The Forest Lovers

While Prosper is galloping after Dom Galors, and Dom Galors is

galloping after Isoult, let us turn to that unconscious lady who hides

her limbs in a pair of ragged breeches, and her bloom under the grime

of coal-dust. Her cloud of hair, long now and lustrous, out of all

measure to her pretence, she was accustomed to shorten by doubling it

under her cap. An odd fancy had taken her which prevented a second

shearing. If Prosper loved her she dared not go unlovely any more. Her

hair curtained her when she bathed in the brook and the sun. Beyond

doubt it was beautiful; it was Prosper's; she must keep it untouched.

This gave her an infinity of bother, but at the same time an infinity

of delight. She took pride in it, observed its rate of growth very

minutely; another fancy was, that before it reached her knees she

should give it with all herself to its master. It is so easy to

confuse desires with gratifications, and hopes with accomplishments,

that you will not be surprised if I go on to say, that she soon made

the growth of her hair data by which to calculate her restoration

to his side. She was to have a rude awakening, as you shall judge.

The July heats lay over the forest like a pall, stilled all the leaves

and beat upon the parched ground. Isoult, seduced by the water and her

joy to be alone with her ring, audacious too by use, took longer

leave. So long leave she took one day that it became a question of

dinner. The one solemn hour of the twenty-four was in peril. Falve was

sent to find her, and took his stick. But he never used it; for he

found, not Roy indeed, but Roy's rags on the brookside, and over the

brook on the high bank a lady, veiled only in her hair, singing to

herself. He stood transported, Actaeon in his own despite, then softly

withdrew. Roy got back in his time, cooked the dinner, and had no

drubbing. Then came the meal, with an ominous innovation.

They sat in a ring on the grass round an iron pot. Each had a fork

with which he fished for himself. Down came Falve smirking, and sat

himself by Isoult. He had a flower in his hand.

"I plucked this for my mistress," says he, "but failing her I give it

to my master."

She had to take it, with a sick smile. She had a sicker heart.

The horrid play went on. Falve grinned and shrugged like a Frenchman.

He fed her with his fork--"Eat of this, my minion;" forced his cup to

her lips--"Drink, honey, where I have drunk." He drank deep and,

blinking like a night-bird, said solemnly-"We have called you Jack, to our shame. Your name shall properly be

called Roy, for you should be a king."