ccess. Now Ysonde of Brittany overheard all that was said,
her jealous fears were confirmed, and she resolved to be revenged upon
her husband.

Ganhardin voyaged quickly to Cornwall, and arrived at the Court of
King Mark disguised as a merchant. In order to speed his mission he
presented rich gifts to the King, and also a cup to Ysonde, into which
he dropped Tristrem's ring. This token procured him a private audience
with the Queen, and when she learned the deadly peril of her lover,
Ysonde hastily disguised herself and fled to the ship with Ganhardin.
In due course the vessel arrived off the coast of Brittany, carrying
the white sail which was to signify to Tristrem that Ysonde was
hastening to his aid. But Ysonde of Brittany was watching, and
perceiving from the signal that her rival was on board she hurried to
her husband's couch. Tristrem begged her to tell him the colour of the
sail, and in the madness of jealousy Ysonde said that it was black,
upon which, believing himself forsaken by his old love, the knight
sank back and expired.

Tristrem had scarce breathed his last when Ysonde entered the castle.
At the gate an old man was mourning Tristrem's death, and hearing the
ominous words which he uttered she hastened to the chamber where the
corpse of him she had loved so well was lying. With a moan she cast
herself upon the body, covering the dead face with kisses and pleading
upon the silent lips to speak. Realizing at last that the spirit had
indeed quitted its mortal tenement, she raised herself to her feet and
stood for a moment gazing wildly into the fixed and glassy eyes; then
with a great cry she fell forward upon the breast of her lover and was
united with him in death.

Other versions of the story, with all the wealth of circumstance dear
to the writer of romance, tell of the grievous mourning made at the
death of the lovers, whom no fault of their own had doomed to the
tyranny of a mutual passion, and it is recounted that even King Mark,
wronged and shamed as he was, was unable to repress his grief at their
pitiful end.

Despite the clumsiness of much of its machinery, despite its tiresome
repetitions and its minor blemishes, this tale of a grand passion must
ever remain one of the world's priceless literary possessions. "Dull
must he be of soul" who, even in these days when folk no longer expire
from an excess of the tender passion, can fail to be moved by the sad
fate of the fair Queen and of her gal