Fulk stood motionless, the pole trailing in the water and the boat sliding slowly and more slowly towards the bank. He was wondering, mute. The witchery of it all possessed him: the still sun-steeped beauty of this lonely pool, the flaming woods, the woman who stood there looking down at him with mysterious eyes. His tongue had nothing to utter; his manhood seemed mute.
The boat stopped within half a pole’s length of the stage, Fulk standing with the pole held slantwise, water dripping from it on to the still surface of the pool.
Isoult laughed, and her soft, mysterious laughter went over the water.
“Lording, will you not set foot on the solid earth?”
Fulk drew in his breath deeply, dropped the end of the pole into the water, and brought the boat to the stage. Half mechanically, he threw out the chain, and Isoult slipped the ring over the mooring post.
“Lording, let me serve!”
She stretched out a hand to help him in his armour, and Fulk paused with one foot on the gunwale, looking at her intently from under the raised vizor of his bassinet.
“Isoult!”
Her eyes seemed to grow full of light, full of a mystery of things unspoken.
“Come; I will unarm you, I will play the page.”