For seven days and seven nights the sea so drew him; at times to charm
his grief, he harped; and when at last the sea brought him near a
shore where fishermen had left their port that night to fish far out,
they heard as they rowed a sweet and strong and living tune that ran
above the sea, and feathering their oars they listened immovable.
In the first whiteness of the dawn they saw the boat at large: she
went at random and nothing seemed to live in her except the voice of
the harp. But as they neared, the air grew weaker and died; and when
they hailed her Tristan's hands had fallen lifeless on the strings
though they still trembled. The fishermen took him in and bore him
back to port, to their lady who was merciful and perhaps would heal
him.
It was that same port of Whitehaven where the Morholt lay, and their
lady was Iseult the Fair.
She alone, being skilled in philtres, could save Tristan, but she
alone wished him dead. When Tristan knew himself again (for her art
restored him) he knew himself to be in the land of peril. But he was
yet strong to hold his own and found good crafty words. He told a tale
of how he was a seer that had taken passage on a merchant ship and
sailed to Spain to learn the art of reading all the stars,--of how
pirates had boarded the ship and of how, though wounded, he had fled
into that boat.
Pages:
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26