While Prosper is galloping after Dom Galors, and Dom Galors is
galloping after Isoult, let us turn to that unconscious lady who hides
her limbs in a pair of ragged breeches, and her bloom under the grime
of coal-dust. Her cloud of hair, long now and lustrous, out of all
measure to her pretence, she was accustomed to shorten by doubling it
under her cap. An odd fancy had taken her which prevented a second
shearing. If Prosper loved her she dared not go unlovely any more. Her
hair curtained her when she bathed in the brook and the sun. Beyond
doubt it was beautiful; it was Prosper's; she must keep it untouched.
This gave her an infinity of bother, but at the same time an infinity
of delight. She took pride in it, observed its rate of growth very
minutely; another fancy was, that before it reached her knees she
should give it with all herself to its master. It is so easy to
confuse desires with gratifications, and hopes with accomplishments,
that you will not be surprised if I go on to say, that she soon made
the growth of her hair data by which to calculate her restoration
to his side. She was to have a rude awakening, as you shall judge.
The July heats lay over the forest like a pall, stilled all the leaves
and beat upon the parched ground. Isoult, seduced by the water and her
joy to be alone with her ring, audacious too by use, took longer
leave. So long leave she took one day that it became a question of
dinner. The one solemn hour of the twenty-four was in peril. Falve was
sent to find her, and took his stick. But he never used it; for he
found, not Roy indeed, but Roy's rags on the brookside, and over the
brook on the high bank a lady, veiled only in her hair, singing to
herself. He stood transported, Actaeon in his own despite, then softly
withdrew. Roy got back in his time, cooked the dinner, and had no
drubbing. Then came the meal, with an ominous innovation.
They sat in a ring on the grass round an iron pot. Each had a fork
with which he fished for himself. Down came Falve smirking, and sat
himself by Isoult. He had a flower in his hand.
"I plucked this for my mistress," says he, "but failing her I give it
to my master."
She had to take it, with a sick smile. She had a sicker heart.
The horrid play went on. Falve grinned and shrugged like a Frenchman.
He fed her with his fork--"Eat of this, my minion;" forced his cup to
her lips--"Drink, honey, where I have drunk." He drank deep and,
blinking like a night-bird, said solemnly-"We have called you Jack, to our shame. Your name shall properly be
called Roy, for you should be a king."