“But a wild bird mopes.”
“Perhaps some of our old worthies will open the door.”
As they went on down into the valley the moon popped once more behind a cloud, and Isoult’s face seemed to grow dark and brooding. She moved beside Fulk of the Forest, mute, solemn, distraught, her eyes looking into the distance where the great downs lay like faint shadows against the sky. A mood of mystery held her, the sadness of foreseeing dolour and pain and blood and the snarling mouths of furious men.
Three old yew trees grew by the gate in the meadow fence, and Isoult paused there and gripped Fulk’s arm. Her white face looked into his, and he could see a gleaming inward light shining from her eyes.
“Consider, consider, I charge you. I shall bring you woe.”
He smiled in her eyes.
“A witch’s trick; an old woman’s warning!”
“If you and I were old I might have no pity. I give you your choice.”
“You chose for me when you came a-hunting,” he said laconically. “I am the friend of the deer.”