Isoult had heard Fulk stirring. She dressed, and came out with her hair hanging about her, to find his sword lying beside the bed he had made himself outside her door. She picked it up, and pressed the blade to her lips.
“Keep troth—ever.”
She, too, passed out into the garden, and saw the waters of the mere troubled by some strong thing that delighted in its strength. Fulk had circled the island thrice, and a beam of sunlight broke through the mist and shone on his head and shoulders as he came swimming round the willows.
Isoult stood there, holding his sword, her black hair hanging about her like smoke. And as he came near she began to sing.
“Wine and bread and honey sweet;
Sticks for the bakehouse, spits for the meat,
Spices and cakes and cups of gold,
And good ypocrasse to keep out the cold!”
He turned on one flank, and saw her in the thick of the white mist.
“Isoult!”