“What is thy lord, my girl?” asked he.
“He is good to his servant,” she whispered
in her low thrilled voice.
They ate what bread was left, and drank a little water.
Before all was finished Isoult was nodding. Prosper
bestirred himself to do the best he could for her;
he collected a heap of dried leaves, laid his cloak
upon them, and picked up Isoult to lay her upon the
cloak. His arms about her woke her up. Scarce
knowing what she did, dreaming possibly of her mother,
she put up her face towards his; but if Prosper noticed
it, no errant mercy from him sent her to bed comforted.
He put her down, covered her about with the cloak,
and patted her shoulder with an easy—“Good-night,
my lass.” This was cold cheer to the poor
girl, who had to be content with his ministry of the
cloak. It was too dark to tell if he was looking
at her as he stooped; and ah, heavens! why should
he look at her? The dark closed round his form,
stiffly erect, sitting on the root of the great tree
which made a tent for them both, and then it claimed
her soul. She lost her trouble in sleep; he kept
the watch all night.
FOREST ALMS
Towards the grey of the morning, seeing that the whole
forest was at peace, with no sign of dogs or men all
that night, and now even a rest from the far howling
of the wolves, Prosper’s head dropt to his breast.
In a few seconds he slept profoundly. Isoult awoke
and saw that he slept: she lay watching him,
longing but not daring. When she saw that he
looked blue and pinched about the cheekbones, that
his cheeks were yellow where they should be red, and
grey where they had been white, she knew he was cold;
and her humbleness was not proof against this justification
of her desires. She crept out of her snug nest,
crawled towards her lord and felt his hands; they were
ice. “Asleep he is mine,” she thought.
She picked up the cloak, then crept again towards
him, seated herself behind and a little above him,
threw the cloak over both and snuggled it well in.
She put her arms about him and drew him close to her
bosom. His head fell back at her gentle constraint;
so he lay like a child at the breast. The mother
in her was wild and throbbing. Stooped over him
she pored into his face. A divine pity, a divine
sense of the power of life over death, of waking over
sleep, drew her lower and nearer. She kissed his
face—the lids of his eyes, his forehead
and cheeks. Like an unwatched bird she foraged
at will, like a hardy sailor touched at every port
but one. His mouth was too much his own, too
firm; it kept too much of his sovereignty absolute.
Otherwise she was free to roam; and she roamed, very
much to his material advantage, since the love that
made her rosy to the finger-tips, in time warmed him
also. He slept long in her arms.
She began to be very hungry.
“He too will be hungry when he wakes,”
she thought; “what shall I do? We have
nothing to eat.” She looked down wistfully
at his head where it lay pillowed. “What
would I not give him of mine?” The thought flooded
her. But what could she do?
