d not strike, explain
to yourself by easy interpretation: I cared for your wound, that
a man in sound health should be struck down by the vengeful hand
of him who won Isolde. Judge for yourself now what your doom shall
be. Since the men are all your adherents, who is to smite Tristan?"
More than ever it seems like the atmosphere of a dream closing
down upon him, a dream in which they move, projecting incredible
things. But he has perfectly seized her meaning, and even in a
dream a man acts in character. Pale and self-contained, he hands
her his unsheathed sword, and his voice shows a first tinge of
emotion as he speaks the name of Morold, whom, it would almost
seem, she had loved. "If Marold was so dear to you, again take up
the sword, and drive it surely and steadfastly, that it may not
drop from your grasp!"

If she seemed somewhat like a lioness before, striding and chafing
in her regal rage, she is again, it must be confessed, a little like
one now, but presenting a different aspect of the great feline,
a sort of cruelty, a need to torment before sacrificing. "What
would King Mark say if I were to slay his best servant, the most
faithful of his retainers, who won for him crown and land? Does it
seem to you such a paltry matter, that for which he stands indebted
to you, bringing home to him the Irish bride, that he would not
chide, should I slay the envoy who so faithfully delivers into
his hands the hostage of the peace-compact?... Put up your sword!
When upon a time I brandished it, my heart hot with desire for
vengeance, at your gazing upon me with an eye that took my measure,
to see if I would answer as a wife for King Mark"--(There, there
is point of insufferable bitterness!)--"I let the sword sink. Let
us drink now to our reconciliation!"

By a sign she orders Brangaene to bring the draught. The poor creature
shrinks away shuddering. Isolde, by a gesture more peremptory still,
repeats her command, and Brangaene is seen tremulously busying herself
with the golden casket and the golden cup. Again the sing-song
chorus is heard, of the sailors hauling in the topsail. The sound
falls with a shock upon Tristan's ear. "Where are we?" he cries,
in bewilderment. "Close to our destination!" Isolde replies
significantly. They are so close indeed to the end of their voyage
that anything there is to say must be said now, and she invites, with
a first suspicion of softness, some expression from him of regret,
some explan