“As sure of him as I am of your piety! No meddling between us; I have more songs to sing.”
He said nothing for a moment, but she felt his eyes upon her.
“Isoult, I can teach you no subtlety in singing. You will make sure——?”
Her patience carried her no farther.
“Save your words, and let the night look after its own darkness.”
“I’ll leave youth with youth.”
She heard his beads rattling, and he turned to go.
“Bonds stronger than thongs of leather,” he said. “Fasten them upon him, Isoult, and I will give you my blessing.”
So strong for the moment was the revulsion of her pride that when Merlin had gone she walked to and fro under the trees, raging against the tangle in which she found herself. The fires in the valley were as so many red eyes watching her in the toils of her dilemma. To have to cheat such a man as Merlin, lie to him, make a jest of her own honour in order to blind his eyes! And why? Because that stiffnecked fool down yonder sat like a Simeon Stylites on the pillar of his pride, and would not slacken one fibre of his obstinacy in order to save his precious head.
She saw the past, the present, and the future all tangled up in a strange medley—the ringlets of a river thrown wide across green fields and orchards, the chattering of aspen leaves, the roses in a garden, the grey tumbling sea, the singing woman who sang to men with her knife ready at her girdle, the fierce thrusting back of lustful fools, the mocking flush of the eyes, the wanderings, dreams, and adventures, the wrestling match with the man who now lay yonder most damnably determined to die.