“Hear now the wind through the aspens, And the swallows calling; And into my heart they come, The whispering of the aspen leaves And the sound of the swallows calling, Listen—listen. A strange joy steals over. There is a breath on my lips, And into my eyes flashes the faith of a sword. Dear lord, is thy blood as red As the blood in my heart? Whither shall we go? Out into strange lands, into the south, Under the same stars? And I will hold thee, And thy honour as mine. Listen—listen! The swallows are calling, And I hear the great rivers Running to the sea.” The dusk deepened. They clasped hands, and sat looking into each other’s eyes, and at the dark waters of the mere. The glow died out of the west; night came like the dew. A moon was climbing when they rose and went up through the garden to the house. “Isoult, I am your watchman to-night.” “I shall sleep and not fear.” Fulk had left flint and steel, tinder, and two torches ready on a bench in the hall. He struck a light, kindled the torches, thrust one into a cresset on the wall, and bore the other. “My lady goes to her chamber.” He passed up the stairs before her to the solar, thrust the door open, and stood aside for her to enter. “Sleep, Isoult, and have no fear.” Her eyes looked into his. “Dear heart, I will pray for you.” He gave her the torch, and she passed in, and Fulk closed the door after her. He brought up a bundle of straw and a dorser from the hall, made himself a bed there, and lay before her door that night, his naked sword beside him. CHAPTER XXXI Dawn came and Fulk awoke, to see through the arch of the doorway where the steps went down into the hall, the rays of light striking in through the narrow windows. Everything was very still. He arose noiselessly, and going down into the hall, went out through the great doorway into the garden. A curtain of mist covered the mere, though the tops of the willows were glimmering in the sunlight. The roses were laden with dew, and the grass about the sun-dial was a carpet of silver grey. The delight of the dawn stirred in his blood, the still, stealthy freshness of it all, the mystery, the moist perfumes. He went down to the mere’s edge, where the water lay black and still under the mist. The lure of the still water drew him. He stripped, hanging his clothes on a willow, and climbing into the stern of the barge, took his plunge thence, and came up in the thick of a ring of ripples.