"There goes a good soul," said Prosper. "Give me something to drink,
child, I beseech you."
Isoult brought a great bowl of milk and gave it into his hands,
afterwards (though he never saw her) she drank of it from the place
where he had put his lips. Then it was time for them also to take the
road. Isoult went away again, and returned leading Prosper's horse and
shield; she brought an ass for herself to ride on. Curtseying to him
she asked-"Is my lord ready?"
"Ready for anything in life, my child," said he as he took her up and
put her on the ass. Then he mounted his horse. They set off at once
over the heath, striking north. None watched them go.
The sky was now without cloud. White all about, it swam into clear
blue overhead. A light breeze, brisk and fresh, blew the land clear,
only little patches of the morning mist hung torn and ragged about the
furze-bushes. The forest was still densely veiled, but the sun was up,
the larks afloat; the rains of over-night crisped and sparkled on the
grass: there was promise of great weather. Presently with its slant
roofs shining, its gilded spires and cross, Prosper saw on his left
the great Abbey of Holy Thorn. He saw the river with a boat's sail,
the village of Malbank Saint Thorn on the further bank and the cloud
of thin blue smoke over it; far across the heath came the roar of the
weirs. Behind it and on all sides began to rise before him the dark
rampart of trees--Morgraunt.
Prosper's heart grew merry within him at the sight of all this
freshness, the splendour of the morning. He was disposed to be well
contented with everything, even with Isoult, upon whom he looked down
once or twice, to see her pacing gently beside him, a guarded and
graceful possession. "Well, friend," he said to himself, "you have a
proper-seeming wife, it appears, of whom it would be well to know
something."
He began to question her, and this time she told him everything he
asked her, except why she was called Isoult la Desirous. As to this,
she persisted that she could not tell him. He took it good-temperedly,
with a shrug.
"I see something mysterious in all this, child," said he, "and am not
fond of mysteries. But I married thee to draw thee from the hangman
and not thy secrets from thee. Keep thy counsel therefore."
She hung her head.
To all other questions she was as open as he could wish. From her
earliest childhood, he learned, she had known servitude, and been
familiar with scorn and reproach. She had been swineherd, goose-girl,
scare-crow, laundress, scullery-wench, and what not, as her mother
could win for her. She could never better herself, because of the
taint of witchcraft and all the unholiness it brought upon her. As
laundress and scullery-maid she bad been at the Abbey; that had been
her happiest time but for one circumstance, of which she told him
later. Of her father she spoke little, save that he had often beaten
her; of her mother more tenderly--it seemed they loved each other--but
with an air of constraint. Her parents were undoubtedly in ill-savour
throughout the tithing; her father, a rogue who would cut a throat as
easily as a purse, her mother, a wise woman patently in league with
the devil. But she said that, although she could not tell the reason
of it, the Abbot had protected them from judgment many a time--whether
it was her father for breaking the forest-law, deer-stealing, wood-
cutting, or keeping running dogs; or her mother from the hatred and
suspicion of the Malbank people, on account of her sorceries and
enchantments. More especially did the Abbot take notice of her, and,
while he never hesitated to expose her to every infamous reproach or
report, and (apparently) to take a delight in them, yet guarded her
from the direct consequences as if she had been sacred. This her
parents knew very well, and never scrupled to turn to their advantage.
For when hard put to it they would bring her forward between them, set
her before the Abbot, and say, "For the sake of the child, my lord,
let us go." Which the Abbot always did.