“Merlin, are your swine to root as they please?”
He made light of it, sneeringly.
“Keep away from the sty, Isoult; your nose is too delicate. Things must happen. I will speak to the fools.”
As he passed her on the bridge their eyes crossed like swords.
“Sing to our hooded falcon to-night, my daughter. It may be that I have softened his heart.”
She gave Merlin no answer, but, remounting her horse, rode back slowly towards the ford.
A halt was called under the edge of a crimson sunset that overtopped the black plumes of a forest of firs. Isoult left her horse with Guy the Stallion, and walked towards the spot where Merlin’s white mule was tethered, and where men were pitching a rough hide tent.
Merlin came out to her and his eyes were enigmatical.
“The lute and the voice and the eyes may serve,” he said; “and yet, Isoult, why should I trust you?”
“Because my wrongs were great, and because I should be a worse enemy than friend.”