It breaks free Where it is bound. Bound, and breaks free! Think you That other women can love like to this? LAUNCELOT Doubt it not. ARTHUR Even to death? LAUNCELOT Even to death. (_A pause, each thinking his own thoughts._) ARTHUR It is as if a flame had leapt from her And stung me in the brain. Lives such a world of fire in Guenevere And I have never known it? She is smiling, yet she suffered even to death. Heart of a woman! Is a realm so strong, Armies, or battlements? Is faith? Is justice? LAUNCELOT I pray you let me go apart awhile For I am charged with a burial. ARTHUR (_with a change of tone_) Be it so, There’s something hidden from me. Why that clamour And then the silence when I came among them? (_Going away, he turns_) Launcelot, I have trusted you. LAUNCELOT My King, Trust me still. [ARTHUR _goes out_. There’s no end now but exile, I must hence, Back with to-morrow’s dawn to my own land, To Brittany. (_He motions to the steersman, and steps into the barge._) Steer down the stream, and I Will bring you to that place Where this must leave the light. Have mercy, Jesu, on that wounded heart! Give me a soul so constant, flight so straight! Some angel of compassion bear her now Where innocence may haven, far from me! Steer on! (_The barge passes down stream._) FIFTH SCENE _The_ QUEEN’S _tower. Night. At the back a bolted door. At one side a prie-dieu, with a footstool before it. A single lamp burning on a tripod._ GUENEVERE _stands by a window, holding the curtain and peering out_. GUENEVERE It has not moved.... It’s nothing; fancy’s fever, That shapes the shadows into forms of fear! And yet there is a shadow among those shadows, And I could swear that shadow had human eyes, Watching. It stirs not. Is it a tree-stem Gives body to the dark? No tree was there. (_She drops the curtain._) Can someone have found out the secret way And even now be spying on Launcelot? Pray Heaven he comes not! Why is the air so still With such a mortal stillness? There’s the owl again, crying, and there again! As if it knew the secret of the night And called me warning notes. Was that a step? I am all imagination and sick scares; And that dead face returns, ever returns-- Elaine’s face, smiling cold upon her bier. She burnt her very heart out. Yet her face Had peace on it, and joy! Dead! Did she love Better than I? (_She looks out again._) It has not moved. It must be fear’s invention. (_She throws herself before the Virgin’s image._)