silence as though ravished and apart; she saw before them the pitcher
standing there; she snatched it up and cast it into the shuddering sea
and cried aloud: “Cursed be the day I was born and cursed the day that
first I trod this deck. Iseult, my friend, and Tristan, you, you have
drunk death together.”

And once more the bark ran free for Tintagel. But it seemed to Tristan
as though an ardent briar, sharp-thorned but with flower most sweet
smelling, drave roots into his blood and laced the lovely body of
Iseult all round about it and bound it to his own and to his every
thought and desire. And he thought, “Felons, that charged me with
coveting King Mark’s land, I have come lower by far, for it is not his
land I covet. Fair uncle, who loved me orphaned ere ever you knew in
me the blood of your sister Blanchefleur, you that wept as you bore me
to that boat alone, why did you not drive out the boy that was to
betray you? Ah! What thought was that! Iseult is yours and I am but
your vassal; Iseult is yours and I am your son; Iseult is yours and
may not love me.”

But Iseult loved him, though she would have hated. She could not hate,
for a tenderness more sharp than hatred tore her.

And Brangien watched them in anguish, suffering more cruelly because
she alone knew the depth of evil done.

Two days she watched them, seeing them refuse all food or comfort and
seeking each other as blind men seek, wretched apart and together more
wretched still, for then they trembled each for the first avowal.

On the third day, as Tristan neared the tent on deck where Iseult sat,