It may be doubted if the instincts of the earth-born can ever pierce
the trappings of a knight-at-arms. They trust in emotions which such
gear is designed to hide or transfigure. Isoult, observe, had caught
Prosper out of his harness, when before the face of the sky she had
thrilled him to pity. But when once he had stooped to her, for the
very fact, she made haste to set him up on high in her heart, and in
more seemly guise. There and thenceforward he stood on his pedestal
figured, not as a pitiful saviour (whom a girl must be taught to
worship), but as an armed god who suffered her homage. She was no
better (or no worse, if you will) than the rest of her sex in this,
that she loved to love, and was bewildered to be loved. So she would
never get him out of armour again. Her god might not stoop.