ens
shaded the entrance, a rill trickled over the grass, flowers scented the
air, birds sang in the branches. Here nothing more existed for them save
love. "Nor till the might of August"--thought the old poet, and said a
more recent one--

Nor till the might of August overhead
Weighed on the world, was yet one roseleaf shed
Of all their joys warm coronal, nor aught
Touched them in passing ever with a thought
That ever this might end on any day,
Or any night not love them where they lay;
But like a babbling tale of barren breath
Seemed all report and rumour held of death,
And a false bruit the legend tear impearled
That such a thing as change was in the world.[190]

King Marc's hunt passes by the grotto; through an opening at the top he
chances to perceive her who had been "the springtide of his life, fairer
than ever at this moment ... her mouth, her brow, every feature was so
full of charm that Marc was fascinated, and, seized with longing, would
fain on that face have pressed a kiss.... A wreath of clover was woven
in her unbound locks.... When he saw that the sun overhead let fall
through the crevice a ray of light on Iseult's face, he feared lest her
hue should suffer. He took grass and flowers and foliage with which he
closed the aperture, then blessing the lady, he commended her to God,
and departed weeping."[191]

Once more the lovers are separated, this time for ever. Years pass;
Tristan has made himself famous by his exploits. He is without news of
his love, doubtless forgotten. He marries another Iseult, and lives with
her near Penmarch in Brittany. Wounded to death in a fight, he might be
cured by the queen of Cornwall, and in spite of his marriage, and the
time that has elapsed, he sends her word to leave all and join him. If
Iseult comes, the ship is to have a white sail; if she refuses, a black
one. Iseult still loves. At the first word she puts to sea; but storms
arise, then follows a dead calm; Tristan feels life ebb from him with
hope. At last the vessel appears, and Tristan's wife sees it from the
shore with its white sail. She had overheard Tristan's message; she
returns, lies, and announces the arrival of a black sail. Tristan tears
the bandage from his wound and dies. When the true Iseult lands, the
knell is tolling from the steeples of Brittany; she rushes in, finds
her lover's corpse already cold, and expires beside him. They were
buried in the same ch