“You sing, you big slug! You have a voice like the bung-hole of a barrel!”
He marched off, and coming to Isoult, presented the lute to her with a fine obeisance, his sword cocked over his shoulder. One red eye looked slantwise at Fulk of the Forest.
“Madame Isoult, sing, and we shall forget to be hungry.”
“Or to quarrel—or boast!”
She took the lute to her bosom, and struck the strings, waiting for Guy the Stallion to take himself off.
“What shall I sing, good comrade?”
“Just what comes to the bird’s throat.”
And so she sang to him of Ipomedon, and Gingamor, and the Romaunt of the Rose, and of strange forests and haunted meres, and of the banners of kings red as the sunset. Fulk’s heart went out to her because of her singing, and all his mistrust of her melted like wax.
When she had ended he looked long at her as though trying to fathom her soul.
“Isoult, who and what are you? For some day I needs must know.”