ARTHUR, King of Britain.
MERLIN, his Counsellor.

Knights of the Round Table:
GODMAR, the Lord Marshal,
LAUNCELOT DU LAC,
ECTOR DE MARIS, Brother of Launcelot,
LIONEL, and BORS DE GANYS, Cousins of Launcelot
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.

Scene.--Britain.
Time.--May and June.

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 Cameliard, which are seen hazily in the distance. A group of Knights, seated in the foreground under a large oak tree, have just ended their repast 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 I 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,
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 thatn 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 Lancelot.
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 will 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 Orkney--
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!
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!

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
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 bridegroom came not. Therefore
Set on with us to Cameliard. To-morrow
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 LANCELOT, 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 bramble
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 thereupon,
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.

BORS. 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 window 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 odours 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,
unperceived.]

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 eavesdropper,
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,
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 Cæsar'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
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 himself?

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. [rises]. 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.]

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 wedding 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 contradiction, but that comes after the wedding. So no more jests from me, my lady, till you have done with eating 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.

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 reduced 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,
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 wish 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 is 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."
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
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 palfrey 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
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 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.
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
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 laughts 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
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 your 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?
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--?

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 cannot 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.

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 should ne'er 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 of Orkney?
The wife of Lot?

PEREDURE.     Ay, Guenevere, even so--
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!
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--

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 to 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! For me, 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 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,
I fell a-dreaming, I 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.
                 Kiss!
Ah sweet, what joy in 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, Gawaine?

GAWAINE. Enough to know that it is a silly song, my mother.

MORGAUSE. Are you but sixteen and know love already?

[Enter PUBLIUS and LADINAS.]

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.

GAWAINE [apart to LIONORS.] I'll pay that 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.

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 spectators.]

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
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!

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.

[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 not done these great deeds; ergo you must have done them with me. Now see what it is to be modest; 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.
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 captive 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 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 possible
That I betray the King?

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.

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.

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.
--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.

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.]

                                                                       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,
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.

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 confusèd murmur in my brain
Like the vague undertone of many bees.
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,
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.

GUENEVERE. How strangely are the threads of life inwoven!--
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 damosel
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 better
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,
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 woe.
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 off.]

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 GALAHAULT'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.

GALAHAULT. 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 valourous,
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,
How 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?
--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 ever 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,
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. LIONORS and BORRE.

BORRE. Mamma, I like to talk to you about Gawaine.

LIONORS. Why, darling?

BORRE.              Because you hold me close to you,
And kiss me so.

LIONORS.       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.

LIONORS. [kissing him]. 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.

BORRE. Oh, please, mamma, please tell it!

LIONORS.                                                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.]

[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.
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,
That Cæsar'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.

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 painèd heart.

PEREDURE. Lend my 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.
 
               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?
...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
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 unfortunate.

PEREDURE. And dost thou love, then, too?

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.
--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 kingdom.

SECOND WATCHMAN. Not a doubt of that!

THIRD WATCHMAN. Our King be a powerful fighter.

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 blacksmith may have muscle in his arm, as well as a king.

FIRST WATCHMAN. Ah, there you goes a-supposing. 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 everything, though I will not deny that he can say mass quicker than any priest in Camelot. The Pope cannot touch the King except in the way of cursing, and it's not likely the Holy Father would curse anybody--unless he were mightily provoked.

SECOND WATCHMAN. That's true, neighbor.

FIRST WATCHMAN. The King is the head in things temporary, and the Pope in things spirituous.

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, the 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 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.

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 benefactors 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 Howell'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 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
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 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 Highness 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 Cæsar 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?

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 Flibbertigibbet. 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 jesting 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 delivered 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 bewitched; 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 sympathy 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