Thy speech breaks Against the interruption of my lips Like the low laughter of a summer brook Over perpetual pebbles. But when the crisis of the play is reached, when the court is rife with rumors of the Queen’s disloyalty, and Lancelot and Guinevere, under imminent shadow of exposure, meet by chance in the throne room,—there is drawn a vital, moving picture, one whose art lies in revealing the swift transition from impulse to impulse through which one passes when making great decisions. First, the high light is thrown upon the stronger side of Guinevere, in such meditative passages as these, tinged with a melancholy beauty: We have had a radiant dream; we have beheld The trellises and temples of the South, And wandered in the vineyards of the Sun:— ’Tis morning now; the vision fades away And we must face the barren norland hills. _Lancelot._ And must this be? _Guinevere._ Nay, Lancelot, it is. How shall we stand alone against the world? _Lancelot._ More lonely in it than against! What’s the world to us? _Guinevere._ The place in which we live. We cannot slip it from us like a garment, For it is like the air—if we should flee To the remotest steppes of Tartary, Arabia, or the sources of the Nile,— It still is there, nor can it be eluded Save in the airless emptiness of death. And fortressed with resolve, she speaks of war, of rending the kingdom, of violating friendships, of desecrating the family bond, to all of which Lancelot opposes his own desires: And I— I, too, defend it when it _is_ a family, As I would kneel before the sacred Host When through the still aisles sounds the sacring bell; But if a jester strutted through the forms And turned the holy Mass into a mock, Would I still kneel, or would I rise in anger And make an end of that foul mimicry? This but adds strength to Guinevere’s argument, Believest thou, then, the power of the Church? The Church would give our love an ugly name. _Lancelot._ Faith, I believe, and I do not believe. The shocks of life oft startle us to thought, Rouse us from acquiescence and reveal That what we took for credence was but custom. _Guinevere._ You are Arthur’s friend, your love— Stands this within the honor of your friendship? _Lancelot._ Mother of God—have you no pity? _Guinevere._ I would I could be pitiful, and yet do right. Alas, how heavy—your tears move me more Than all—(what am I saying? Dare I trust So faint a heart? I must make turning back Impossible); and with a final resolve she adds: But know the worst! I jested— I—God!—I do not love you. Go! ’Twas all Mockery—wanton cruelty—what you will—lechery!— I— (_Lancelot looks at her dumbly, then slowly turns to go. As he draws aside the curtain of the doorway_—) _Guinevere._ Lancelot! _Lancelot._ What does the Queen desire?