Prosper threw the pommel from him and lifted up the head of Galors.
The times were grim times. He tied it to his saddle-bow. Then he
turned to Isoult.
"Come," he said, "the fight is done."
They did not stay. He took his own shield and sword from the dead,
girt on the first and slung the latter to the spare saddle. He took
his wife in his arms, not daring to kiss her in such a place, and put
her on Galors' horse; and so they went their way into the misty woods.
Dark Tortsentier took up the watch amid the sighing of its pine-tree
host. Its array of shields, its swords and mail kept their counsel.
The figures in the singular tapestry of Troilus went through their
aping unadmired, and the grey dawn found them at it. Then you might
see how idle Cresseide, peering askance at Maulfry with her sly eyes,
watched the black pool drown her hair.