Merlin’s eyes shone out from under the shadow of his cowl. He pulled up a stool, and, spreading his hands to the blaze, spoke of the roughness of the weather. “And yet our Rose blooms,” said he; “and the young man of the quarry, is he as cold as the wind out of the north?” She did not look at Merlin, but her eyes were dark and set steadily towards some inward thought. “He is—what he is.” “Does the scent of the rose count for nothing in June? Come now, what have you seen, my daughter?” She answered him slowly, almost grudgingly. “The third finger of the left hand is crooked. A blow from a quarter-staff broke it. And over the right eyebrow there is a small brown mole.” “Good. You would know this apple from another?” She nodded. Merlin spread his arms dramatically, and then stared in silence at the fire. The eyes under the cowl glistened, and the harsh face with its savage sagacity looked hungry and exultant. “We have two puppets and two strings! Speak to me, Isoult. Let me hear what you have to tell.” She rested her chin on her fist. “I have nothing to tell. I will wager that you cannot take the hood from that hawk and make him fly as you please.” “Say you so! But a young man may be persuaded, and you—my daughter——” “I, too, have the fettle of a falcon.” “Am I a fool? But what have you done? How have you played with him?” “Merlin, be careful how you tempt me to be angry!” He looked at her intently, and then, leaning forward, began to speak with a whispering eagerness, his voice sounding like the blowing of a wind through a crack in a shutter. Isoult sat back, rigid, her eyes staring at the fire, her throat stiffening, her lips pressed together. She was very white when he uttered the first words, but a slow surge of blood rose into her face, and her eyes glittered like water touched by the sun at dawn. Suddenly she started up, and her face flamed. “Enough! Am I to listen to this?” Merlin stroked the air with his hands. “My daughter, I speak advisedly. Is it not a glory to any woman for her to make and unmake kings? And this Fulk is not unworthy. The blood of a great prince runs in him.” She walked to and fro, and then stood and looked down at him with a scorn that she did not dissemble. “No. I sing no such song for you, Master Merlin. By my troth, I bid you beware.” He waved his hands with the same smoothing motion, and dared to meet her eyes. “My daughter, you are in too hot a hurry. The King of the Commons will not have to wed a princess out of France or Spain. She who is comely and proud and valiant can sit by such a king. Come now—consider.” “Merlin, I know that tongue of yours.” “Let us leave it to Dame Nature, Isoult. Love leaps in where he pleases.” “I give you neither yea nor nay.” “In that I must find my comfort.”