Merlin had crept up like a shadow, knife raised. And as Fulk half turned, Isoult ran between them, striking at Merlin’s knife with her arm, and was stabbed between the wrist and elbow for her courage. Fulk swung a hasty blow at Merlin and knocked him flat. But the blade had not bitten. A long, red bruise showed across the friar’s forehead. His wits had been rattled like dice in a dice-box. “Run, run!” She caught Fulk’s wrist, and he saw her arm all red where Merlin’s knife had smitten her. “Let me settle with this damned priest!” “You are blood mad—run! There are more to come, I tell you. Hear them giving tongue.” True enough, they heard men running through the beech wood, shouting as they ran. Fulk shouldered his sword and gripped Isoult’s hand. It was to be a race to the mere; the feet that rustled the dead leaves in the wood came on like a March wind. “Art faint, Isoult?” He looked in her eyes as they ran side by side. “It was nothing—a mere bodkin prick through the flesh.” He lifted her arm and pressed his lips to it, even where the blood reddened it. “My desire, twice have you given me of your blood.” “Do I grudge it?” “Not yet have I matched it with mine.” They reached the grassland and saw the mere all silver with the slant of the morning sunlight, and the boat lying by the bank. Fulk fell behind Isoult now that they were in the open, letting her hand go. A glance over the shoulder showed him Merlin’s pack in full cry through the beech wood. “Why are you behind me?” “Keep your breath—and run.” He was covering her, remembering how that chance arrow had struck her down that night when they had made a dash to escape from Merlin and his Sussex rebels. They reached the mere. Isoult sprang into the boat, and Fulk followed, throwing his sword into the stern and picking up the pole. He had thrust the boat off as he climbed in. “Down, Isoult, lie down.” An arrow struck the gunwale and stood quivering there when they were half across the mere. A second hissed into the water close to the boat; another struck the pole and snapped in two. The boat touched the landing-stage. Fulk dropped the pole and caught Isoult under the shoulders. “Up; keep behind me.” “I’ll not hide behind you.” “Love is a shield.” He half lifted her out of the boat, bent for an instant to throw the ring of the chain over the post and to snatch up his sword. “Now!” They made their dash for the house, and reached the porch untouched. Fulk caught Isoult’s face between his hands and kissed her on the lips. CHAPTER XXXIV They were breathless, both of them, and exultant, though Death in a grey friar’s frock raged to and fro beyond the water. Fulk closed the heavy, nail-studded door of the hall, and, standing on a stool, took a look at the enemy through one of the narrow windows.