(Secretly and confidentially, close to ISOLDA.)
Mindest thou not
thy mother's arts?
Think you that she
who'd mastered those
would have sent me o'er the sea,
without assistance for thee?
ISOLDA (darkly).
My mother's rede
I mind aright,
and highly her magic
arts I hold:—
Vengeance they wreak for wrongs,
rest give to wounded spirits.—
Yon casket hither bear.
BRANGÆNA.
It holds a balm for thee.—
(She brings forward a small golden coffer, opens it, and points to its contents.)
Thy mother placed inside it
her subtle magic potions.
There's salve for sickness
or for wounds,
and antidotes
for deadly drugs.—
(She takes a bottle.)
The helpfullest draught
I hold in here.
ISOLDA.
Not so, I know a better.
I make a mark
to know it again—
This draught 'tis I would drain.
(Seizes flask and shows it.)