rling, this
_is_ the twentieth century, and--

MELISANDE. Sometimes I see him clothed in mail, riding beneath my
lattice window.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle leather,
The helmet and the helmet feather
Burned like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.

And from his blazoned baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung
As he rode down to Camelot.

JANE. I know, dear. But of course they _don't_ nowadays.

MELISANDE. And as he rides beneath my room, singing to himself, I wave
one lily hand to him from my lattice, and toss him down a gage, a gage
for him to wear in his helm, a rose--perhaps just a rose.

JANE (awed). No, Melisande, would you really? Wave a lily hand to him?
(She waves one) I mean, wouldn't it be rather--_you_ know. Rather
forward.

MELISANDE. Forward!

JANE (upset). Well, I mean--Well, of course, I suppose it was
different in those days.

MELISANDE. How else could he know that I loved him? How else could he
wear my gage in his helm when he rode to battle?

JANE. Well, of course, there _is_ that.

MELISANDE. And then when he has slain his enemies in battle, he comes
back to me. I knot my sheets together so as to form a rope--for I have
been immured in my room--and I let myself down to him. He places me on
the saddle in front of him, and we ride forth together into the
world--together for always!

JANE (a little uncomfortably). You do get _married_, I suppose,
darling, or do you--er--

MELISANDE. We stop at a little hermitage on the way, and a good priest
marries us.

JANE (relieved.) Ah, yes.

MELISANDE. And sometimes he is not in armour. He is a prince from
Fairyland. My father is king of a neighbouring country, a country
which is sorely troubled by a dragon.

JANE. By a what, dear?

MELISANDE. A dragon.

JANE. Oh, yes, of course.

MELISANDE. The king, my father, offers my hand and half his kingdom to
anybody who will slay the monster. A prince who happens to be passing
through the country essays the adventure. Alas, the dragon devours
him.

JANE. Oh, Melisande, that isn't _the_ one?

MELISANDE. My eyes have barely rested upon him. He has aroused no
emotion in my heart.

JANE. Oh, I'm so glad.

MELISANDE. Another prince steps forward. Impetuously he rushes upon
the fiery monster. Alas, he likewise is consumed.

JANE (sympathetically.) Poor fellow

MELISANDE. And then one evening a