nly quite up. And
then no doubt some reminder, at the violent motion, of his wound,
suggests to his madness its next wild fancy, that a sort of glory
is in a streaming wound, such as he bore while fighting Morold,
that he will meet Isolde in the same manner, gloriously bleeding,
not ignobly constrained by a bandage. And prompted by some obscure
instinct perhaps to relieve a torture of which his flaming brain
will not permit him duly to take account, he tears the wrappings
from his wound, shouting with gladness, and bidding his blood now
flow merrily forth. He jumps from the couch, he goes a few feet in
swaying progress toward the castle-gate: She who shall heal the
wound forever draws near like a hero, draws near bringing health,
let the world fade away before his victorious haste!... The victorious
haste has taken him a staggering step or two, when Isolde's voice
comes borne to him, calling before she appears. "Tristan, Tristan!
Beloved!" He stops short and listens, shocked out of the idea of
what he was trying to do, losing his grasp on the present. "What?...
Do I hear the light?" he falters, taken back by the spell of that
voice to the old time, when never the light called to him, or never
the beloved called to him out of the light, but ever and only out
of the night. The suggestion of the darkness now gathering over
his eyes is that the torch is going out,--her signal to him to
come. "To her!" therefore he cries, "To her!" and is making such
effort to hurry as one makes in a dream, when behold, there she is!
There she comes flying to him through the castle-gate, breathless
with her haste. He has strength enough still, in his transporting
joy, to get as far as her arms; but, with the relief of being caught
in them, all relaxes, he sinks to the earth. Frightened, she calls
him. He turns his eyes upon her with the last of their long yearning,
and softly breathes forth his life upon her name. He could not die
before she came, but now at once it is grown sweet and easy.

Isolde cannot believe this which she seems to see. She falls on
her knees beside him, beseeches, coaxes, reproaches him, and wrings
her hands over his obdurate unresponse. "Just for one hour! Just
for one hour, be awake to me still! Such long days of terror and
yearning Isolde has endured for the sake of one hour to spend with
you! Will Tristan defraud her, defraud Isolde of this single
infinitely-short last earthly joy? The wound,--where? Let me heal