A path from the water’s edge to the house led up through the garden where herbs and roses grew. Here were marjoram, thyme, rue, lavender, sage, and mint, with low hedges of trimmed box. The rose bushes were the height of a man, and covered with red and white roses, and their scent lay heavy on the still June air. In the midst of the garden was a circle of turf, with a sun-dial set upon an octagonal stone pillar. Isoult looked at the dial, and smiled. “Time flies, my friend!” He answered her: “Time stands still.” She paused by the dial. “Time is in ourselves, and the hours are so many beats of the heart. Sit you down here on the grass, and I will help you out of your harness.” He unbuckled his sword and dagger, and sat down with his back to the stone pillar, as though he were turning his back on Time. Isoult knelt and unfastened the laces of his helmet, and when she had unhelmed him she touched his chin with her fingers and laughed. “How long will it be, lording, how long?” “I shall have a ruffian’s chin.” “And then a fine black peak of a beard that will cock itself in the air and frighten your enemies.” He laughed with her, and she began to unbuckle his harness, and her nearness cast a spell. She seemed part of the sun-glitter on the water, part of the green of the willows, part of the smell of the roses. And there was a mystery in her eyes. “My lord is hungry, and athirst.” He looked at her as she knelt. “I am athirst, Isoult, yet will I not touch the cup—for honour’s sake.” “Proud and steadfast as ever!” He reached out and caught her hands. “Isoult, would you mock me—because——” She let herself bend nearer, her face overhanging his. “Because?” “I serve one whose pride is as a new-forged sword.” Her eyes flashed at him, and grew full of tremulous, strange light. “If I desire and am desired, yet can I honour the man who is lord of his own love.” “Isoult——” “Dear heart, I know what I know.” She freed her hands, took his sword, drew it out of the scabbard, and touched the blade with her lips. “Good sword, no shame shall ever come to thee. I—Isoult—swear it.” He took the sword from her, and held it pommel upwards. “On the Cross I answer to that! Isoult—to the death!” She bent suddenly and kissed him on the mouth, and, rising, stretched out her arms to the sunset. “Oh, life—oh, joy! Come, heart of mine, let us be children.” Fulk fastened his belt over his green cote-hardie, and sprang up, his eyes alight. “What a mate for a man!” “A mate who can find him supper! Come, gather up your harness or the dew will rust it, and I, your page, shall have the cleaning of it!” She picked up his helmet, leaving him the rest of the war-gear. The hall, with its dark beams and high timber roof, was filling with shadows. Slants of sunlight came stealthily in at the windows. The rushes on the floor still looked fresh and green.