Blood for blood! I will believe all evil of him now, I am with you now, my King, and he shall die. My brothers! (_Sinking down._) _A_ MESSENGER _enters hurriedly_. MESSENGER My lord, the King! ARTHUR What, more? Worse cannot be. MESSENGER Sir Mordred! ARTHUR Speak! MESSENGER He is fled. ARTHUR He, too! How fled? GAWAINE Who recks of Mordred! Drop him down the wind To his own hell. But Launcelot that I loved Has slain my brothers. Death to Launcelot! ARTHUR Sir Mordred? MESSENGER He has flown and taken all His following with him; armed; an army! ARTHUR So, He has shot his shaft and left it in the wound. MESSENGER My lord, the word goes openly about Sir Mordred’s leagued with rebels in the West. They have summoned him to head them, and revolt Against your crown and kingdom. ARTHUR Gawaine, hear! GAWAINE I hear. But it’s from Launcelot I’ll have Most bitter satisfaction. ARTHUR Northward now! Summon my knights about me in the hall. [_Exit_ MESSENGER. Send a strong force on Mordred’s heels to hold The traitor back. Ourselves will swiftly ride To take the Queen from Launcelot. Day is come, And friends are friends and foes are foes at last. [_Exeunt._ SEVENTH SCENE _The_ KING’S _Camp before Joyous Gard. Stormy weather. Black skies against which the earth shows up white and livid. The towers of the Castle appear above rising ground._ BEDIVERE Black skies! LUCAN God’s anger. BEDIVERE How shall this end? Saw you the King? LUCAN But now he passed into his tent, slowly, with head dejected. His heart is weary of this war. BEDIVERE Sick and sated. The heavy clouds seem to fall on us. One would say that all the tempests of the world had gathered in that storm, which soon will break about us. LUCAN There’s something monstrous in the season, a curse and an infection. Storm after storm! The corn rots unripened, there’s mildew in the orchards. BEDIVERE And here, unnatural strife. Arthur and the brother of his heart. LUCAN And the Queen betwixt them, like some baleful star. BEDIVERE And Gawaine mad with hate. LUCAN How long is it since we have besieged this Joyous Gard of Launcelot’s? BEDIVERE I cannot count the days. LUCAN This quarrel fills all Christendom. Men say the noise of it goes over the seas even to Rome. Were it not for Gawaine, the King, I think, would make his peace, and Launcelot deliver up his Queen to him. BEDIVERE Not while the King is fixed to bring the Queen to judgment. To that Launcelot will never yield. So stands our wrestle in a deadlock; meanwhile this dear realm splits in two. LUCAN And Mordred! BEDIVERE