XXXIThe months that followed had something of the subtle quality of a nightmare for Medrawt. Always he felt that he was on the verge of something else, never the thing that appeared before his eyes, or sounded in his ears, the thing of the waking world, but some other emanation, something almost ineffable, beyond these tangible evidences of reality. For instance, although Artos seemed to love his new wife dearly, to have forgotten about his other woman, the first Gwenhwyfar, yet there was a sort of carelessness in his treatment of her that did not relate itself to his love. He would, for example, leave her with Medrawt for a day at a stretch, in circumstances which might be conducive to their love-making, were they so inclined. Medrawt did not understand it. He would not have left a woman
