[It is as if a door closes, as if a light is put out, so swiftly does expression vanish from Lancelot's face. Her name. He rarely speaks her name, and never hears it spoken. He cannot think what she would have made of this Arthur, of her words.]

It is truly deception you practice now, if you can tell yourself such falsehoods.

You were chosen to reign. I-- we chose to follow you. Now you stand before me and say that it should not have been so, that you yourself know better than the Sword, than Fate itself. Once more, you separate yourself from us, from those who followed you in life.

Even from her-- [No. This he will not do. He cannot do.]

Will you never learn, Arthur? Will you never understand that ever, for all that made you most like us who loved you, for all that made you mortal-- were you the Better King?

[A shadow moves over Lancelot's face as he speaks. Perhaps he speaks more than is wise, or more than he means to. But the words come whether he wants them or no.]

I would have had you judge me, Arthur. Is there a truer testament than that?