There was no doubt as to the sound; it was the noise made by the men’s rough paddles striking the water. They had taken to the raft of tree trunks, and were ferrying back across the mere, for the sound went away towards the farther bank.
Fulk dropped his sword, caught Isoult, and held her.
“Isoult, Isoult, death goes over the water.”
“Ah—and life comes in!”
A great silence descended over the Black Mere—a silence that was strangely soft and kindly after that half silence that had hidden the stealthy movements of men. For a while they stood listening, hardly believing that they were alone. But the stillness was unbroken; the peril that had threatened them had melted into the night.
Fulk threw the faggots aside and went out into the moonlight. He was cautious at first, half suspecting some trick, and he looked sharply to right and left as he walked down through the garden to the mere. All ripples had died away; the water lay still and untroubled.
Isoult had followed him, and they held hands and looked over the mere.
“What of to-morrow, Isoult, what of to-morrow?”
“I would rather be beyond the sea, where Merlin is not.”
“Is Merlin still to be feared?”