's 
 
 laid against us, 
 Cannot be certified by evidence. 
 
 GUENEVERE. And if it were why, then it were, 
 
 and so 
 
 The burden of decision were removed. 
 Kiss me ! Farewell, a little while, my love ! 
 It is a woeful world, at best. Thank God 
 For love, even with its anguish! 
 
 [Exit, through a small door back of the thrones^ 
 
 LAUNCELOT. Why, then it were ! 
 
 Ay, even disgrace would be an ease of breath 
 After this tension of duplicity. 
 God help me, I am like a man aghast 
 Between a dragon and a basilisk, 
 Which one he fronts dilating as he stares 
 More horrid than the other. O mystery 
 Of Fate, that folds us with encircling gloom ! 
 What issue sleeps for us in thy dark womb ? 
 
 '53
 
 [As he starts to go out, enter MORGAUSE care 
 lessly. They bow to each other. Exit 
 LAUNCELOT.] 
 
 MORGAUSE. So ? Kissing at the very foot of the 
 
 throne ? 
 What impudence ! . . . Why, now I have the 
 
 witness 
 
 Of mine own eyes to carry to the King. 
 What, billing like two sparrows on the highway, 
 Shameless of who may see ? Oho, my birds ! 
 You are in the springe. And Mistress Eyebrows, 
 
 you 
 
 Shall lower a little those proud orbs of yours. 
 Arthur can hardly doubt nis sister's word, 
 Especially when she is Queen of Orkney 
 And Rome is knocking at his gates for tribute. 
 But yet there's Peredure to reckon with. 
 Oh, had I but picked up his bloody sword 
 And plunged it in his heart before he fled ! 
 But, like an infant, I must lose my wits, 
 To see him raging so, like a mad bull 
 That breaks its tether in the fields, and gores 
 
 '54
 
 The dull earth in its fury. Poor La Rouse ! 
 
 He's out of it. He has taken a bath this time 
 
 Has frozen all the longing in his veins. 
 
 Why, I was fondling him and found it sweet 
 
 And then, so cold, a coldness like damp earth 
 
 Or some slow-blooded fishy creature, pah ! 
 
 I was a-creep with loathing at the feel 
 
 Of that limp dummy, as I dragged it out 
 
 And dumped it in the fountain. So much, at least, 
 
 Is done to kill the scent. But Peredure ? 
 
 Will he be silent when he finds his sister 
 
 Is muddied by my hands ? No, he will blurt 
 
 All out ; and gossip virtue, like a hawk, 
 
 Leaving the fluttered Queen, will change its flight 
 
 And fall on the new quarry. The accusation 
 
 Cannot be held / back now, even if I would. 
 
 'Tis known to the whole palace. I have sailed 
 
 Into a storm that bears me where it will, 
 
 And all my hope is to escape the reefs. . . . 
 
 Devise, devise. If Peredure accuse me, 
 
 As he will surely do, I will be merry, 
 
 Jest of his love I have it, I will say 
 
 He would himself have won me to his will 
 155
 
 And, failing, slew La Rouse of jealousy, 
 
 But not in my apartments. I must swear 
 
 La Rouse was not with me. That will not do. 
 
 Curse him, they will not doubt his word. Fie, 
 
 fie! 
 
 Cannot I weave a better lie than this ? 
 'Tis odd I have not seen the boy to-day. 
 What if he have gone mad that would not be 
 So strange or in a melancholy fit, 
 Such as he often sullens with for trifles, 
 Have wandered from the court ? Why, there's some 
 
 hope. 
 
 If he but make no entrance in the scene 
 That's on this morning then let him come back ! 
 But, Peredure, it will be to thy Ah, 
 
 [Enter PUBLIUS.] 
 
 The ambassador ! Good morrow, Publius ! 
 
 PUBLIUS. My duty to your Majesty. All mor 
 rows 
 Are good when age receives the smile of beauty. 
 
 MORGAUSE. Or wisdom deigns to bow to witless 
 
 youth. 
 
 '56
 
 PUBLIUS. Your Majesty's most rancorous enemy 
 Would not accuse her of a lack of wit. 
 
 MORGAUSE. But wit and folly ever course to 
 gether. 
 
 Go to, we draw it out too thin. What think you 
 The King will say to Rome's demand to-day ? 
 
 PUBLIUS. He will refuse it. He is overbold. 
 A soldier is but a huge animal 
 Whose brawn the statesman turns to his own ends. 
 
 MORGAUSE. To underrate the foe does not aug 
 ment 
 
 Our strength before, nor glory after battle. 
 Arthur is not a horse for you to stride, 
 And Merlin, though the King not always heeds him, 
 Is shrewder than us all. 
 
 PUBLIUS. He will refuse, 
 
 Though fifty Merlins counsel. 'T is his pride 
 That thinks itself a second Julius Cssar. 
 Then, with these unforeseen domestic feuds, 
 He must do battle with enfeebled forces. 
 And Britain is once more a Roman province. 
 Where is La Rouse to-day ? 
 
 MORGAUSE. I have not seen him.
 
 PUBLIUS. Strange ! He was to communicate 
 
 with me 
 At daybreak. 
 
 MORGAUSE. The Empire's system of espionage 
 Is very perfect, is it not ? 
 
 PUBLIUS. Your Majesty, 
 
 It is my charge ; I cannot praise myself. 
 
 MORGAUSE. I fancy, were some enemy of Rome, 
 Some dangerous enemy, in a foreign court, 
 Some man who knew too much, we'll say you could 
 Remove him, I presume, with little trouble. 
 
 PUBLIUS. Were such a man in Camelot, he were 
 
 dead 
 
 Before the day were. She has some one in mind. 
 No matter ; Rome can spend a dram of hemlock 
 For such allies. 
 
 MORGAUSE. So soon as that, indeed ! 
 I see 't is well. to keep in Roman favor. 
 Then look to it that the Prince of Cameliard 
 Never appears again before the King. 
 'T is well for Rome, I tell you. We have used him 
 And now he is incensed. He has not been 
 
 About the court to-day. 
 
 158
 
 PUBLIUS. If he appear 
 
 Too quickly, he shall perish by the knife ; 
 Else, lest we wake suspicion, he must die 
 A natural death. 
 
 MORGAUSE. St ! Finger on the lips ! 
 
 [Enter MERLIN.] 
 
 PUBLIUS. Is the King near ? 
 MERLIN. He even now dismounts. 
 PUBLIUS. I must withdraw and seek my fellow- 
 legates. 
 Madam, I humbly take my leave, [apart rapidly\ I 
 
 give 
 
 The order at once [to MERLIN] and of you, sir, 
 most humbly. \Exit.} 
 
 MERLIN. I am well pleased to find the Queen of 
 
 Orkney 
 
 Does not forget her brother's interests, 
 But even spreads her fascinating snares 
 About the feet of senile enemies. 
 
 MORGAUSE. Would all of Arthur's blood were 
 but as true ! 
 
 Merlin, I fear my sister, Fay Morgana, 
 159
 
 Will set her husband and the King at odds, 
 If Rome should war upon us. 
 
 MERLIN. Fay Morgana 
 
 Would say, " My sister is not overwise ; 
 She is so shrewd she ceases to be shrewd." 
 MORGAUSE. I know my learned sister is your 
 
 pupil ; 
 I never thought to match with her in craft. 
 
 MERLIN. Craft is no craft, when craftier is at 
 
 play; 
 
 Craft and no craft and that is all I say. 
 A woman's wit is subtle but unsure. 
 
 MORGAUSE. Why do you juggle with a senseless 
 
 rhyme ? 
 
 MERLIN. So that your wits may have a tree to 
 climb. [Flourish without.} 
 
 MORGAUSE. At last, the King ! 
 
 [Enter ARTHUR, GuENEVERE, LAUNCELOT, GOD- 
 MAR, GALAHAULT, KAYE, BORS, LIONEL, EC- 
 TOR, GAWAINE, LIONORS, DAGONET, KNIGHTS, 
 LADIES, HERALDS and ATTENDANTS. Flour 
 ish. The KING and QUEEN ascend their thrones.
 
 MERLIN takes the raised seat next the King. 
 KAYE stands at the foot of the throne, attended 
 by two HERALDS.] 
 
 ARTHUR. Fair dames and damsels, greeting ! 
 My lords and gentlemen, most noble knights 
 Of the Round Table, greeting to you all ! 
 With wassail and rejoicing we return ; 
 For victory, like the reflected sun, 
 Sits flashing on our helmets. Cornwall now 
 Acknowledges our suzerainty and holds 
 His crown in feoff. This rings the curtain down 
 Upon the first act of our purposes. 
 Our Trojan race, enfeebled by dependence 
 So long upon the strong protecting swords 
 Of Rome, our cousin and erstwhile our conqueror, 
 And, that stout panoply and bond withdrawn, 
 Cleft into princedoms and conflicting states, 
 Lay, when I found it, helpless in its chaos 
 To make a head against the Saxon raids 
 Or to cast off the yoke of Roman tribute. 
 Nor needed there a foreign foe ; for when 
 Each realm within the realm would be supreme,
 
 What hinders that each lordship do the like, 
 
 Each barony, each village, each strong arm ? 
 
 Why, such a land is like a rotting corpse ; 
 
 For when that harmony and principle 
 
 Of union, which is life, is ta'en away, 
 
 And each corporeal atom works alone, 
 
 The issue is corruption. The great world 
 
 Should have one lord, as Britain has at last ; 
 
 There lies the true goal of all polity. 
 
 But we, at least, are one ; nor only Britain 
 
 But many parts of France accept our sway. 
 
 'T is fit, at such a'joyous consummation, 
 
 Wrought with such toil of statecraft and of 
 
 arms, 
 
 To deck our city like a Queen of May 
 With many-colored flags and summer garlands, 
 And make the midnight sky to mock the 
 
 dawn 
 With the red gleam of bonfires on the hills. 
 
 [Sits. Murmurs of applause^ 
 What matters in our absence have arisen 
 That need the scrutiny of the King ? Proceed. 
 
 \The heralds sound, .] 
 162
 
 KAYS. First, dread my lord, the ambassadors 
 
 from Rome. 
 ARTHUR. Let them appear. 
 
 \Flourish. Enter PUBLIUS and nine other AMBAS 
 SADORS, old men, bearing each a branch of 
 olive. They kneel before the throne.~\ 
 
 PUBLIUS. First for ourselves we do 
 
 This reverence to your Majesty, entreating 
 Lest we lose favor in your eyes, in that 
 We do a graceless office. We are but cogs 
 In the machinery of imperial Rome 
 And work our master's will. 
 
 ARTHUR. Rise, gentlemen, 
 
 And let the throne of Britain know your message. 
 
 PUBLIUS \reads\ " Lucius, the high and 
 
 mighty Emperor, 
 
 Sendeth to Arthur, King of Britain, greeting, 
 Commanding thee that thou acknowledge him 
 Thy lord, and that thou send the truage due 
 Unto the Empire, which thy father paid 
 And other heretofore thy predecessors, 
 
 As is of record. Thou, as a false rebel, 
 163
 
 Not knowing him to be thy sovereign, 
 Withholdest and retainest this just impost, 
 Contrary to the statutes and decrees, 
 Made by the noble and worthy Julius Csesar, 
 Conqueror of this realm and of the world, 
 First Emperor of Rome. If thou refuse, 
 Know thou for certain he shall make strong war 
 On thee, thy realms and lands, and shall chastise 
 Thee and thy subjects, making an ensample 
 Perpetual unto all kings and princes 
 Not to rebel against that noble empire 
 Which domineth the universal world." 
 
 A YOUNG KNIGHT. Gentlemen, shall this gray- 
 beard insolence 
 Scoff in our teeth ? 
 
 [Several of the younger knights draw their 
 swords.] 
 
 ARTHUR. Put up your swords. He dies, 
 Who touches these old men except with reverence. 
 Fie, would ye strike the herald in his office 
 Or run upon unweaponed age ? Go, tell 
 Your lord, there was a king of Britain once 
 
 Who sacked great Rome itself, despite the geese 
 164
 
 Cackled to save it. As for this demand, 
 
 I know no tribute that I owe to him, 
 
 Nor to no earthly prince, Christian nor heathen. 
 
 Say furthermore that I myself pretend 
 
 In virtue of my lineal descent 
 
 From that great Constantine who saw the Cross 
 
 Blazoned upon the sky for his device, 
 
 And conquered in that sign, who was himself 
 
 A Briton, son of Helena, our Queen, 
 
 And sprung from immemorial royalty 
 
 From him, I say, I trace my high descent, 
 
 From him I hold the sovereignty of Britain 
 
 And from him, too, the Iron Crown of Rome. 
 
 And I proclaim that Lucius wears that crown 
 
 As an usurper and a rebel, and 
 
 Demand that he and all that are of Rome 
 
 Hasten incontinent to do me homage 
 
 As their true Emperor, on pain of all 
 
 That shall ensue. For, rest you well assured, 
 
 If I invade Italia with my chivalry, 
 
 The legioned arms of Rome shall stead you little. 
 
 This is my answer. But do not for this 
 
 Yourselves be too impetuous of return. 
 
 i6 S
 
 Abide some days in Camelot, my lords; 
 We shall afford you merry entertainment. 
 
 PUBLIUS. Your declaration puts the world at war; 
 We may not dally in a hostile court. 
 
 [Exit, with AMBASSADORS.] 
 
 KAYE \aparf\. My lord, I would have warned 
 
 you of the next ; 
 
 But I could get no audience in the press. 
 [Aloud, reading.] " Sir Ladinas de la Rouse, a lord 
 
 of France, 
 
 And Knight of the Round Table, doth impeach 
 Guenevere, Queen of Britain, Sovran Lady 
 Of the most Knightly and Christian Fellowship 
 Of the Round Table, et cetera, of treason 
 To the most gracious person of the King 
 And to the safety of the realm, in living 
 In shameless license with Sir Launcelot. 
 Also he doth impeach for the same cause 
 Sir Launcelot du Lac, the son of Ban, 
 Lord of the land of Benwick and the castle 
 Of Joyous Card. This charge he undertakes 
 To prove by evidence irrefragable, 
 Or else to meet Sir Launcelot in the lists 
 
 1 66
 
 And whatsoever Knight beside appear 
 To champion the quarrel of the Queen. 
 In pledge whereof he offers to the King 
 The disposition of his life and lands." 
 
 [Profound silence,"} 
 LAUNCELOT. This is a grievous charge to make. 
 
 But why 
 
 Comes not the knight according to his bond, 
 That I may prove his lie upon his head ? 
 
 MORGAUSE. Because he has been treacherously 
 
 murdered 
 
 Therefore he comes not, thou dishonored knight ! 
 KAYE. Murdered ? 
 
 MORGAUSE. Ay, murdered by Prince Peredure, 
 The brother of the Queen ! A strange concur 
 rence ! 
 MERLIN. How comes it, lady, that you know so 
 
 much ? 
 
 Did Dagonet tell you or Sir Bors ? They only, 
 Except myself, have known of this. Be careful; 
 With too much knowledge you undo yourself. 
 ARTHUR. Enough ! 'T is well, perhaps, that he 
 
 is dead ; 
 
 167
 
 Else this preposterous charge might not be passed 
 Unquestioned and unpunished. Is aught else ? 
 
 MORGAUSE. Oh, not so fast, my royal brother! 
 
 La Rouse 
 
 Cannot break through his coffin to sustain 
 His righteous accusation; but I take 
 That burden on myself. I shall demand 
 Bors de Ganys, the Lady Lionors 
 You should believe her, she was never false 
 To you Prince Galahault, who knows full well 
 What he is loth to answer, Lynette, Laurel, 
 Dagonet, some others after, to bear witness. 
 It is the common rumor of the palace. 
 You cannot honorably, with that respect 
 You owe the knights and ladies of your court, 
 Allow yourself so shamelessly to be 
 Misused and made a jest of. I myself 
 Have seen Sir Launcelot and the Queen together 
 When they conceited they were unperceived. 
 It was but now I 
 
 ARTHUR. Silence! One word more 
 
 And, royal and our sister though you be, 
 Your womanhood shall be your shield no longer 
 
 168
 
 Too much already have we suffered you 
 To play the spy and weave your deft intrigues 
 About our footing. Now our slackness ends. 
 We banish you the court. Go, get you ready 1 
 Sir Kaye will see that, ere the sun is set, 
 You are far hence in some sequestered castle, 
 Where you shall have all honor, ceremony, 
 And revenues appropriate to your state, 
 But nevermore be seen at Camelot ! 
 
 MORGAUSE. Why, be a fool, then, and a wittol, 
 
 do! 
 And while you play the rogue in others' couches, 
 
 As you are celebrated for that sport, 
 Your dearest friend shall get the realm its heir. 
 God punishes your wantonness right fitly, 
 You prince of lechers and of perjurers ! 
 
 You, flower of chivalry ! Ay, for chivalry 
 Means truth to men, if they are stout enough, 
 And flattering falsehood to a woman's ear. 
 Murder and lust are the two spurs of knighthood, 
 Which stains a Lionors and stabs La Rouse ! 
 
 Proud harlot, I shall see your downfall yet. 
 
 {Exit, followed by KAYE . ] 
 169
 
 ARTHUR. My Launcelot, sit thou by my Queen. 
 
 My lords, 
 
 This is my friend through good or ill report 
 My friend. Who injures him by word or deed, 
 Were it but the thin filnl of an idle breath 
 Clouding the clear glass of his stainless soul, 
 He injures me ; and but that I am King 
 And may not, being the State more than myself, 
 Joust like a simple knight, and but that he, 
 Our stoutest arm as our most knightly heart, 
 Needs not my lance to right him, I would slay 
 With mine own hands the knave that did him 
 
 wrong. 
 
 [Turns to GUENEVERE, who rises.'] 
 And thou, my noble Queen ! If that I ever 
 By so much as the sullying of a thought 
 Dimmed the bright clarity of thine imaged whiteness 
 Within my soul, may Christ remember it 
 Against me at the Judgment ! 
 [Advances and kisses her, then turns to the others. ~\ 
 
 Good my lords, 
 Erase this most unnecessary scene 
 
 From your remembrance. 
 
 170
 
 LAUNCELOT \_half aside, partly to GUENEVERE 
 and partly to himself]. Be less kingly, Arthur, 
 Or you will split my heart ! not with remorse 
 No, not remorse, only eternal pain ! 
 Why, so the damned are 1 
 
 GUENEVERE \Jtalf apart~\. To the souls in hell 
 It is at least permitted to cry out. 
 
 CURTAIN.
 
 Launcelot ^ Guenevere 
 
 A Poem in Dramas ^RICHARD HOVEY 
 
 I. The QUEST of MERLIN. A Masque. 
 
 $1.25 net. 
 
 "The Quest of Merlin " shows indisputable talent and in 
 disputable metrical faculty. The Athenaum, London. 
 
 Whatever else may be said of this work, it cannot be denied 
 that the singer is master of the technique of his art ; that for 
 him our stubborn English tongue becomes fluent and musical. 
 . . . Underlying all these evidences of artistic skill is a deeper 
 intent, revealing in part the poet's philosophy of being. ... 
 Washington Post. 
 
 " The Quest of Merlin " has all the mystery and exquisite 
 delicateness of a midsummer night's dream. Washington 
 Republic. 
 
 II. The MARRIAGE of GUENEVERE. A 
 
 Tragedy. $1.25 net. 
 
 It requires the possession of some remarkable qualities in 
 Mr. Richard Hovey to impel me to draw attention to this 
 " poem in dramas " which comes to us from America. . . . The 
 volume shows powers of a very unusual quality, clearness 
 and vividness of characterization, capacity of seeing, and, by a 
 few happy touches, making us see, ease and inevitableness of 
 blank verse, free alike from convolution and monotony. . . . 
 If he has caught here and there the echo of other voices, his 
 own is clear and full-throated, vibrating with passionate sensi 
 bility. HAMILTON AIDE, in The Nineteenth Century, London. 
 
 There are few young poets who start so well as Mr. Richard 
 Hovey. He has the freest lilt of any of the younger Ameri 
 cans. WILLIAM SHARP, in The Academy, London. 
 
 The strength and flexibility of the verse are a heritage from 
 the Elizabethans, yet plainly stamped with Mr. Hovey's indi 
 viduality. CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS, in The Bookbuyer. 
 
 For sale at all Bookstores, or sent postpaid by the publishers 
 
 DUFFIELD &? COMPANY-NEW YORK.
 
 Launcelot <jf Guenevere 
 
 A Poem in Dramas by RICHARD HOVEY 
 
 III. The BIRTH of GALAHAD. A Roman 
 
 tic Drama. $1.25 net, 
 
 "The Birth of Galahad" is the finest of the trilogy, both in 
 sustained strength of the poetry and in dramatic unity. 
 GEORGE HAMLIN FITCH, in San Francisco Chronicle. 
 
 It is written with notable power, showing a strong dramatic 
 understanding and a clear dramatic instinct. Mr. Hovey took 
 his risk when he boldly entered Tennyson's close, but we can 
 not see that he suffers. The Independent, New York. 
 
 Richard Hovey ... must at least be called a true and re 
 markable poet in his field. He can not only say things in a 
 masterly manner, but he has something impressive to say. . . . 
 Nothing modern since the appearance of Swinburne's "Ata- 
 lanta in Calydon " surpasses them [these dramas] in virility 
 and classical clearness and perfection of thought. JOEL 
 BENTON, in The New York Times Saturday Review. 
 
 IV. TALIESIN. A Masque. $1.25 net. 
 
 " Taliesin " is a poet's poem. As a part of the " Poem in 
 Dramas," it introduces the second trilogy, and prefigures " The 
 Quest of the Graal." It is in many ways the author's highest 
 achievement. It is the greatest study of rhythm we have in 
 English. It is the greatest poetic study that we have of the 
 artist's relation to life, and of his development. And it is a 
 significant study of life itself in its highest aspiration. 
 CURTIS HIDDEN PAGE, in The Bookman. 
 
 No living poet whose mother-tongue is English has written 
 finer things than are scattered' through " Taliesin." RICHARD 
 HENRY STODDARD, in The Mail and Express, New York. 
 
 It is sheer poetry or it is nothing, the proof of an ear and a 
 voice wjiich it seeme ill to have lost just at the moment of 
 their complete training. In his death there is no doubt that 
 America has lost one of her best equipped lyrical and dra 
 matic poets. EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN, in An Amer 
 ican Anthology. 
 
 For sale at all Bookstores^ or sent postpaid by the publishers 
 
 DUFFIELD fcf COMPANY-NEW YORK
 
 Launcelot ? Guenevere 
 
 A Poem in Dramas by RICHARD HOVEY 
 
 V. The HOLY GRAAL. Fragments of the Five 
 Unfinished Dramas of the Launcelot & 
 Guenevere Series* $1.25 net. 
 
 It had been Mr. Hovey's intention to complete his notable 
 Arthurian Series in nine dramas, of which only four had been 
 published at the time of his death. He left fragmentary por 
 tions in manuscript of all the remaining five, and these frag 
 ments have been edited and arranged, with notes, by his widow, 
 as the only possible attempt toward completion of this match 
 less monument of American verse. 
 
 ALONG THE TRAIL 
 
 A Book of Lyrics by RICHARD HOVEY 
 
 i6mo, brown cloth, gold cover decoration by Bertram Gros- 
 venor Goodhue. $1.25 net. 
 
 Richard Hovey has made a definite place for himself among 
 the poets of to-day. This little volume illustrates all his good 
 qualities of sincerity, fervor, and lyric grace. He sings the 
 songs of the open air, of battle and comradeship, of love, and 
 of country, and they are all songs well sung. In addition, 
 his work is distinguished by a fine masculine optimism that is 
 all too rare in the poetry of the younger generation. Satur 
 day Evening Post, Philadelphia. 
 
 As a whole it stands the most searching test you read it 
 again and again with constantly increasing pleasure, satisfac 
 tion, and admiration. Boston Herald. 
 
 Mr. Hovey has the full technical equipment of the poet, and 
 he has a poet's personality to express, a personality new and 
 fresh, healthy and joyous, manly, vigorous, earnest. Added 
 to this he has the dramatic power which is essential to a broad 
 poetic endowment. He is master of his art and master of life. 
 He is the poet of joy and belief in life. He is the poet of 
 comradeship and courage. CURTIS HIDDEN PAGE, in The 
 Bookman, 
 
 For sale at all Bookstores, or sent postpaid by the publishers 
 
 DUFFIELD &f COMPANY -NEW YORK
 
 I. Songs from Vagabondia 
 II. More Songs from Vagabondia 
 III. Last Songs from Vagabondia 
 
 By BLISS CARMAN W RICHARD HOVEY 
 
 Size 4^ x 7 inches ; pages, 75 (approx.) per 
 vol.; binding, paper boards; price, $1.00 
 per vol. ; sold separately. 
 
 "Hail to the poets I Good poets I Real poets! . . . They 
 are the free, untrammelled songs of men who sing because 
 their hearts are full of music ; and they have their own way of 
 singing, too. These songs ought to go singing themselves into 
 every library from Denver to both seas, for they are good to 
 know. There is not one line that was made in the sweat of 
 the brow, and so the book goes dancing and singing in words, 
 and here and there sounding the deeper note that always fills 
 out the sweet harmony of a poet's thought." New York Times. 
 
 A NEW HOLIDAY EDITION 
 
 OF THE THREE SERIES OF 
 
 SONGS FROM VAGABONDIA 
 
 This edition is printed on a fine English paper, with 
 decorative end-papers by Tom B. Meteyard, and is bound 
 in special rough-finished olive brown calfskin, with gilt 
 top and untrimmed edges, and with side and back stamps 
 in gold. It is sold only in boxed sets of three volumes. 
 
 Price, $3.00 net per set, by post $3.10. 
 
 For sale by all Booksellers, or sent postpaid by the publishers 
 
 SMALL, MAYNARD^ff COMPANY -BOSTON
 
 This book U DUE on the last
 
 3 1158 01071 0993 
 
 PS 
 2007 
 
 1909 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A A 000023864 2
 
 Un