"Modred." The voice was toneless, husky, and without spirit. "Sire." "Ah, these waking moments. It had been better if you had let me rot in Gambrevault." "Courage, sire, you wake to a better fortune." "There is new life in your voice." "The King has come at last." The man on the heather raised himself upon one elbow. His face looked grey and starved in the half gloom of the cave. He lifted up one hand with a gesture of joy. "The King!" Modred of the black beard smiled at him like a father. His hands trembled as he put the man back gently on the heather, and smoothed the coverlet. "Lie still, sire." "Ah, this is life, once more." "Patience, patience. Let us have no woman’s moods, no raptures. Ha, I am a tyrannous dog. Did I drag you for dead out of Gambrevault to let you break your heart over Richard of Lauretia! Lie quiet, sire; you have no strength to gamble with as yet." The man on the heather reached out again for Modred’s hand. "The rough dog should have been born a woman," he said to him. Modred laughed. "There is a great heart under that hairy chest of yours." The moist mutterings of the sea came up to them from the rocky shore beneath. Clouds in white masses pressed athwart the arch of day. Modred, seated on a boulder beside the bed, eyed the prostrate figure thereon with a gaunt and tender pity. He was a stark man and strenuous, yet warm of heart for all his bull’s strength and steely sinew. Youth lay at his feet, thin and impotent, a white willow wand quivering beside a black and knotty oak. Modred rose up and stood by the opening of the cave, his broad shoulders well-nigh filling the entry as he looked out over the sea. Far over the amethystine waters, a hundred pearl-white sails glimmered beyond the cliffs of Gambrevault. The sun smote on gilded prow and blazoned bulwark, and upon a thousand streamers tonguing to the breeze. Modred stretched out his great arms and smiled, a grim shimmer of joy over his ruffian’s face. Standing at the mouth of the cave, he began to speak to the man couched in the inner gloom. "Yonder, beyond Gambrevault," he said, "I see a hundred sails treading towards us over the sea. They are the King’s ships: God cherish them; their bulwarks gleam in the sun." Flavian twisted restlessly amid the heather. "A grand sight, old friend." Modred stood silent, fingering his chin. His voice broke forth again with a bluff exultation that seemed to echo the roar of the waves. "St. Philip, that is well." "More ships?" "Nay, sire, they raise the royal banner on the keep of Gambrevault. I see spears shine. Listen to the shouting. The King’s men hold the headland." This time the voice from the cave was less eager, and tinged with pain. "Modred, old friend, I lie here like a stone while the trumpets call to me." "Sire, say not so." "Ah, for an hour’s youth again, one day in the sun, one moment under the moon." "Sire, I would change with you if God would grant it me."