tree, has blighted every other sentiment and affection beneath its shade. There is no happiness for Lancelot without Guinevere, no sweetness in the breath of evening nor speculation in the stars of night, no gladness in the summer, no glamour in the greenwood, no glory in the day. Her whisper lurks in the hollow of his helmet when he shouts his war-cry, her image rouses his desire for fame, and points his trusty lance. But for the keen, unholy stimulant his arm would be nerveless and his courage dull, while all the time
"The great and guilty love he bare the queen,
In battle with the love he bare his lord.
Hath marred his face, and marked it ere his time."
Yes, there is retribution even here for the sweet, seductive sin. "The worm that dieth not, the fire that is not quenched," begin their work long ere the cup has been emptied of its tempting poison; and the one gnaws
