Through mist that filled his eyes, he pictured her
More as a white and lovely thing to kill
With words than as a woman who was waiting
For truth already told. “Isolt—my child!”
He faltered, and because he was her father,
His anguish for the blow that he was giving
Felt the blow first for her.
More as a white and lovely thing to kill
With words than as a woman who was waiting
For truth already told. “Isolt—my child!”
He faltered, and because he was her father,
His anguish for the blow that he was giving
Felt the blow first for her.
“You are so kind
To me, my father,” she said softly to him,
“That you will hold behind you now the knife
You bring with you, first having let me see it.
You are too kind. I said then to Gawaine
That he would not come back. Tristram is dead.
So—tell me all there is. I shall not die.
I have died too many times already for that.
I shall not ever die. Where was he, father?”
Her face was whiter and her large gray eyes
Glimmered with tears that waited.
To me, my father,” she said softly to him,
“That you will hold behind you now the knife
You bring with you, first having let me see it.
You are too kind. I said then to Gawaine
That he would not come back. Tristram is dead.
So—tell me all there is. I shall not die.
I have died too many times already for that.
I shall not ever die. Where was he, father?”
Her face was whiter and her large gray eyes
Glimmered with tears that waited.
He told her then
A tale, by Gouvernail and himself twice-tempered,
Of Tristram on his way to Brittany,
Having seen that other Isolt, by Mark’s reprieve,
A tale, by Gouvernail and himself twice-tempered,
Of Tristram on his way to Brittany,
Having seen that other Isolt, by Mark’s reprieve,
[ 202 ]
