When Argemone rose in the morning, her first thought was of Lancelot.

His face haunted her.

The wild brilliance of his intellect struggling through foul smoke-clouds, had haunted her still more.

She had heard of his profligacy, his bursts of fierce Berserk-madness; and yet now these very faults, instead of repelling, seemed to attract her, and intensify her longing to save him.

She would convert him; purify him; harmonise his discords.