The girl, who feared him much more than the death he had declared, was
white now and desperate. But she still held him off with her stiffened
arms and face averted. She tried to cheapen herself. "I am Matt's bad
daughter, I am Matt's bad daughter! All the tithing holds me in scorn.
Never speak of love to such as I am, Galors." And when he tried to
pull her she made herself rigid as a rod, and would not go.
So love made the man mad, and spread and possessed him. Contest goaded
Galors: action was his meat and dominion what he breathed; by
resisting she had made the end more sure. By her imprisoned wrists he
drew her in, and when she was so close that her head was almost upon
his breast, he breathed over her. "A mitred abbey have I trampled down
for your love; yes, and to be bishop of a see. Therefore you must
come."
She fell to whining and entreaty, white to the lips and dry with fear.
All that she could say was, "I am bad. I am bad, but not so bad! Never
ruin me, Dom Galors." Then it was that she heard the voice of Prosper
singing afar off on the heath. Prosper sang-"What if my metal
Be proved as high as a hawk's in good fettle!
Then you shall see
The world my fee, And the hearts of men for my Seigniory."
And the girl thought to herself, "Help cometh!" and changed the voice
of her grief and the beating of her heart. By this the guile a woman
has always by her tongue had play: she could talk more gently to her
gaoler, and beg a little time--a short hour or so--to plan and arrange
their affairs. He thought her won and grew very tender; he kissed her
hands many times, called her his dear heart, became, in a word, the
clumsy gallant he claimed to be. All this too she endured: she began
to gabble at random, sprightly as a minion, with all the shifts of a
girl in a strait place ready at command. Her fear was double now: she
must learn the trend of the singer and his horse, and prevent Galors
from hearing either. This much she did. The sound came steadily on.
She heard the horse's hoofs strike on a flint outside the quarry, she
heard Prosper, singing softly to himself. Her time had come. She
sprang at arm's-length from Galors and called out, "Help, for
charity!" with all her might.
Prosper started, drew his sword, and headed his horse for the quarry.
In the mouth of it he reined up to look about him. He was sure of his
direction, but not of his way, "Help is here!" he cried with his sword
on high and red plumes nodding. Air and the light of the sun seemed to
follow him, as if he had cut a slit in a shroud and let in the day.
Then it was that Isoult found strength to shake free from her enemy,
to run to Prosper, to clasp his knee, to babble broken words,
entreaties for salvation, and to stoop to his foot and kiss it.