follow the path of honour, wherever it may lead, and meet unflinching
"Death, or I know not what mysterious doom."
Arthur, dethroned, ruined, heart-broken, mortally wounded, and unhorsed, will be no less Arthur than when on Badon Hill he stood
"High on a heap of slain, from spur to plume,
Red as the rising sun with heathen blood,"
and shouted victory with a great voice in the culminating triumph of his glory.
For him too at this supreme moment the master-passion asserts its sway, and even that great soul thrills to its centre with the love that has been wasted for half a life-time on her who is only now awaking to a consciousness of its worth. He cannot leave her for ever without bidding farewell to his guilty queen. So riding through the misty night to the convent where she has taken
