Bedivere Bedivere If rumours breathed about the camp be true, There was some treason. Arthur Arthur I felt it in the air, Like fog on a sour wind. Tell me more. Bedivere Bedivere Sir, I cannot speak but on a dark report, And hardly now dare tell. Arthur Arthur Hide nothing. Speak. Bedivere Bedivere The name that men have whispered in the night Is the name of Mordred.
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