The Forest Lovers

She could not finish what she longed to say. As for Prosper, he was in

another world; it is doubtful whether he heard her.

"Countess," he said, "I can tell you nothing as yet. I know but half

of the truth. But I must find out the whole, and to-morrow I will tell

you what I mean to do. You must have me excused for this night."

She knew that she could say nothing more, although she had never yet

seen him in this mood. But he reminded her strongly of his father; she

felt that he and she had changed places and ages. So she bowed her

head, and when she lifted it he was gone.

Pacing his room Prosper tried to reason out his tangle. This was not

so easy as fighting, for he was pulled two different ways. Salomon de

Montguichet was the dead man whom the lady had in the wood--that was

clear. Galors had Salomon de Montguichet's arms--that too was clear.

The trouble was to connect the two strings. What had Galors to do with

the lady? Which of them had killed Salomon de Montguichet, or de Born,

to give him his real name? How did this threaten Isoult? For the

massed events of the long day drove him at last face to face with

Isoult. He had sworn upon all knightly honour to save her neck. He

thought he had saved it, but now he was not so sure. There was

something undefinably sinister, some foreboding about the turn matters

had taken (matters so diverse in their beginning) that day. Was he

sure he had saved her? He must certainly be sure, he thought. Had he

not sworn? And after all, she was his wife. That should count for

something. He was not disposed to rate marriage highly; he knew very

little about it, but he felt that it should count for something. The

honour of the man's wife touched the honour of the man. Again, she was

a very good girl. He recalled her--submissive, patient, recollected,

pacing beside him on her donkey, as they brushed their way through

brown beechwoods and stained wet bracken. He remembered her at her

prayers--how kindly she took to the devotion. She was different from

the hour she was a good Christian, he swore. Ah, so he had given her

more than a free neck! He had given her pride in herself; nay, he had

quickened a soul languid for want of spiritual food. And she looked

very well praying. She was good-looking, he thought. Oh, she was a

good girl!

But surely she was well where she was, could hardly be better. Galors

had a split throat; he would be in Saint Thorn, crying peccavi

in Chapter, and gaining salvation with every sting of the scourge. The

woman in the wood he had distrusted from the first moment he saw her

watching eyes. She was bad through and through; she might be a worse

enemy than Galors, or a church-load of pursy monks. But it was

impossible that she should have anything to do with Galors, clean

impossible. And if she had--why, he was going to her to-morrow, and

would find out. Meantime, he would go to bed. Yes, he might go to bed.

Was not Gracedieu sanctuary? Ah, he had forgotten that! All was well.