Guinevere.—
Tell her the story, Vivienne; you know
As well as I his birth and early years;
And I will listen, dreaming of the days
When Lancelot was all our own. Say on.
Vivienne (Accepting the proffer of a seat, settles herself upon the stones).—
His father was King Ban of Benoic
Who, with his wife and child, a helpless babe,
By treachery was driven from his realm
And fled. But he was wounded sore, and sank
Beside a stream, where, overcome, he died.
His wife, Clarine, had laid the babe, asleep,
Beneath a fragrant bush of flowering thorn
To tend her lord, but when she sought again
To reach the child, a water fairy came
Within a cloud of mist and lifted him,
And carried him away beneath the stream.
Some say she was the Queen of Meideland
Where it is always Maytide, and there dwells
No man within her kingdom, but of maids
A goodly thousand, and they reared the child.
Her palace has such virtue, I have heard,
That who abides within it but one day
May never more know sorrow, till he die.
And there they reared the young Sir Lancelot
But told him not his name nor parentage.
And so he dwelt and grew to manhood there,
Till, claiming leave to ride forth in the world,
And try his lot, the fairy granted him
His longing, but refused to tell his name.
First he must win his spurs by conquering
The strongest knight that dwelt within the land
And then, she promised she would send to him
A messenger, revealing all his rank
And heritage; and he was well content
And set upon his journey in the world.
Adventures came to him in many a guise
And though he knew no lot of knightly lore
He met them all full knightly, till the fame
Of his exploits was blown to Arthur's ears
And Sir Gawaine was sent to meet with him
