The Abbot had pricked up his ears; now he looked sharply at Isoult.
"You are right, Sweyn," he said; "leave her to me. Girl," he turned to her, "this time it shall likely go hard with thee. Trees are plenty and ropes easy to come by. I warned thee before. I shall not warn thee now."
Isoult bowed her head.
"What dost thou do here, herding in the wood with wild beasts?" he went on.
"Lord, none but the beasts will give me food or rest or any kindness at all. There is no pity in man nor woman that I have seen, save in two, and one is dead. Prosper le Gai, my lord, and husband, hath pity, and will come to me at last. And whether he shall come to my body alone or my spirit alone, he will come. And now, lord, hang me to a tree."
"Dost thou want to be hanged?" he asked.
"Nay, lord, I am too young to be hanged," she said. "Moreover, though I am wedded to my lord, I am not a wife. For only lately he hath loved me, and that since we were put apart."
"Wed, and a virgin, girl? Where is thy husband?"
"Lord, he is searching for me."
"Where hath he been, what hath he done—or thou, what hast thou done, for such a droll fate as this?"