To-morrow! Yea, to-morrow!
(Sits down again and folds his cloak. Sleeps. Mutters “Mordred! my son Mordred!”)
Ghost of Gwaine rises.
Ghost. King!
Arthur. Ah! ’Tis thou! Away! away!
Ghost. King, fight not tomorrow.
Arthur. (In his sleep.) Nay, I will!
Ghost. King, fight not to-morrow.
Ghost vanishes, Arthur wakes.
Arthur. Yea, sleep is but the border land o’ death.