He's noticed Laertes' tattoos before -- they're meant to be noticed -- but they never particularly stirred him. Now Galahad feels a flush of heat reminiscent of the realization corsets could have a practical application on Claudius. He swallows against the flood of saliva in his mouth. Ye shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor print any marks upon you.

"What do they mean?" he asks.