Isoult was barefooted, her hair hanging about her, and, barefooted, she walked down the path to the grass bank by the willows. The boat lay moored close by, its black timber reflected in the water. Isoult threw off her blue tunic and hung it on the nearest willow; the white shift followed the blue tunic. She stepped into the boat, and, standing on the seat in the stern, looked down at herself in the water. Her hair hung round her like a black mantle, her shoulders gleaming through. She gathered it up, and fastened it into a net that she had brought with her, and all the white beauty of her body stood displayed, as pure and miraculous a thing as human eyes could look upon. For a minute she stood there, her whiteness mirrored in the water, smiling to herself, and moving her arms with a sinuous and swaying indolence. She knew herself to be part of the enchantment of the hour, part of its secret and innocent wonder. The morning’s eyes were grey and soft and misty, and Isoult’s eyes were as soft and as mysterious as the eyes of the morning. But there were other eyes that looked at her over the water—carnal eyes that gloated over her beauty and coveted it. She suspected no peril, thinking herself alone with the mist and the grey willows. Raising her arms above her head, she stood poised for a moment on the gunwale, and then took her plunge, going in clean as an arrow. Coming up, she turned on her side and struck out for the deep water, swimming with an overhand stroke, one white flank showing now and again. Fulk awoke just as Isoult gave herself to the water. He sat up, saw the open door, and was on his feet, holding his sword. “Isoult!” There was no answer. He looked into her room, with a lover’s shyness, saw the empty bed, and a cloak lying on a stool. Then he laughed, remembering something she had said to him the night before. The door of the hall stood open. Fulk left his sword and dagger lying on the daïs table, and went to search for her in the garden, but no one answered when he called. He had reached the dial on its pedestal when he caught sight of the blue tunic and the white shift hanging on the willow tree, and he saw, too, that the mere was troubled, and that ripples were moving, although there was no wind. Fulk stepped into the boat, and through the mist that still hung thinly over the water saw Isoult swimming in the mere. She had circled the island, and was keeping towards the farther bank, and her face, turned towards him, seemed to float upon the water. “Isoult.” Her laughter came over the mere. “What, awake at last, sluggard!” She lifted a white arm. “I can ride with you, and shoot with you, and I would match you in the water. There’s a challenge!” His man’s laughter, deep and quiet, crossed over to meet hers. “Perhaps I should be beaten!” “Faint heart. I dare you to race me.”