Arthur. Father, my life is haunted with one thought
That comes between me and my sweetest hopes.
In battle’s clamor only will it pass,
But in my lonelier moments it comes in;—
The awful memory of one heinous sin.
Hermit. Of truth thou hast suffered over much, my son.
What is thy sin?
Arthur. One deed beyond all others of my youth.
Mad passionate and wild to savagery,