Nothing in all the romances is more full of charm than the description of the ensuing meeting, written with an instinctive and delicate naturalism which reminds us that the craft of narration seems to be inborn in the story-tellers of the French nationality.  Simple, real, and suggestive, the incident might almost be taken straight out of its purely romantic setting, and inserted into a novel of the De Goncourts.  The handling of the thing is perfect in its unexpected presentment of a little domestic scene, which might have taken place, just as it is written down, in any mediaeval castle or hall.
    We have the whole episode painted for us, in colours as refined and tender as those used by Mrs. Gaskell when she depicted "Cranford," or by Miss Wilkins when she gave us the most graceful of her New England idylls.  Guinevere and Arthur are the figures in the foreground; she kneeling to offer him the goblet of wine, addressing him as "Sire Damoiseau," and with pretty loquacity craving his pardon for the use of the ambiguous title, wince she knows not his name; he, blushing, disconcerted, and abashed, thrilled by the touch of her fingers when she bathes his wounds, but answering with shamefaced monosyllables when this beautiful being endeavours to gain a reply.  In the distance Leodogran, Ban, and Merlin watch the youth and the maiden; and Ban and Merlin smile, while Leodogran appears as if struck by a new idea.  How well we can see them: the friends of Arthur sympathetically interested and amused, the father of Guinevere suddenly realising a possibility.  And then Merlin puts into words the thought in the minds of all; and turning to Leodogran, asks him, still smiling, whether he never thinks of marrying his daughter, to which Leodogran answers soberly that he has not yet given much consideration to the matter, but that he would like to see her wedded to some handsome and valiant knight. (Monthly Packet, Yonge, 1897)