Fulk laid his sword and armour on the daïs table, while Isoult climbed the stairs ascending to the solar. She passed through the narrow doorway and disappeared. In a minute or so she was back again with a leather wallet in one hand a lute in the other. “These good people had sense. There is a bed up yonder, and I found the lute in a press. The wallet is my own.” “Knollys left me wine and sweetmeats!” “Ah, the fine gentleman! Run, find them. See, here——” She showed him a manchet of white bread in the wallet. “To-morrow you shall fire the oven and I will bake bread. Now, for the kitchen. Where shall we sup—out yonder among the roses?” “What could be better?” “Then take a saddle-cloth and spread it on the grass. I will follow.” She came out to him there with a great pewter dish on which were wooden platters, a knife, the manchet of bread, a jar of honey, and two cups of maplewood. Fulk had the wine that Knollys had given him. “This will serve—for a night.” “Wine and honey and white bread. And yet I have no hunger in me, Isoult.” She smiled in his eyes. “Go, fetch the lute, while I lay the board.” He went, like a man dreaming, and returned to find her cutting the manchet into slices and spreading them with honey. “To-morrow you shall see how I can cook. White meat and broth and bread, and wine-cakes and honey-manna! I bid you be hungry, or my hands will be grieved.” They made their meal there, while the sun sank to the horizon, its level rays pouring over the woods and fringing the tree-tops with fire. The red roses glowed with a transparent brilliance, like precious stones. The grassland track between the woods had become a gulf of gloom. The water under the farther bank lay black as ink, but the willows above it were dusted with gold. Fulk poured wine into the maplewood cups. He watched Isoult drink, her white throat showing. “A pledge, Isoult, a pledge.” They touched cups, looking into each other’s eyes. “To my dear lady.” “To my dear lord.” Dusk drew on. The west was all gold, the trees black as ebony, the water in the pool still as glass. Isoult took the lute and touched the strings. “Sing, my desire, sing!” “What shall I sing to you?” “I care not, so that I hear your voice.” So Isoult sang to him—first, an old Breton lay of love and enchantment and old forests and great deeds of arms. The dusk deepened, and she sat mute for a moment, her fingers striking an occasional note from the strings. Her face seemed to grow whiter, her hair more black, and her eyes had a deeper mystery. Then she began to sing, a song out of her own heart.