The gruff old knight, Kurneval, who had attended Tristan upon the voyage, broke into a scornful laugh when he chanced to hear the message of the Princess.
"'Command' forsooth!" he exclaimed. "The slayer of Morold is the vassal of no one, be she even a queen!"
Isolde overheard this speech, and when her maid returned to her, bearing Tristan's refusal, her passion knew no bounds.
"Do you know who this ingrate is, who cannot find a moment's time for me?" she cried. "He is the minstrel whose life I saved in Ireland, and whom you helped me to nurse!"
"Can it be possible!" exclaimed Brangeane. "But 'tis strange that I did not know him again!"
"That is not the strange part," continued Isolde, storming. "I had sworn to take vengeance upon the slayer of Sir Morold. I found out that he was the slayer, and yet I pardoned him! And this is his gratitude!"
"My lady, my lady!" said Brangeane, trying to soothe her mistress. "Perchance Sir Tristan is not to blame for this. He is serving his King; and he shows you only the more honour, that he should woo you for the King instead of for himself."
"But I care not a whit for the King! Why should they all be forcing me into this loveless marriage—into a life of misery?"
"No, no, not that!" replied Brangeane eagerly. "It was your mother's dearest wish that you should be happy. See this casket? It contains a love potion which she brewed for you, and which will fill your heart and that of your husband with the truest devotion."
The sight of the potion diverted Isolde's mind into other channels. It reminded her that she herself could brew drinks and mix powders. She began at once to prepare a deadly poison, quietly telling her maid that it would make her forget her unhappy past.