Mess. Murder on the body of Sir Patrise.

Laun. Enough! hast thou brought horses?

Mess. Yea.

Laun. Then quick! on your lives! lead us hence!

[Exit Launcelot and Messengers.

Gwaine. The foul fiend take this love! It be a queer sickness indeed. Anon it made him like to luke water, and now he be all fire. It bloweth now up now down, like the wind i’ a chimney. Yea I love that man like a father his child. There is no sword like to his i’ the whole kingdom. An’ a wench that be a queen leadeth him like a goss-hawk. (Voices without.)

Yea, I am coming.

[Exit.

SCENE IV.—(Enter Court-ushers with trumpets, Soldiers and Knights. Enter the King: takes his State. Enter the Queen in a black robe surrounded by her Women, comes to the foot of the Throne, falls on her face.)