She could not finish what she longed to say. As for Prosper, he was in
another world; it is doubtful whether he heard her.
"Countess," he said, "I can tell you nothing as yet. I know but half
of the truth. But I must find out the whole, and to-morrow I will tell
you what I mean to do. You must have me excused for this night."
She knew that she could say nothing more, although she had never yet
seen him in this mood. But he reminded her strongly of his father; she
felt that he and she had changed places and ages. So she bowed her
head, and when she lifted it he was gone.
Pacing his room Prosper tried to reason out his tangle. This was not
so easy as fighting, for he was pulled two different ways. Salomon de
Montguichet was the dead man whom the lady had in the wood--that was
clear. Galors had Salomon de Montguichet's arms--that too was clear.
The trouble was to connect the two strings. What had Galors to do with
the lady? Which of them had killed Salomon de Montguichet, or de Born,
to give him his real name? How did this threaten Isoult? For the
massed events of the long day drove him at last face to face with
Isoult. He had sworn upon all knightly honour to save her neck. He
thought he had saved it, but now he was not so sure. There was
something undefinably sinister, some foreboding about the turn matters
had taken (matters so diverse in their beginning) that day. Was he
sure he had saved her? He must certainly be sure, he thought. Had he
not sworn? And after all, she was his wife. That should count for
something. He was not disposed to rate marriage highly; he knew very
little about it, but he felt that it should count for something. The
honour of the man's wife touched the honour of the man. Again, she was
a very good girl. He recalled her--submissive, patient, recollected,
pacing beside him on her donkey, as they brushed their way through
brown beechwoods and stained wet bracken. He remembered her at her
prayers--how kindly she took to the devotion. She was different from
the hour she was a good Christian, he swore. Ah, so he had given her
more than a free neck! He had given her pride in herself; nay, he had
quickened a soul languid for want of spiritual food. And she looked
very well praying. She was good-looking, he thought. Oh, she was a
good girl!
But surely she was well where she was, could hardly be better. Galors
had a split throat; he would be in Saint Thorn, crying peccavi
in Chapter, and gaining salvation with every sting of the scourge. The
woman in the wood he had distrusted from the first moment he saw her
watching eyes. She was bad through and through; she might be a worse
enemy than Galors, or a church-load of pursy monks. But it was
impossible that she should have anything to do with Galors, clean
impossible. And if she had--why, he was going to her to-morrow, and
would find out. Meantime, he would go to bed. Yes, he might go to bed.
Was not Gracedieu sanctuary? Ah, he had forgotten that! All was well.