"Say no more, my lord; the boon is yours. Have I not a noble woman queening it beside me on my throne, flinging the beams of her bright eyes through all my life? This quest shall be heralded to the host; I will offer gold for the damsel’s capture. Take this ring from me, no pledge as betwixt Jews, but as a talisman of good to come." So spoke the royal gratitude. When the King had gone, Modred returned to carry his lord heavenwards to the meadows. He found him prone upon the heather, covering his eyes with his thin hands as the western sunlight streaked the gloom. "Sire," said Modred, kneeling down beside the bed. The effigy on the heather stirred itself and reached out a hand into Modred’s bosom. "Man, man, I am in great darkness of soul. Who shall comfort me!" Modred bent to him, laid a great palm on the white forehead. "Courage, sire, courage." "Ah, the pity of it, to lie here like a log when swords ring and peril threatens her." "Sire, we shall win her back again." "My God, only to touch her hands once more, to feel the warmth of her pure bosom, and the thrill of her rich hair." "We shall win her, sire. Doubt it not." "All life is a doubt." "Before God, I swear it!" "Modred!" "Before God, I swear it!" He sprang up, thrust out his arms till the sinews cracked, filled his great chest with the breath of the sea. Suddenly he stopped, strained at a rock lying at the cave’s mouth, lifted it, and hurled it from him, saw it smite foam from the water beneath. "Fate, take my gauge," he cried, with a fierce glorying in his strength; "come, sire, put your hands about my neck. I will bear you to your castle of Gambrevault." XL Fulviac and his rebels had plunged into the great pine forest for refuge from the multitudinous glitter of the royal spears. The wilderness engulfed them, throwing wide its sable gates to take the war wolves in. The trees moaned like tall sibyls burdened with prophetic woe. The gold had long fallen from the gorse; the heather’s purple hills were dim. Mystery abode there; a sound as of tragedy rose with the hoarse piping of the autumn wind. From the north and from the west the royal "arms" had drawn as a glittering net towards the sea of pines. A myriad splendid warriors streaked the wilds, like rich rods flowering at some magic trumpet cry. The King’s host swept the hills, their banners blazing towards the solemn woods. Gambrevault was theirs, and Avalon of the Mere. Morolt’s northerners had marched upon Geraint, to find it a dead city, empty of life and of human sound. Only Gilderoy stood out for Fulviac. The King had failed to leaguer it as yet, for reasons cherished in his cunning brain.