“Love is divine,” he said, “and it is well
To love Leorre, wife though she be, for love
Is free to noble natures; but at last,
When in her shining eyes I see response,
Albeit unconscious, to my longing pain,
I cannot rest content with boonless love,
Although divine.  I fear me, if I stay
Within the circle of her tempting charm,
I shall, through some wild impulse, wantonly
Fling my unsullied knighthood to the winds,
As now I flung the plume from out my helm.”

He went at even-song time to Leorre,
And told her of his struggle by the sea,
Of his determined purpose and resolve. 
“Leorre, I love you with a love unsung
By poets, and unknown by other men,
Undreamed by women; I must leave you, dear;
I cannot see you fair for Reginault,
I cannot watch your sweetness not for me. 
I will go far upon some distant quest
Until this frenzy ceases, and the quest
Shall be for you, my love, for you alone.

“Dear, sunny head that lights my darkened way
With its bright, golden glory, let me seek
A crown that well befits it for my quest. 
Fair waist that curves beneath the heart I love,
I shall engirdle you with priceless gems
Won by my prowess for your perfect grace. 
O wondrous neck! great lustrous, flawless pearls,
That shall be royal in their worth, to match
The white enchantment of your beauty fair,
Shall be my quest for you.

“I will not come
Back to the court of Constantine, Leorre,
Until I bring that which shall honour you,
And winning which, I shall have cooled my pain.”

She came and knelt beside him, took his hand,
Looked deep into his ardent eyes,—­her own
Like stars that shone into his inmost soul.

“Will you, indeed, go forth,” she answered low,
“Across the world upon a quest for me? 
And will you falter not, nor swerve, nor fail,
Nor turn aside from seeking, night nor day,
Until you conquer with your prowess rare
The prize for me?  And may I choose the quest
I most desire?”

“Ah! surely, what you will,”
Said Kathanal, as echo to his eyes,
Which answered ere the words could form themselves.

She waited, silently; the room was still;
Sir Kathanal was faint from drinking deep,
With thirsty eyes, the beauty of her face.

At last she spoke, almost inaudibly,
But evermore the thought of her low speech
Made melody within his memory.

“Go forth, my knight of love, o’er land and sea,
And purify your spirit and your life,
And seek until you find the Holy Grail,
Keeping the vision ever in your thought,
The inspiration ever in your soul. 
Let Tristram yield his loyalty and honour
For fair Isoud, and die inglorious,—­
Let Launcelot in Guenever’s embrace
Forget the consecrated vows he swore,
And bring dark desolation on the land,—­
My knight must grow the greater through his love,
The better for my favour, the more pure! 
More than all gifts, or wealth of royal dower,
I want, I crave, I claim this boon of thee.”