(Launcelot brings her a rose. She caresses his hand.)

Launcelot

So sad?

So sad still? Come into the golden sun.

Look, every small shoot thrills up to the light.

Smell the sweet rose upon its thorny briar.

Launcelot

Launcelot

Sweet as old hours remembered.

Guenevere (very softly)

Guenevere

Sweet as those

To come.

Launcelot (madly embracing her)

Launcelot

Ah, Guenevere, to suffer so.

I am yours, yours, only yours—(abruptly breaking away)—O God, have pity!

Guenevere

Guenevere

Why should we not take what there is of joy,

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