_Aibric._ Why do you need a sword? But you may keep it, Now that he’s dead I have no need of it, For everything is gone. _A Sailor_ [_calling from the other ship_]. Come hither, Aibric, And tell me who it is that we are waking. _Aibric_ [_half to DECTORA, half to himself_]. What name had that dead king? Arthur of Britain? No, no—not Arthur. I remember now. It was golden-armed Iollan, and he died Brokenhearted, having lost his queen Through wicked spells. That is not all the tale, For he was killed. O! O! O! O! O! O! For golden-armed Iollan has been killed. [_He goes out. While he has been speaking, and through part of what follows, one hears the singing of the SAILORS from the other ship. DECTORA stands with the sword lifted in front of FORGAEL. He changes the tune._ _Dectora._ I will end all your magic on the instant. [_Her voice becomes dreamy, and she lowers the sword slowly, and finally lets it fall. She spreads out her hair. She takes off her crown and lays it upon the deck._ The sword is to lie beside him in the grave. It was in all his battles. I will spread my hair, And wring my hands, and wail him bitterly, For I have heard that he was proud and laughing, Blue-eyed, and a quick runner on bare feet, And that he died a thousand years ago. O! O! O! [_FORGAEL changes the tune._] But no, that is not it. I knew him well, and while I heard him laughing They killed him at my feet. O! O! O! O! For golden-armed Iollan that I loved. But what is it that made me say I loved him? It was that harper put it in my thoughts, But it is true. Why did they run upon him, And beat the golden helmet with their swords? _Forgael._ Do you not know me, lady? I am he That you are weeping for. _Dectora._ No, for he is dead. O! O! O! for golden-armed Iollan. _Forgael._ It was so given out, but I will prove That the grave-diggers in a dreamy frenzy Have buried nothing but my golden arms. Listen to that low-laughing string of the moon And you will recollect my face and voice, For you have listened to me playing it These thousand years. [_He starts up, listening to the birds. The harp slips from his hands, and remains leaning against the bulwarks behind him._ What are the birds at there? Why are they all a-flutter of a sudden? What are you calling out above the mast? If railing and reproach and mockery Because I have awakened her to love By magic strings, I’ll make this answer to it: Being driven on by voices and by dreams That were clear messages from the ever-living, I have done right. What could I but obey? And yet you make a clamour of reproach. _Dectora_ [_laughing_]. Why, it’s a wonder out of reckoning That I should keen him from the full of the moon To the horn, and he be hale and hearty.