She had been prepared for this, and now suffered what she must, lifeless and pleasureless, with a dull pain in her heart. This was the stabbing pain (as with a muffled knife) with which true love maims itself in its own defence. His aim for her lips was parried; as well he might have embraced a dead woman. Soon his passion burned itself out for lack of fuel; he set her down and looked moodily at her, panting.
"Are you my wife? By the saints, are you not my wife? Why are you here?"
"To serve my lord."
"Serve! serve! And is this the service you do me? Are you not my wife?"
"I am she, lord. I am what you made me. I serve as you taught."
"Does a wife not owe obedience? Hath a lord—hath a husband no right to that?"
"Love is a great lord—"
"By Heaven, do I not love you?"
He could have sworn he did; but Isoult knew better.
"Yesterday my lord loved me not; to-morrow he will not love me. I am his servant—his page."