"Lady, here is
Lancelot come to see you," says the king; "you ought to be
pleased and satisfied." "I, sire? He cannot please me. I care
nothing about seeing him." "Come now, lady," says the king who
was very frank and courteous, "what induces you to act like this?
You are too scornful toward a man who has served you so
faithfully that he has repeatedly exposed his life to mortal
danger on this journey for your sake, and who has defended and
rescued you from my son Meleagant who had deeply wronged you."
"Sire, truly he has made poor use of his time. I shall never
deny that I feel no gratitude toward him." Now Lancelot is
dumbfounded; but he replies very humbly like a polished lover:
"Lady, certainly I am grieved at this, but I dare not ask your
reason." The Queen listened as Lancelot voiced his
disappointment, but in order to grieve and confound him, she
would not answer a single word, but returned to her room. And
Lancelot followed her with his eyes and heart until she reached
the door; but she was not long in sight, for the room was close
by. His eyes would gladly have followed her, had that been
possible; but the heart, which is more lordly and masterful in
its strength, went through the door after her, while the eyes
remained behind weeping with the body.
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