Fulk went across in the boat that afternoon and set up an old smock he had found in the stable, on a stake thrust into the bank. He and Isoult stood by the sun-dial, and shot at the mark in turn. Isoult’s first arrow flew over and stuck in the grass. Fulk’s struck the stake and broke. She turned and laughed. “Now your head is in the air! I will shoot the smock off the stake before you will.” He watched her bend her bow, her face intent, her eyes steady. The bow string sang. He saw the arrow strike the smock and jerk it off the stake as though a hand had snatched it away. Her dark eyes teased him. “That was a brave shot.” He laughed with her and for her, his pride of love mounting. “What a mate for a man! When we go adventuring you shall carry the bow.” Towards evening they put out in the boat, Isoult with her lute, Fulk sitting in the prow and handling the pole. He let the boat drift, giving an occasional thrust with the pole, so that they moved from the willow shadows into the sunlight, and from the sunlight into the shadows. Sometimes Isoult sang, but more often they were silent, knowing that their eyes could say all that their lips could have uttered. Neither of them saw a grey thing crawling through the long grass towards one of the thickets that touched the very edge of the mere. The crawling figure reached the tangle of hazels and hollies, wriggled through, and, rising on its knees, peered cautiously over the water. The boat had drifted close to the willows that grew on the farther bank. Fulk was leaning forward over the pole, Isoult touching the strings of the lute. The evening sunlight played upon the water, dappling it with gold between the network of shadows. Merlin’s hand went to the knife at his girdle. “Fools, have you forgotten me?” He knelt there among the hazels, biting his nails, black jealousy in his blood. “I bide my time, Master Fulk; I bide my time.” And that night Fulk again slept across Isoult’s door, his naked sword beside him. But no one crossed the water. The moon shone on it, and there was not a ripple. CHAPTER XXXII Fulk slept heavily that night, so heavily that when the day had come he did not hear the opening of Isoult’s door. Stepping over him as he lay, she stood for a moment, looking down at him and at the naked sword by his side. “Had it been an enemy, something would have warned thee, Fulk. They would not have caught thee sleeping.” She bent over him dearly, her hair almost brushing against his face. “Sleep on, dear lad. Were I to kiss thee thou wouldst wake.” She passed down the stairway into the hall, and noiselessly unbarring the door, went out into the garden. It was very early and very still, and, like yesterday, a morning of white mist and stealthy sunlight. The trees, the rose bushes, and the grass were grey with dew, and the willows drooped over water that was smooth as glass.