spear. And right so he smote his father

Arthur with his sword holden in both his hands,

on the side of the head, that the sword pierced

the helmet and the brain-pan, and therewithal

Sir Mordred fell stark dead to the earth. And

the noble Arthur fell in a swoon to the earth,

and there he swooned oft-times — ‘“

“That is a good piece of war correspondence, Clarence; you are a first-rate newspaper man.

Well — is the king all right? Did he get well?”

“Poor soul, no. He is dead.”