“Now kneel.”
He obeyed her, and she grew tenderly deft over his
wounds. She washed them clean, bound them up
with strips torn from her skirt. She pushed back
his hair from eyes and brows, and washed him clean
of blood and sweat and rage. Her petticoat was
her towel; she would have used her hair, but that
she dared not lose command of herself and him.
She wished for once to draw him, not to be drawn.
She knelt down on the moss, touching her lap meaningly
as she did so.
“Rest here,” said the gesture; “rest
here, my dear heart,” said the smile that flew
with it.
He knelt beside her—all went well up to
this. The moon was low, the night wearing; but
the pure light came flowing through a rent in the
trees, and she caught his look upon her. She tried,
but she could not meet it. Then it befell her
that she would not meet it if she could.
Prosper took something from his breast.
“Look,” he said, as he held it up.
She watched it quivering in the moonbeams; her eyes
brimmed; she grew blush-red, divinely ashamed.
“Hold your hand out,” said Prosper.
She had risen to her knees; they were kneeling face
to face, very near.
Isoult’s hands were crossed at her neck.
Prosper remembered the gesture. Now she held
out her left hand and let him crown it. He held
on—alas! he was growing master every minute.
“Isoult.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, my dear love, Isoult! Now I shall
wed thee, Isoult the Much-Desired.”
She began to shake. But she put her hands up
till they rested on his shoulders. She laughed
in a low thrilled tone.
“I am La Desiree now, and no longer La Desirous.
For what I desired was another’s desire.”
Also she said—“Kiss my mouth, and
I shall believe that thou speakest the truth of the
heart.”
He held her with his hands, looking long and steadily;
nor did her eyes refuse him now. Love was awake
and crying between the pair. He drew her nearer,
kissed her on the eyes and on the mouth; and she grew
red and loved him dearly.
So in the soft night, under the forest trees, in the
hush that falls before dawn, those two kissed and
comforted one another. It was as in a field of
blood that the rod of love thrust into flower at last.
But the forest which had seen the graft held the flower
by right. None watched their espousal save the
trees and the mild faces of the stars.
FOREST LOVE
With the sun rose Isoult, transfigured and glorified,
Love’s rosy priest. She slipped from her
man’s arms, hung over him wonderfully, lightly
kissed his forehead without disturbing his deep sleep.
Then she went to bathe herself in the pool, and to
bind up her hair. The woodland was jewelled with
dew, it went in misty green and yellow, all vocal
of the joy she had. She was loved! she was loved!
