Tenderly had they cherished him of
old, and had he taken some wound, they healed him, for they were
skilled in balms and potions. But now their magic was vain, for he lay
dead and the splinter of the foreign brand yet stood in his skull till
Iseult plucked it out and shut it in a chest.
From that day Iseult the Fair knew and hated the name of Tristan of
Lyonesse.
But over in Tintagel Tristan languished, for there trickled a
poisonous blood from his wound. The doctors found that the Morholt had
thrust into him a poisoned barb, and as their potions and their
theriac could never heal him they left him in God's hands. So hateful
a stench came from his wound that all his dearest friends fled him,
all save King Mark, Gorvenal and Dinas of Lidan. They always could
stay near his couch because their love overcame their abhorrence. At
last Tristan had himself carried into a boat apart on the shore; and
lying facing the sea he awaited death, for he thought: "I must die;
but it is good to see the sun and my heart is still high. I would like
to try the sea that brings all chances. ... I would have the sea bear me
far off alone, to what land no matter, so that it heal me of my
wound."
He begged so long that King Mark accepted his desire. He bore him into
a boat with neither sail nor oar, and Tristan wished that his harp
only should be placed beside him: for sails he could not lift, nor oar
ply, nor sword wield; and as a seaman on some long voyage casts to the
sea a beloved companion dead, so Gorvenal pushed out to sea that boat
where his dear son lay; and the sea drew him away.
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