“He that put on this ring is not the man who threw me to his lepers in his wrath; he is rather that compassionate lord who, from the day I touched his shore, received me and protected.  And he loved Tristan once, but I came, and see what I have done!  He should have lived in the King’s palace; he should have ridden through King’s and baron’s fees, finding adventure; but through me he has forgotten his knighthood, and is hunted and exiled from the court, leading a random life. ...”

Just then she heard the feet of Tristan coming over the dead leaves and twigs.  She came to meet him, as was her wont, to relieve him of his arms, and she took from him his bow, “Failnaught,” and his arrows, and she unbuckled his sword-straps.  And, “Friend,” said he, “it is the King’s sword.  It should have slain, but it spared us.”

Iseult took the sword, and kissed the hilt of gold, and Tristan saw her weeping.

“Friend,” said he, “if I could make my peace with the King; if he would allow me to sustain in arms that neither by act nor word have I loved you with a wrongful love, any knight from the Marshes of Ely right away to Dureaume that would gainsay me, would find me armed in the ring.  Then if the King would keep you and drive me out I would cross to the Lowlands or to Brittany with Gorvenal alone.  But wherever I went and always, Queen, I should be yours; nor would I have spoken thus, Iseult, but for the wretchedness you bear so long for my sake in this desert land.”

“Tristan,” she said, “there is the hermit Ogrin.  Let us return to him, and cry mercy to the King of Heaven.”

They wakened Gorvenal; Iseult mounted the steed, and Tristan led it by the bridle, and all night long they went for the last time through the woods of their love, and they did not speak a word.  By morning they came to the Hermitage, where Ogrin read at the threshold, and seeing them, called them tenderly: 

“Friends,” he cried, “see how Love drives you still to further wretchedness.  Will you not do penance at last for your madness?”

“Lord Ogrin,” said Tristan, “hear us.  Help us to offer peace to the King, and I will yield him the Queen, and will myself go far away into Brittany or the Lowlands, and if some day the King suffer me, I will return and serve as I should.”

And at the hermit’s feet Iseult said in her turn: 

“Nor will I live longer so, for though I will not say one word of penance for my love, which is there and remains forever, yet from now on I will be separate from him.”

Then the hermit wept and praised God and cried:  “High King, I praise Thy Name, for that Thou hast let me live so long as to give aid to these!”

And he gave them wise counsel, and took ink, and wrote a little writ offering the King what Tristan said.

That night Tristan took the road.  Once more he saw the marble well and the tall pine-tree, and he came beneath the window where the King slept, and called him gently, and Mark awoke and whispered: