And, "Friend," said he, "it is the
King's sword. It should have slain, but it spared us."
Iseult took the sword, and kissed the hilt of gold, and Tristan saw
her weeping.
"Friend," said he, "if I could make my peace with the King; if he
would allow me to sustain in arms that neither by act nor word have I
loved you with a wrongful love, any knight from the Marshes of Ely
right away to Dureaume that would gainsay me, would find me armed in
the ring. Then if the King would keep you and drive me out I would
cross to the Lowlands or to Brittany with Gorvenal alone. But wherever
I went and always, Queen, I should be yours; nor would I have spoken
thus, Iseult, but for the wretchedness you bear so long for my sake in
this desert land."
"Tristan," she said, "there is the hermit Ogrin. Let us return to him,
and cry mercy to the King of Heaven."
They wakened Gorvenal; Iseult mounted the steed, and Tristan led it by
the bridle, and all night long they went for the last time through the
woods of their love, and they did not speak a word. By morning they
came to the Hermitage, where Ogrin read at the threshold, and seeing
them, called them tenderly:
"Friends," he cried, "see how Love drives you still to further
wretchedness. Will you not do penance at last for your madness?"
"Lord Ogrin," said Tristan, "hear us.
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