I
Tristram
Tristram
Is she not come? The messenger was sure.
Prop me upon the pillows once again—
Raise me, my page! this cannot long endure.
—Christ, what a night! how the sleet whips the pane!
What lights will those out to the northward be?
The Page
The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea.
Tristram
Soft—who is that, stands by the dying fire?
The Page
Iseult.