"It's the fruit of a magical oak-tree that grew mid air," he cried, "and was won by Sir Tristram as a tourney prize to bring to you."
Flinging the rubies round her neck he had just touched her jeweled throat with his lips when behind him rose a shadow and a shriek.
"Mark's way!" cried Mark, the Cornish king, and he clove Tristram through the brain.
That very night Arthur came back from the North, and as he climbed up the tower steps to go to the queen, in the dark of the tower something pulled at him. It was little Dagonet.
"Who are you?" said the king.
"I'm little Dagonet, your fool," sobbed the little jester, "and I cry because I can never make you laugh again."
THE PASSING OF ARTHUR.
One night King Arthur saw Sir Gawain in a dream, and Gawain, who had been killed, shrilly called out to him through the wind: