“Oh, stiffnecked, proud, splendid fool! Were I to soar, would you not follow? Such a flight of falcons into the blue together!”
He turned his head aside, for her eyes, her mouth, her voice tormented him.
“Isoult, have done. Whether this be one gross lie or not—I’ll not wanton with it, or with these scrapings of the fields. God—if I have a prince’s blood in me, I’ll play the prince.”
She thrust out her hands, eyes alight, her breath coming and going more quickly.
“Ah! That has an echo! I soar to that. I——Listen! Did you hear?”
She turned sharply, and Fulk saw her bosom, throat, and face outlined against the doorway.
“Merlin’s voice!”
She started up and passed out into the quarry just as Father Merlin’s grey cowl appeared among the furze bushes. He was alone, and his face seemed to narrow when he saw Isoult.
She went to meet him boldly, head held high, and with an imperiousness that attacked and did not wait to be challenged.
“Merlin, you have neither the wit nor the hands of a woman. What! Brought to the footpad’s threat of the knife and six feet of earth already? Thank me for being up before dawn.”