He stepped ashore, still holding her hand and looking at her with a kind of wonder. His lips hardly moved when he uttered her name, “Isoult.”
A path from the water’s edge to the house led up through the garden where herbs and roses grew. Here were marjoram, thyme, rue, lavender, sage, and mint, with low hedges of trimmed box. The rose bushes were the height of a man, and covered with red and white roses, and their scent lay heavy on the still June air. In the midst of the garden was a circle of turf, with a sun-dial set upon an octagonal stone pillar.
Isoult looked at the dial, and smiled.
“Time flies, my friend!”
He answered her:
“Time stands still.”
She paused by the dial.
“Time is in ourselves, and the hours are so many beats of the heart. Sit you down here on the grass, and I will help you out of your harness.”
He unbuckled his sword and dagger, and sat down with his back to the stone pillar, as though he were turning his back on Time. Isoult knelt and unfastened the laces of his helmet, and when she had unhelmed him she touched his chin with her fingers and laughed.
“How long will it be, lording, how long?”