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<h2 id="id02012" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XXXIV</h2> <h5 id="id02013">LA DESIRÉE</h5> Prosper broke the silence there was between them. "Whither should we go?" he said. Isoult took the lead. "Follow me, I will lead you. I know the ways." A great constraint kept him tongue-tied. The prize was his; the silence, the emptiness, the night, gave him what his sword had earned. He trembled but dared not put out his hand. What was he—good Lord!—to touch so rare a thing? He hardly might look at her. The moon showed him a light muffled figure swaying to the rhythm of the march, the round of her hooded head, the swing of her body, the play of her white hand on the rein. Whenever he dared to look her face was turned to his; he saw the moon-glint in her eyes. He absolutely had nothing to say, and for the first time in his life felt a clumsy fool. By all which it would seem that love is a virtue going out of a man as much as any that enters in. Isoult was in very different plight, enjoying her brief moment of triumph, making as it were the most of it. When a woman loves she humbles herself, and every prostration is matter for an ecstasy. Her love returned, she ventured to be proud; but this is against the grain. It is more blessed to give. The freed soul welcomes the prison-gates and hugs the yoke and the chain. Just now she was on the verge of her freedom. In thus looking at him who had been her lord yesterday and would be her lord to-morrow, she was taking his measure. In her exalted mood she found that she could read him like a book. There was no doubt about his present docility, but could she dare to mould it? She must woo, she saw; dare she trail this steel-armed lord of battles, this grim executant, this trumpet of God, as a led child by her girdle-ribbons? If hero he had proved in his own walk, to be sure he shambled pitifully on the edge of hers. Her superiority sparkled so hard and frosty-bright that she began to pity him; and so the maid was thawed to be the mother of her man. Isoult knew she must beguile him now for his soul's ease and her own. When the ride grew broad and ran like a spit into a lake of soft dark she stopped. There was moss here, there were lichened heather-roots, rowan bushes, and a ring of slim birches, silver-shafted, feather-crowned and light; more than all there was a little pool of water which two rills fed. "We will stay here," said Isoult. Prosper dismounted and helped her down. She felt him trembling as he held her, whereat her courage rose clear and high. "I will disarm you"—had she not done it, indeed!—"and dress your hurts. Then you shall rest and I look at you at last." "I am not much hurt. We could well go on." "Nay, you must let me do as I will now. I must disarm you. 'Tis my right." She did it, kneeling at his knees or standing before him. For once he was that delight of a woman in love, her plaything, her toy—her baby, in a word. She girdled him with her arms at need; her fingers busy at neck or cheek-pieces unlaced the helm. "Now kneel." He obeyed her, and she grew tenderly deft over his wounds. She washed them clean, bound them up with strips torn from her skirt. She pushed back his hair from eyes and brows, and washed him clean of blood and sweat and rage. Her petticoat was her towel; she would have used her hair, but that she dared not lose command of herself and him. She wished for once to draw him, not to be drawn. She knelt down on the moss, touching her lap meaningly as she did so. "Rest here," said the gesture; "rest here, my dear heart," said the smile that flew with it. He knelt beside her—all went well up to this. The moon was low, the night wearing; but the pure light came flowing through a rent in the trees, and she caught his look upon her. She tried, but she could not meet it. Then it befell her that she would not meet it if she could. Prosper took something from his breast. "Look," he said, as he held it up. She watched it quivering in the moonbeams; her eyes brimmed; she grew blush-red, divinely ashamed. "Hold your hand out," said Prosper. She had risen to her knees; they were kneeling face to face, very near. Isoult's hands were crossed at her neck. Prosper remembered the gesture. Now she held out her left hand and let him crown it. He held on—alas! he was growing master every minute. "Isoult." "Yes." "Oh, my dear love, Isoult! Now I shall wed thee, Isoult the Much-Desired." She began to shake. But she put her hands up till they rested on his shoulders. She laughed in a low thrilled tone. "I am La Desirée now, and no longer La Desirous. For what I desired was another's desire." Also she said—"Kiss my mouth, and I shall believe that thou speakest the truth of the heart." He held her with his hands, looking long and steadily; nor did her eyes refuse him now. Love was awake and crying between the pair. He drew her nearer, kissed her on the eyes and on the mouth; and she grew red and loved him dearly. So in the soft night, under the forest trees, in the hush that falls before dawn, those two kissed and comforted one another. It was as in a field of blood that the rod of love thrust into flower at last. But the forest which had seen the graft held the flower by right. None watched their espousal save the trees and the mild faces of the stars. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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