It was sunset, and all the sky burnt gold and crimson in the west. Every lozenge of glass in the casement shone red as with fire. Beyond Caerleon a mysterious gloom of trees rolled blackly against the chaos of the decline. The whole world seemed glamoured and steeped in a ghostly quiet. Usk, a band of shadowy gold, ran with vague glimmerings to the sea.
The King spread his arms to the west, and under his black brows his eyes smouldered.
“Am I Uther of Britain—and a King?”
And again in a deep half-heard whisper—
“Igraine! Igraine! thou art true unto death.”
From the terrace below came sudden the sound of harping. It was Rivalin, the Court minstrel, singing as the sun went down—
“Quenched be all the bitter pain,
When the roses bloom again
Eyes shall smile through glimmering tears.”
The face of the King was like the face of a man who sees a vision. All the glow of the hills seemed in his eyes. His hands shook as he stretched them to the west, the west that was a chasm of torrential gold.