Isolda's art he gladly owned; with herbs, simples and healing salves the wounds from which he suffered she nursed in skilful wise.

Though "Tantris"

The name that he took unto him, as "Tristan"

anon Isolda knew him, when in the sick man's keen blade she perceived a notch had been made, wherein did fit a splinter broken in Morold's head, the mangled token sent home in hatred rare: this hand did find it there.

I heard a voice from distance dim; with the sword in hand I came to him.

Full well I willed to slay him, for Morold's death to pay him.

But from his sick bed he looked up not at the sword, not at my arm-- his eyes on mine were fastened, and his feebleness softened my heart: the sword--dropped from my fingers.

Though Morold's steel had maimed him to health again I reclaimed him!

when he hath homeward wended my emotion then might be ended.

BRANGaeNA.

O wondrous! Why could I not see this?

The guest I sometime helped to nurse--?

ISOLDA.

His praise briskly they sing now:-- "Bravo, our brave Tristan!"-- he was that distressful man.

A thousand protestations of truth and love he prated.

Hear how a knight fealty knows!-- When as Tantris unforbidden he'd left me, as Tristan boldly back he came, in stately ship from which in pride Ireland's heiress in marriage he asked for Mark, the Cornish monarch, his kinsman worn and old.

In Morold's lifetime dared any have dreamed to offer us such an insult?

For the tax-paying Cornish prince to presume to court Ireland's princess!

Ah, woe is me!

I it was who for myself did shape this shame!

with death-dealing sword should I have stabbed him; weakly it escaped me:-- now serfdom I have shaped me.

Curse him, the villain!

Curse on his head!

Vengeance! Death!

Death for me too!

BRANGaeNA (_throwing herself upon_ ISOLDA _with impetuous tenderness_).

Isolda! lady!

loved one! fairest!

sweet perfection!

mistress rarest!

Hear me! come now, sit thee here.--

(_Gradually draws_ ISOLDA _to the couch_.)

What a whim!

what causeless railing!

How came you so wrong-minded and by mere fancy blinded?

Sir Tristan gives thee Cornwall's kingdom; then, were he erst thy debtor, how could he reward thee better?

His n.o.ble uncle serves he so: think too what a gift on thee he'd bestow!

With honor unequalled all he's heir to at thy feet he seeks to shower, to make thee a queenly dower.

(ISOLDA _turns away_.)

If wife he'd make thee unto King Mark why wert thou in this wise complaining?

Is he not worth thy gaining?

Of royal race and mild of mood, who pa.s.ses King Mark in might and power?

If a n.o.ble knight like Tristan serves him, who would not but feel elated, so fairly to be mated.

ISOLDA (_gazing vacantly before her_).

Glorious knight!

And I must near him loveless ever languish!

How can I support such anguish?

BRANGaeNA.

What's this, my lady?

loveless thou?

(_Approaching coaxingly and kissing_ ISOLDA.)

Where lives there a man would not love thee?

Who could see Isolda And not sink at once into bondage blest?

And if e'en it could be any were cold, did any magic draw him from thee, I'd bring the false one back to bondage, And bind him in links of love.--

(_Secretly and confidentially, close to_ ISOLDA.)

Mindest thou not thy mother's arts?

Think you that she who'd mastered those would have sent me o'er the sea, without a.s.sistance for thee?

ISOLDA (_darkly_).

My mother's rede I mind aright, and highly her magic arts I hold:-- Vengeance they wreak for wrongs, rest give to wounded spirits.-- Yon casket hither bear.

BRANGaeNA.

It holds a balm for thee.--

(_She brings forward a small golden coffer, opens it, and points to its contents_.)

Thy mother placed inside it her subtle magic potions.

There's salve for sickness or for wounds, and antidotes for deadly drugs.--

(_She takes a bottle_.)

The helpfullest draught I hold in here.

ISOLDA.

Not so, I know a better.

I make a mark to know it again-- This draught 'tis I would drain.

(_Seizes flask and shows it_.)

BRANGaeNA (_recoiling in horror_).

The draught of death!

(ISOLDA _has risen from the sofa and now hears with increasing dread the cries of the sailors_.)

VOICES OF THE CREW (_without_).

"Ho! heave ho! hey!

Reduce the sail!