Prosper started, drew his sword, and headed his horse for the quarry.
In the mouth of it he reined up to look about him. He was sure of his
direction, but not of his way, "Help is here!" he cried with his sword
on high and red plumes nodding. Air and the light of the sun seemed to
follow him, as if he had cut a slit in a shroud and let in the day.
Then it was that Isoult found strength to shake free from her enemy,
to run to Prosper, to clasp his knee, to babble broken words,
entreaties for salvation, and to stoop to his foot and kiss it.

"What is all this about, my child?" asked Prosper wondering.

"Oh" cried the girl, "my lord! the monk seeks to do me a wrong, and a
shame greater than all!"

Prosper looked deeper into the quarry. There he saw Galors, the white
monk, who stood fixed, biting his nails keenly there. Then he laughed,
saying, "I cannot fight a monk," and sheathed his sword. He did not
love monks, none of his house did. He had seen the new gallows, could
measure the build of the fellow in the quarry; and though he could not
plumb the girl's soul through her misty eyes, he could read her
shaking lips and clinging hands; he could see, and be shocked to see,
how young she was to be acquainted with grief, and with sin how likely
familiar. The hint of the thing revolted him; he dared not leave her
there.

"See here, child," said he, "I will set you before me, and we will
ride together for a while. Perhaps the evening chills will temper the
monk; but if not, I am to lodge at his abbey this night, and may
prepare that for him which will cool him. Will you come up to me?"