“I saw him make on Mordred with his spear, And crying ‘Tide me death, betide me life, He shall not live, that wrought the accursed thing,’ Put a dread ending to the outworn strife. I saw them fall together, and, drawn near. Knew that the King was wounded unto death. “Then as he drew with growing pain his breath I looked, and saw a long, black barge that stole Across the waters, like a wandering soul Returnèd from the woeful realm, to view The ancient haunts well-loved that once it knew. And when it touched the shallows I did bear The dying Arthur as he bade, and there I placed him ’mid dark forms: I could not tell Whose they might be; and wept, and breathed farewell.” Then spake the eremite: “Beyond yon door There stands a chapel, ancient and weatherworn, And there did worship in the days of yore The sons of kings. The night ere you came hither I was awakened by the sound of feet. And I looked forth, and saw a body borne By veilèd figures straight, as they knew whither, In at the chapel gateway. I went down And found that they had digged a grave, most meet For one of saintly life, or king by birth: They seemed some score, and by blown candles’ light I saw that each with tears bedewed his gown Ere sank the corse into the waiting earth, Then prayed, and so went out into the night.” Thereon the twain arose, and went straightway Toward the old, dim chapel, and beheld The stone beneath whose length the body lay: Kneeling they closely scanned it all, and spelled Graven in golden character, _“Arcturus_ _Rex Quondamque Futurus.”_ Quoth Bedivere: “Thank God this voice remaineth unto us; Now I do mind me of a prophecy Spoken long since in some emblazoned year, How Arthur should escape mortality And lie beneath the hills, in cavern deep Or on some shore, where faery seas do break: Around him all his warriors shall sleep, Who at a great bell’s sounding shall awake What time th’ old enemy spreads death and harm Thorough his ancient realm, and the last woes Go over her; his own victorious arm Shall rid the stricken land of hate and foes.” So leave we them, each head inaureoled With the awakening spring’s young sunlight-gold. Then, on an evening, hurrying footsteps rung Without the door, and straight ’twas open flung, They saw who stood therein, and each one knew The face unspared by years and strife and shame, Pale as the moon is pale on winter nights, With deep eyes dreaming like September haze, Or lit with lust of battle, eyes that few Had looked on and forgot; in such wise came Lancelot, the hero of immortal fights, Lancelot, the golden knight of golden days. “Whence cam’st thou, Lancelot?” “Even from the Queen, The Queen that was, whom now a convent’s shade Imprisons, and a dark and tristful veil Enwraps those brows, that in old days were seen Most puissant proud of all that ever made The traitor honest, and the valorous frail.