SCENE III.--_Night on the battle field. The royal tent_, ARTHUR’S

_Camp_.

_Arthur._ Ho! there without. (_Enter a_ Page.) Send me Sir Bedivere. [_Exit_ Page.

_Enter_ SIR BEDIVERE.

_Arthur._ Is all safe i’ the camp?

_Sir B._ Yea, Sire, the sentries are set and watch fires ablaze. And all ready for battle i’ the first dawn.

_Arthur._ What of the enemy?

_Sir B._ They be the same, Sire, all seemeth quiet i’ the camp.

_Arthur._ Remember all watchfulness, so there be no surprise. Thou canst go Bedivere, I would fain sleep.

_Sir B._ Yea, I go, Sire, and God keep thee this night.

_Arthur._ Stay, Knight, Arthur of England is a lonely man, Betrayed of those who should have loved him best. To-night perchance he fronts the brink of death, In bloody battle for his rightful kingdom. Take this ring, Knight, in memory of thy King, (_Gives him a ring._) Survive he not the morrow.

_Sir B._ God keep thee, Sire! [_Exit_ SIR BEDIVERE.

_Arthur._ Now what will morrow’s dawn-rise bring to Arthur? Will it bring bloody victory or defeat? How like an autumn wood is stript my glory, Who short since was sole monarch of this realm. Oh! evil Spite, that ruleth this sad world! Come joy, come hope, there’s nothing sure but death. Yea, I will sleep and muffle out my sorrows A little while. (_Goes to the couch._) Nay, Arthur will not pillow till he beds with death, Or doth regain his kingdom. I will rest here.

(_Seats himself on a chair and wraps his cloak about him._)

Now for Oblivion’s peace! O stricken King, thou art the loneliest to-night. In any realm. (_Leans forward, falls asleep. A_ Page _steals in_.)

_Page._ He sleeps. (_Exit_ Page.) (ARTHUR _starts and mutters_ “Launcelot! Launcelot! My friend! My friend! Guinevere! Ah! Guinevere!”)

_Ghost of Merlin rises._

_Ghost._ Arthur of England!

_Arthur._ (_In his sleep._) Merlin! Ah! Merlin!

_Ghost._ I come to tell thy doom. To-morrow! Arthur, to-morrow!

_Arthur._ Away Spirit! Afright me not. Away! Away!

(Ghost _vanishes_, ARTHUR _starts up_.)

Ah, Merlin! did I dream of Merlin? ’Twas but the fancy. Oh, great Mage, to-night thy portents wander back Unto my mind, Oh couldst thou see thine Arthur. To-morrow, said the voice within my dream. To-morrow! Yea, to-morrow!

(_Sits down again and folds his cloak. Sleeps. Mutters_ “Mordred! my son Mordred!”)

_Ghost of_ GWAINE _rises_.

_Ghost._ King!

_Arthur._ Ah! ’Tis thou! Away! away!

_Ghost._ King, fight not tomorrow.

_Arthur._ (_In his sleep._) Nay, I will!

_Ghost._ King, fight not to-morrow.

_Ghost vanishes_, ARTHUR _wakes_.

_Arthur._ Yea, sleep is but the border land o’ death. ’Tis twice! ’Tis twice! It is a certain portent. Yea, Arthur fights, though Arthur dies, to-morrow. Yea, now I’ll sleep, for I am over-weary. Weary of life, yea I am over-tired. I would fain sleep though night should have no morning. This night is sweet and restful. To-morrow comes doom, This hour for soft oblivion. [_Curtain._