Arthur. What thinkest thou of this Mordred, this my son?
Likest thou him not?
Launcelot. He is so strange, so small, so queer of limb,
At first I marvelled, then I pitied, then——
Arthur. Yea, and what?
Launcelot. I met his eyes, and straightway I forgot
The manner of man he was, save that a soul
Of wondrous scorn and mystery met mine;
That froze the present, made the future dread,
With strange forbodings. While I mused he passed,