rk
brought about the restoration of Iseut to her husband.

We must not forget the other Iseut, the white-handed lady whom Tristan
married and left behind in Brittany. The fact of her existence came
again to his recollection now, and he returned to her. She was in dire
distress and longing for her husband; but from her caressing arms he
fled again to put down a rebellion in his dominions. Once more sorely
wounded, once more he was cured by the white hands of his wife, whom he
nevertheless soon afterward abandoned to renew the intrigue with the
rival Iseut in Cornwall. But he was again discovered and put to flight
by the jealous husband. The spirit of restlessness would not let him be
quiet with his wife, the knight must be up and doing; and while he
engaged in a reckless adventure he was grievously wounded, so grievously
that death seemed nigh and not to be put off by the ministrations of
Iseut of the White Hand. Tristan sent a messenger in haste for la Belle
Iseut: "Come with all speed, if you love me! And that I may know you are
on the ship let the sails be white; if you cannot come, let the sails be
black." Iseut hastened toward her lover, with feverish impatience,
blaming winds and waves and slow messengers. Meanwhile, the neglected
wife, Iseut of the White Hand, discovered the truth and grew wildly
jealous. Tristan lay on his bed in agony, waiting for news of the ship
bearing la Belle Iseut. The jealous wife, too, kept watch, and when the
white sails of the vessel told her that her rival was coming, was almost
at hand, jealousy got the mastery: "I see the ship," she cried to
Tristan. "What color are her sails?" asked he. "Black, all black," she
cried. The sick knight fell back upon his bed, moaning out reproaches
upon the Iseut who had forsaken him in his need:

"Amie Yoslt! treis fez a dit,
A la quarte rent l'esperit."

(Iseut, my love! three times he cried, at the fourth he rendered up his
soul.)

"Iseut is come out of the ship; in the street she hears the
lamentations.... An old woman told her: 'Lovely lady, so help me God, we
have here a sorrow greater than men ever had before: _Tristan li pruz,
li francs, est mort_ (Tristan the brave and noble is dead).'... All
dishevelled went Iseut through the streets and into the palace where the
body lay. Then she turned her to the east and prayed for him pitifully:
'Tristan, my love, when I see you lie dead, I should live no longer. You
are dead becaus