"The blood ransom," she answered, "for the life of Sir Morold!"
"But that feud is healed!" he responded quickly. "There is now peace between Cornwall and Ireland."
"But not between Tristan and Isolde!" she retorted. And she recalled to him the time when he had sought her care in disguise; how she had discovered his identity by the broken sword, and yet had spared his life and kept his secret when her own land was filled with his enemies. His life, she now claimed, was still forfeit to her.
Tristan had listened to her with varied emotions, but had made no move to interrupt her. Now with an indescribable air of sorrow and hurt pride he drew his sword and presented it to her, handle foremost.
"It is the same weapon that slew Sir Morold in fair fight," he said. "If you still so bitterly regret his death and your previous kindness to me, I pray you slay me!"
"Nay!" she answered, her face growing pale and red by turns. "Such deed would ill requite King Mark, whose ambassador you are. But we will declare a truce, if you will drink the usual cup of peace with me before we land."
And turning to Brangeane she commanded her to pour out the drink. The maid, pale and trembling, turned to fill the cup. Sounds from without now told them that the vessel was coming to anchor. Isolde took the cup and handed it to Tristan.
"Your unwelcome voyage is over," she said darkly, looking into his eyes, "will you drink with me?"
Tristan took the cup. He knew that Isolde had been plotting his death, and he now suspected that the drink was poisonous. Yet death seemed welcome to him at this moment.
"I thank you," he said calmly. "I drink in gladness, giving you my oath of truce for all time—the honour and the pain of Tristan!"