Then Mark was half in heart to hurl his cup Straight at the speaker, but forbore: he rose To leave the hall, and, Vivien following him, Turned to her: “Here are snakes within the grass; And you methinks, O Vivien, save ye fear The monkish manhood, and the mask of pure Worn by this court, can stir them till they sting.” And Vivien answered, smiling scornfully, “Why fear? because that fostered at thy court I savour of thy—virtues? fear them? no. As Love, if Love is perfect, casts out fear, So Hate, if Hate is perfect, casts out fear. My father died in battle against the King, My mother on his corpse in open field; She bore me there, for born from death was I Among the dead and sown upon the wind— And then on thee! and shown the truth betimes, That old true filth, and bottom of the well Where Truth is hidden. Gracious lessons thine And maxims of the mud! ‘This Arthur pure! Great Nature through the flesh herself hath made Gives him the lie! There is no being pure, My cherub; saith not Holy Writ the same?’— If I were Arthur, I would have thy blood. Thy blessing, stainless King! I bring thee back, When I have ferreted out their burrowings, The hearts of all this Order in mine hand— Ay—so that fate and craft and folly close, Perchance, one curl of Arthur’s golden beard. To me this narrow grizzled fork of thine Is cleaner-fashioned—Well, I loved thee first, That warps the wit.” Loud laughed the graceless Mark, But Vivien, into Camelot stealing, lodged Low in the city, and on a festal day When Guinevere was crossing the great hall Cast herself down, knelt to the Queen, and wailed. “Why kneel ye there? What evil hath ye wrought? Rise!” and the damsel bidden rise arose And stood with folded hands and downward eyes Of glancing corner, and all meekly said, “None wrought, but suffered much, an orphan maid! My father died in battle for thy King, My mother on his corpse—in open field, The sad sea-sounding wastes of Lyonnesse— Poor wretch—no friend!—and now by Mark the King For that small charm of feature mine, pursued— If any such be mine—I fly to thee. Save, save me thou—Woman of women—thine The wreath of beauty, thine the crown of power, Be thine the balm of pity, O Heaven’s own white Earth-angel, stainless bride of stainless King— Help, for he follows! take me to thyself! O yield me shelter for mine innocency Among thy maidens!