"If I do not hang thee, Isoult, wilt thou come with me to Saint Thom?"
"Yes, lord, I will come."
"Up with you then before me," said the Abbot, and stooped to lift her.
Her hair fell back as she was swung into the saddle. "My lady,"
thought the Abbot, "it is clear you are no Amazon; but I should like
to know what you wear round that fine little neck of yours."
He bided his time, and sent the men and dogs on ahead. Then at
starting he spurred his horse so that the beast plunged both his
riders forward. The burden of the chain slipt its harbourage, and the
next minute the Abbot had ring and locket in the palm of his hand.
"What is this ring, my girl?" he asked.
"My lord, it is my wedding-ring, wherewith I was wed in the cottage."
"Ah, is that it? Well, I will keep it until there is need."
Isoult began to cry at this, which cut her deeper than all the
severances she had known. She could confess to the ring.
"Don't cry, child," said the Abbot, whom women's tears troubled;
"believe me when I say that you shall have it for your next wedding."
"Oh, my ring! my ring! What shall I do? It is all I have. Oh, my lord,
my lord!"
This pained the Abbot extremely. He got what satisfaction there was
from the thought that, having dropt it behind him, he could not give
it back for all the tears in the world. He was busy now examining the
other token--a crystal locket whereon were a pelican in piety circled
with a crown of thorns, and on the other side the letters I and F
interlaced. He knew it better than most people.
"Isoult, stop crying," he said. "Take off this chain and locket and
give them to me."
So she did.
"Ah, my lord," she pleaded as she tendered, "I ask only for the ring."
"Plague take the ring," cried the Abbot very much annoyed. "I will
throw it away if you say another word about it."
The threat chilled her. She dried her eyes, hoping against hope, for
even hope needs a sign.
When he had his prize safe in Holy Thorn, the Abbot Richard, who had a
fantastic twist in him, and loved to do his very rogueries in the
mode, set himself to embroider his projects when he should have been
executing them. His lure was a good lure, but she would be none the
worse for a little gilding; there must be a pretty cage, with a spice
of malice in its devising, to excite the tenderer feelings. It should
be polite malice, however--a mere hint at a possible tragedy behind a
smirk.