She struck a few thin, plaintive notes, and her voice was a mere murmur: “Pride goes with a valiant heart; Honour is my desire. I would not ride with patchwork men When a kingdom is on fire.” Her fingers leapt suddenly to a crackling and jaunty tune, and she began to sing some ditty that went like a drunken horseman galloping a young horse. It was for Merlin that she sang—Merlin, whose presence she felt away yonder in the near shadows of the fir wood. From the valley came a roaring of voices shouting the old refrain, and Isoult dashed her own empty ditty aside like a cup of bad wine: “When Adam delved and Eve span, Where was then the gentleman?” “Listen,” and her chin went up scornfully. “Listen to the dogs howling! I have heard it all day.” Fulk watched the little black figures jerking round the fires. “Some day they shall discover the why and the wherefore,” he said. “As for me, has my pride turned against them already? I tell you that one day has been sufficient, with the sweat and the smell of these cattle.” “So fickle—and so soon!” “Sometimes one sees the truth very suddenly; these unclean beasts were made for the yoke and the goad.” His eyes were ironical. “And yet, Isoult, you were sent to tempt me.” “It is true. And I was ready to tell you the truth. I—in my turn—have been tempted.” “By Merlin?” “Yes, and no. I’ll not tell you my story. No man yet has earned a right to that. But this much I will breathe to you. I was driven like a bird over the sea, and the hate and wrath in my heart were bitter against all those who called themselves of gentle blood, and whose pride was a mere ruffian’s castle. Who succoured and saved me in those evil days? A burner of charcoal, a cook’s boy, and a harlot! They were chivalrous when the great ones were lustful and treacherous. So I swore a feud against all men who carried a device upon their shields, all those who wore gilded spurs. Hence, many adventures and a voice that has sung to the poor.” In the dusk under the trees her eyes held his, and from her red mouth the words came with the vehemence of a rhapsody. Fulk felt like the strings of her lute swept by the fingers of that dim hand that now rested among the bracken. The pale vehemence of her beauty called to the man in him with the clashing of cymbals and the wailing of flutes. He thrust his face nearer to hers, almost fiercely. “Isoult, have a care; I am no mere boy.” She drew in a deep breath. “A boy? You, with that fierce mouth and eyes like a hawk’s! The naked soul of a woman calls only to the naked soul of a man. I’m not one to plead and wheedle. What did Merlin desire? That I should debauch you into playing the King.” He set his jaw at her, and his hands strained at the thongs. “I guessed it.”