JANE. Horrible, darling. (With a French air) But what would you?
MELISANDE (in a low thrilling voice). What would I? Ah, what would I, Jane?
JANE. Because you see, Sandy—I mean Melisande—you see, darling, this is the twentieth century, and—
MELISANDE. Sometimes I see him clothed in mail, riding beneath my lattice window.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle leather,
The helmet and the helmet feather
Burned like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
And from his blazoned baldric slung