Agravaine
You are too cunning, Mordred.
Mordred
The King will not believe
Without stark proof. But he shall have it. Listen.
I have a fellow, silent as the snow,
Who watches; he is soft on Launcelot’s steps,
And Launcelot’s a moth that cannot choose
But flit to the candle. There’s a secret way
To the Queen’s chamber, cunningly contrived;