Now about the time that Merlin passed by the Ghost Oak, Fulk Ferrers stood outside Isoult’s door with a cup of water and a platter of bread and meat. He had taken them out of the cook-maid’s hands and left her gaping and looking at Dame Ferrers. Fulk unlocked the door, pushed it open with his foot, and had no need to tell himself that he had not thought to find the woman at her prayers. She was kneeling by the window, the sunlight falling upon the curve of a white neck and the silver net that covered her hair. She did not stir or look round at him, but kept her eyes shut and her hands folded over her bosom. Fulk crossed the room softly, set the cup and plate on a stool, drew back, and waited by the door. It may have been in his mind that Isoult of the Rose did not know who had deigned to serve her, and that to a woman who prayed with her eyes closed one footstep was very like another. She remained motionless, and Fulk waited, watching her, meaning to be gone, and yet not going. This woman was a creature of surprises, a creature more wild and subtle than any hart he had ever tracked and hunted in the forest. “Good-morning, Messire Fulk.” He stared, for she had neither moved nor opened her eyes, for he had been watching her. “It seems that you see with your ears!” he said. “Yes, and with my nostrils and my fingers.” “Even while you say your prayers!” “I was praying for you, Messire Fulk, therefore I knew you, though my eyes were closed.” She turned and gave him the full challenge of her opened eyes—eyes in which there was neither laughter nor raillery, but rather a prophetic pity. The Polecat had been to her window during the night, and the Polecat’s claws were to be dreaded because of those magicians whom the Polecat served. Fulk hovered there like a hawk, not seeing anything upon which his reason could pounce. “Madame Isoult, wherefore do you pray for me?” “Because of your great need.” “Think you I need your prayers?” “Far more than I need yours.” He was puzzled, both by the singing softness of her voice, and by the intent way in which she regarded him. “I have no knowledge of needing a woman’s prayers.” “No? Yet, good sir, since you will keep me here I must pray for you, even though my prayers may be of no avail.” He came a step forward, looking at her steadfastly. “Always riddles!” She returned his look as steadfastly. “You are young, Messire Fulk, and it is hard that a young man should come to a sudden end.” “You are for making a ghost out of a sheet and a candle!” Her eyes flashed. “Not so. But I have a kind of pity for that stiff neck of yours. Not very often have I found such stiffness in a man, and in a young man! But go to, now, I talk to a winter frost. Yet it may so fall out that you shall have cause to thank me.” He stood at gaze, and her face was the crystal into which he looked.