Galors, too, knew that the hour had come; but his spirit came up to
meet it, and he made a push for it. He was over the brook; if he could
top the ridge he would have the advantage he had a year ago, which
this time he swore to put to better use. The girl knew his thoughts as
she had known the accolade of the thundering hoofs behind them. She
would have thrown herself if the steel trap had loosed ever so little;
as it was, she fluttered like a rag caught in a bush; the filmy body
was what Galors held, the soul shrilled prayers to the man's
confusion. He could not stay her lips; they moved, working against
him, as he knew well. "Mother of God, send him, send him, send him!"
It was ill fighting against a girl's soul, it slacked his rein and
drugged his heel. By God, let the boy come and be damned; let him
fight! "Mother of God, send, send, send!" breathed Isoult. The horse
below them shuddered, failed to come up to the rein, bowed his head to
the jerked spur. Galors left off spurring, and slackened his rein.
Though he would not look behind him he heard the plash of the ford,
heard also Prosper's low, "Steady, mare, hold up!" Prosper was over;
Galors halfway up the hill. It would be soon.
The black and white gained hand over hand; the red and green felt him
come. The soul of Isoult hovered between them. Black and white drew
level; red and green held on. Side by side, spears erect and tapering
into the moon, plumes nodding, eyes front, they paced; the soul of
Isoult took flight, the body crouched in the steel's hug. The gleam of
the white wicket-gates caught their master's eye; they were risen in
judgment against him. Entra per me was to play him false. This
trifling thing unnerved him till it seemed to speak a message of doom.
But doom once read and accepted, nerve came back. By God, he would die
as he had lived, strenuously, seeking one thing at a time! But to be
killed by his chosen arm, overshrilled by his own shout--that sobered
him, little of a sentimentalist as he was. As for love-lorn Prosper,
he had still less sentiment to waste. True, he had not chosen his
arms, his motto had been found for him by his ancestors--they were
cut-and-dried affairs, so much clothing to which Galors at this moment
served as a temporary peg. Sweet Saviour! the Much-Desired was near
him, close by. He could have touched her head. She never moved to look
at him; he knew so much without turning his own head. And he knew
further that she knew him there. The soul of Isoult, you see, had
taken wings. Thus they gained the ridge and halted. Backing their
beasts, they were face to face, and each looked shrewdly at the other,
waiting who should begin the game.