Arthur glanced at him and then smiled at Tennyson, saying, "May I take a look at this work?"
"Of course," Tennyson handed over a thick stack of manuscripts, "This is an authentic masterpiece."
I, the immortal son of glory,
In order to make you atone, I condemn you,
At that time, I had no choice but to become,
An evil spirit from Purgatory.
...
At that time I covered my face with my hands,
Wept incessantly, too ashamed to speak.
I had longed to return to Heaven,
But I hesitated to move forward.
I fear meeting your mother,
I fear she would inquire,
"What news of the mortal world?
Any changes to my thatched hut?
Is my son resting peacefully in his dreams?"
Arthur, upon reading this, immediately understood why Tennyson was so emotionally stirred.
He must have been reminded of his deceased parents here.
Following that, Arthur's gaze swept to the next part.
What? You grieve for us?—For whom are you sorrowing?
Surely not weeping for me? Tell me, of what use am I?
