But left that chill behind him in my blood.
And yet he seemeth a soul, Sire, to be pitied.
Arthur. Yea, all but pity, Arthur’s son should claim.
Launcelot. ’Tis thy cross Arthur, as a king thou’lt bear it.
And we all seeing shall say our king, like Christ,
Beareth his cross i’ the sunlight i’ the shadow,
And take pattern from thy greatness.
Arthur. I bear it not, Launcelot, it beareth me down,
Down into black depths, aye and blacker.