He will forget that outward lack of mould

In the strong, god-like, nobleness within.

Mordred. Ah Merlin, would my spirit thou wert right,

And I would show him such a son’s true love,

And consecrate this subtlety within me,

To build a fence of safety round his glory.

But something tells me, some weird, evil doom,

That sits about my heart by day and night,

An awful presence that will never flit,

That he will never love me, yea, that more,

Of all things hateful to him on this earth,

My presence the most hateful. Oh great Mage,

I know that thou art skilful in thine age,

And subtle in all knowledges of lore,

But there lies in recesses of the heart,

That hath known bitter sorrow such as mine,

A deeper wisdom intuition breeds,

That thou hast never sounded in thy lore.

Merlin. Hast thou ever seen this presence whereof thou speakest?

Mordred. Yea, only as a look that haunteth faces.

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