Bedivere, take you twenty of my knights And ride to Amesbury. Guard you well the Queen; Let no least harm befall her on the way, No trouble: bear her company till you find Those doors that she will enter. For she vows Her days to the nun’s cloister and small cell, And to that peace which the world gives not. BEDIVERE Sir, We are honoured having so noble a charge laid on us. We shall do all your bidding. ARTHUR Set you forth. Farewell, until the last farewell of all! (GUENEVERE _passes out, escorted by_ BEDIVERE _and Knights_. ARTHUR _is left alone standing in the solemn light of sunset. He breaks out into a cry._) Launcelot, Launcelot! Guenevere, Guenevere! EIGHTH SCENE _The Nunnery at Amesbury._ GUENEVERE _is discovered lying prostrate on the stone steps_. _A nun_, LYNNED, _enters and lifts her up as she speaks to her_. LYNNED Queen, the day calls us; cling not to the night, The stone, the silence. There is flesh and blood Of your own people, threatened and afraid, That calls on you. Though you have cast the robe Of royalty for this (_touching her nun’s garment_), the queenly heart Has room for other sorrow than its own-- So cold, my sister? Feel within my arms, Feel in my bosom the warm running blood That neighbours yours. GUENEVERE I am wearied, wearied out. I would forget, and cannot. My heart’s numbed With aching like my body. I thought that in these walls there should be peace. Tell me, for you have eyes that understand And seem to suffer, tell me the truth, Sister. I know that it is sinful to remember, And yet, is it not treason to forget? LYNNED Grief can grow dear--do I not know it?--grief Can grow too dear. The heart that loses all Must still give all. GUENEVERE Take not my grief from me, Or there is nothing left to me on earth. LYNNED Nay, grief shall change and grow beyond itself. There’s one now at the gate must speak with you. GUENEVERE Send him away. LYNNED I cannot. GUENEVERE Who is he That seeks me? There was one who used to come To me, always, before he rode to battle. His name was Launcelot. That was long ago. I was a Queen then. I have died since then. It is not Launcelot! Leave me then in peace. LYNNED Alas, even here within this cloister wall Is no peace any longer, but all round Imminent tempest, ripe to burst on us, Sir Mordred with his host in rebel arms, Thrice swollen in number, threatens ever nearer. Out of the West he thrusts. This very day May see the issue. Never did the swarm Of Saxon heathen press the King so hard. GUENEVERE Who else could seek me now? Is it the King? LYNNED