Knights, gentlemen, ladies, soldiers, herdsmen, messengers and pages. MORDRED. ACT. I. SCENE I.--_A Hermitage in the Woods._ _Enter_ ARTHUR, LAUNCELOT _and other_ Knights. _Launcelot._ Here is a place of prayer, we will alight, And rest a space and think us of our sins. _Arthur._ Launcelot, and were I shrived and clean Half hell itself were loosened of its pains. _Launcelot._ Arthur, friend and lover of my youth, Could’st thou but throw this black mood from thee now, And get a sweeter hope into thy soul, Drive out the horrid phantoms of the past, And it were hope for Britain. Well thou knowest Men look to thee to succor this poor land Enrent by inward brawls and foreign hordes, Whose fields untilled, and vanished the smoke of homes. It hath been said that thou would’st raise once more Out of these ruins a kingdom whose great fame Would ring for ages down the days of earth, And be a glory in men’s hearts forever. [_Passes to the left._ _Arthur._ Launcelot, well know I thy love for Arthur. ’Tis thy sweet, manly kinship of the heart, Opening thy spirit’s windows toward the sun, Hath made my dark days lighter. Would that I Had kept me holy, innocent as thee. I might in kinder fate have made this land A place where holiness and peace might dwell, And such a white and lofty honor held Before men’s eyes, that all the world would come And worship manhood’s beauty freed from sin. Such dreams have haunted me from my first youth, In fitful slumbers or long marching hours. These lonesome lofty vigils of the heart Have made men deem me colder. ’Tis my sin! Oh Launcelot I am blacker than thou knowest! [_Exit_ LAUNCELOT. _Enter_ HERMIT. _Hermit._ And comest thou, my son, for Church’s grace? _Arthur._ I come here, Father, for to have me shrived. [_Kneels._ _Hermit._ Then thou art shriven, such a noble face Could never harbor evil in its grace. [_Lifts his hands in blessing._ _Arthur._ Stay holy Hermit, fair trees rot at heart, And I am evil if this world holds ill. I would lay bare my soul of its foul sin, And if there be white shrift for such as me In Heaven’s mercy, I would crave it now; Though little of hope have I, if thou dost hear. _Hermit._ Wouldst thou confess, my son, the church hath power To white the blackest sinner crawling foul From earth’s most sensuous cesspool, doth he but Come in the earnest sorrow of his heart And lay his sins within her holy keeping. But well I know that thou art that great Arthur, The hope of all for succor to this realm:-- For other man hath never worn such grace And nobleness of bearing as thou wearest. Fear not my son, whatever be the sin Of thy hot youth, the past will be forgiven, And holy Church will freely pardon one And all the evil deeds that thou hast done. _Arthur._ Father, my life is haunted with one thought That comes between me and my sweetest hopes. In battle’s clamor only will it pass, But in my lonelier moments it comes in;-- The awful memory of one heinous sin. _Hermit._ Of truth thou hast suffered over much, my son. What is thy sin? _Arthur._ One deed beyond all others of my youth. Mad passionate and wild to savagery, I violated a maid’s sanctuary, And afterwards, I found,--O Christ forgive me! _Hermit._ Say on! _Arthur._ She was my sister! _Hermit._ Sancta Maria--Ora pro nobis! _Arthur._ It will not out. The evil of that night...