Tristan and Isolde
(Tristan und Isolde)
It will be interesting to compare this story with the version by Malory. The differences are characteristic of the distance between the colder ideals of Malory and the warmer and more human age of Wagner.
Once upon a time a brave knight of Brittany went across the English Channel to the court of King Mark of Cornwall. The knight was noted for his valiant deeds, so the King was right glad to welcome him and attach him to his retinue. The knight also was willing to tarry, for the King had a sister who because of her beauty was called the “White Lily.” Indeed, the knight had fallen deeply in love with this fair Princess, and so he was overjoyed when at length he found that his love was returned. He obtained the King’s consent to make her his wife; and after a splendid ceremony the knight and his lady set sail for their castle in Brittany. Fate had so smiled upon them, that they thought themselves the happiest people in the whole world, and that none had been so favoured as they.
But after a few short months of wedded life the knight fell sick and died. The poor bride was broken-hearted, and although a little boy was presently given to her, the child did not assuage her grief. Instead he reminded her constantly of the husband she had lost. She called the boy’s name Tristan, which means “sadness.”
Realising that she would soon follow her beloved husband she entrusted the boy to a trusty knight, Kurneval by name, to be taken over to her brother in Cornwall. Shortly afterward she died, and the little orphan was conveyed to his uncle as the mother had desired.
King Mark was without wife or children of his own, so he gladly received Tristan into his lonely home. He brought him up as his own son, and publicly proclaimed him heir to the throne of Cornwall.
Tristan grew rapidly in beauty and strength, finding so especial a delight in horsemanship and knightly warfare, that by the time he was fifteen he could joust with the best of the knights. Courteous in speech and bearing was he, likewise, for he had been carefully trained by the knight Kurneval. And so, when the time of his knighting had arrived, Sir Tristan was already famed for his chivalry and prowess alike. His name became a proverb for true knighthood, and there was no man in Cornwall who could stand against him.
A few years before this time, King Mark had been defeated in battle by the King of Ireland, and had promised to pay him a yearly tribute. Each year since that defeat the tribute had been collected by Sir Morold a gigantic knight whom all men feared because of his courage and cruelty. His demands grew heavier, year by year, until at last they became so great that the whole country groaned. Thus it went on until Tristan had become a knight, when eager for some splendid service to prove his spurs, he resolved to put an end to this oppression. So he challenged the huge warrior to mortal combat.
The challenge was promptly accepted, Morold liking nothing better than a fight, though—as he expressed it—he greatly feared this rash youth would not last long enough to get his blood warm. King Mark also was fearful of the fate of his foster-son, but the word had gone forth and could not be withdrawn.
The day came for the conflict, and many anxious spectators assembled to watch the champions fight—the one for the honour of Ireland, the other for the freedom of Cornwall. But Morold did not enter the lists fairly. Enraged that any one should presume to oppose him, he bore a poisoned spear which he flung at Tristan without warning. It made a slight wound which was unnoticed in the heat of the conflict that immediately began.
The young knight sprang forward with sword drawn and met his towering opponent fiercely but with the most finished skill. Morold soon found that he had met more than his match at sword play, and he tried by his superior strength to beat down his antagonist. But in this also he was defeated, after a thrilling contest. At last growing rash he raised his sword and brought it about with a terrific swish that would certainly have cut Tristan in two, if he had not leaped nimbly backward. Before the Irish knight could recover himself, Tristan sprang forward again and by one swift stroke cut his head from his body.
Cornwall was now free, and instead of sending his yearly tribute, King Mark sent the head of Morold back to Ireland to show this freedom for all time to come. Now Morold had been betrothed to an Irish Princess named Isolde; and when his severed head was received at court, she swore bitter vengeance against the one who had done this deed. Looking closely at the head, she chanced to find a bit of sword-point sticking in the skull, and she knew this must have been broken from the weapon which had done the deed. So she kept the sword-point carefully by her, in the hope that it might lead her to find her enemy.
Meanwhile Tristan, though showered with praises from the court and people he had delivered, was faring but ill. The wound from the poisoned spear refused to heal. The best physicians of the country were called in, but the wound only grew more grievous and painful, day by day. Finally, when Tristan was beginning to despair of his life, an old soothsayer told him to go to the land whence the wound was received and there he would find an antidote for the poison. So Tristan set forth without delay; but knowing that it would not be safe for him to travel in Ireland under his own name, he went alone as Tantris a wandering minstrel.
The fame of Isolde’s skill in mixing draughts and potions presently reached his ears, and he directed his steps to the court. Both Isolde’s mother and maid-servant knew the secrets of drugs and they had taught her many of these arts. So when a poor minstrel came to her attention, suffering from a poisoned wound, both her sympathy and skill were enlisted, and all the more because he seemed of noble bearing, and his eyes sought hers in an appealing way.
So Isolde called in her maid and they undertook to heal Tristan of his wound, applying many balsams and soothing herbs. It was a long time, however, before even their skill availed and the harper began to rally from his illness.
It chanced one day while he slept, that Isolde sat by his side watching the progress of his fever. And as she sat there she happened to notice the beauty of his sword-hilt, and wishing to examine it closely she drew the sword from its scabbard. Suddenly she saw that a piece was missing from the point. A thought occurred to her that made the blood rush to her head. She hastened to the place where she had concealed the broken piece, and placed it in the gap. It fitted exactly. She had been nursing her sworn enemy!
Just then Tristan called to her, and she turned and went to his bedside with the blade uplifted ready to strike. Neither spoke, but he read her purpose to slay him in her face and action; yet he did not flinch. He merely looked up sadly and tenderly with those eyes which she had found it so hard to resist, the first time she ever saw him. And instantly, she knew not why, the sword fell from her hand clashing upon the floor.
After that she continued to nurse him more tenderly than ever, but without either of them saying a word about the incident. Her care and skill were rewarded, and at last Tristan was wholly recovered and ready to set sail for home. Still he did not speak to the Princess of the strange new feeling that possessed him, for he thought that only pity on her part, for his defenceless state, had saved his life on that day when she guessed the truth. He contented himself with thanking her in the best phrases his oddly faltering tongue could repeat; begged permission to kiss her hand in token of the gratitude he could not utter; and asked leave to return upon some future day.
When he had come to the court of Cornwall, he found the King overjoyed to see him, for he had given him up as dead. To the King and court he related his adventures, praising without stint the beauty and kindness of the Princess Isolde. Indeed he spoke with such youthful enthusiasm that it unwittingly set his hearers to thinking. Some of the courtiers had long been jealous of Tristan and wished to keep him from the throne. They had been trying to persuade the King to seek a wife and thus provide a son of his own for the kingdom. Now they urged him to ask for the hand of the Princess Isolde. It would cement the peace of the two kingdoms, they said, and from all accounts she was indeed worthy to be his Queen.
King Mark pondered long over this advice, and asked many questions of the unsuspecting Tristan; and the more the monarch thought of it, the more the picture of Isolde filled his fancy. Finally he decided to send a formal request for her hand; and as Tristan was familiar with the Irish court he was entrusted with the embassy.
The request of the King sent a sudden chill through Tristan’s heart. He realised all at once how much Isolde meant to him. But his uncle had been a father to him, and he could not requite his kindness in any other way than by obedience. So he gave no outward sign, and prepared to execute his hard task.
When messengers came to Isolde and told her that Sir Tristan was come to seek audience with her, her heart leaped for joy. Surely, she thought, he had come in his own proper guise, as he promised, to say the things he dared not utter when he went away. So she hastened to greet him and show him all graciousness. But when she learned the truth of his errand, her new hopes were dashed. Anger and pride took their place, that she should be rejected by this man whom she had cared for—and pardoned despite her oath of vengeance! But hiding her emotions she instantly resolved to go to King Mark and become his Queen, without letting the world—least of all, Sir Tristan—know how she suffered.
To the King and Queen of Ireland the news of the embassy was welcome. They had become weary of the feud with Cornwall and were glad to conclude the peace and ally their house with that of King Mark. They received the ambassador, therefore, with every sign of honour, and held feasting and revelry until he should conduct the Princess to his ship.
But through it all Isolde remained cold and silent. Her conduct alarmed her mother, who wished her to be contented in the new home she was entering. So the Queen brewed a powerful love potion which she entrusted to Isolde’s maid, Brangeane, telling her to give the potion to Isolde and her husband on the day of their wedding, when it would fill their hearts with mutual love and cause their after lives to be happy.
So Tristan conducted Isolde to his ship and set sail for Cornwall; and of the deep love which had come to fill his own heart he uttered no word; nor so much as by a look or sign would he betray the trust reposed in him by his uncle the King. Indeed, Tristan went to the farther side of caution, and when the Princess was once upon shipboard he did not linger in her presence or speak with her, but busied himself with the steering of the vessel.
This courteous reserve Isolde did not understand. She had been accustomed, all her life, to much attention and to seeing her lightest wish obeyed. And now it angered her more than ever that Tristan—who owed her so much—should treat her like the veriest stranger. She endured his neglect in sullen silence until the last day of the voyage, when the ship was within sight of the shores of Cornwall. Then despair at the thought of becoming the bride of a man she had never seen, and anger at the conduct of Tristan, overcame her. In a violent outburst she lamented her fate and wished that the waves could rise and swallow her up.
Brangeane her maid was alarmed at this unusual mood and endeavoured to calm her. Finally Isolde raised her head and looked out through the doorway. She was in a pavilion on a raised portion of the deck, which commanded a view of the entire ship. As she looked, her eyes rested upon Sir Tristan who stood at the wheel steering the vessel. His brown muscular arms were bare, as also was his head save for a wealth of soft brown curls. A cloak fastened about his shoulders swept in graceful folds to his feet. His whole frame spoke of grace and strength. But his clear blue eyes, fastened intently upon the vessel’s course, had a tense look, almost stern in their sadness. He seemed, indeed, to be fighting a hidden grief. Isolde pointed to him and asked mockingly of Brangeane:
“What think you of our fine hero?”
“Who—Sir Tristan, my lady? He is said to be the bravest and knightliest man in Christendom.”
“I care not what they say. He is an arrant coward!”
“Oh, my lady!”
“He is a coward, I tell you! Afraid to meet a woman’s eyes! Conducting me to his royal master as though I were some kitchen wench! Go you to him and ask him why he has neglected our presence and treated us so coldly.”
“Shall I request him to attend upon you?”
“No. Command him! Tell him it is the Princess Isolde who speaks!”
The maid was reluctant to deliver this message, and walked slowly along the deck. But finally she paused beside the wheel and said:
“A message, my lord, from the Princess Isolde.”
“Isolde!” Tristan started at the name and almost released the wheel. Then recovering himself quickly he asked; “What is my lady pleased to say?”
“She commands you to wait upon her.”
Tristan paid no heed to the wording of the message, but bade the maid excuse him in all courtesy to her mistress, saying that he could best serve her at that moment by steering the vessel safely between the dangerous rocks which lay off the coast of Cornwall.
The gruff old knight, Kurneval, who had attended Tristan upon the voyage, broke into a scornful laugh when he chanced to hear the message of the Princess.
“‘Command’ forsooth!” he exclaimed. “The slayer of Morold is the vassal of no one, be she even a queen!”
Isolde overheard this speech, and when her maid returned to her, bearing Tristan’s refusal, her passion knew no bounds.
“Do you know who this ingrate is, who cannot find a moment’s time for me?” she cried. “He is the minstrel whose life I saved in Ireland, and whom you helped me to nurse!”
“Can it be possible!” exclaimed Brangeane. “But ’tis strange that I did not know him again!”
“That is not the strange part,” continued Isolde, storming. “I had sworn to take vengeance upon the slayer of Sir Morold. I found out that he was the slayer, and yet I pardoned him! And this is his gratitude!”
“My lady, my lady!” said Brangeane, trying to soothe her mistress. “Perchance Sir Tristan is not to blame for this. He is serving his King; and he shows you only the more honour, that he should woo you for the King instead of for himself.”
“But I care not a whit for the King! Why should they all be forcing me into this loveless marriage—into a life of misery?”
“No, no, not that!” replied Brangeane eagerly. “It was your mother’s dearest wish that you should be happy. See this casket? It contains a love potion which she brewed for you, and which will fill your heart and that of your husband with the truest devotion.”
The sight of the potion diverted Isolde’s mind into other channels. It reminded her that she herself could brew drinks and mix powders. She began at once to prepare a deadly poison, quietly telling her maid that it would make her forget her unhappy past.
By the time she had finished brewing this drink of death the ship had almost reached its anchorage; and Kurneval entered to announce that they would speedily land, and that Sir Tristan awaited to escort her to the King.
Isolde drew herself up proudly.
“Go back to Sir Tristan,” she said, “and say that we await him here. We will not leave this place until he appears to offer an apology for his rudeness!”
Kurneval was moved to make some retort to this, but deeming that diplomacy was the wisest plan he returned to Tristan and advised him to wait upon the irate Princess.
Isolde, meanwhile, handed the poison flask to her maid, saying, “When he comes, give us to drink from it. We have much to forget, and I would be at peace with the world this day.”
“Oh, my lady! What is it you would have me do?” asked Brangeane, terrified by her mistress’s manner. But Isolde pressed her hand reassuringly.
At that moment Tristan entered, and with tones of the deepest respect he asked what the Princess’s will was with him. But Isolde was in no mood to temporise, and she reproached him haughtily for his treatment of her during the voyage, asking what he meant by such neglect to her station.
It was such language as one would address to an underling, and Sir Tristan drew himself up with quiet dignity, replying that it was the custom in his country, when an ambassador brought a bride home to his lord, to refrain from intruding his presence during the journey.
Isolde replied scornfully, that if he was such a strict observer of custom, he would do well to recall one other which he had overlooked.
“What is that?” asked Tristan.
“The blood ransom,” she answered, “for the life of Sir Morold!”
“But that feud is healed!” he responded quickly. “There is now peace between Cornwall and Ireland.”
“But not between Tristan and Isolde!” she retorted. And she recalled to him the time when he had sought her care in disguise; how she had discovered his identity by the broken sword, and yet had spared his life and kept his secret when her own land was filled with his enemies. His life, she now claimed, was still forfeit to her.
Tristan had listened to her with varied emotions, but had made no move to interrupt her. Now with an indescribable air of sorrow and hurt pride he drew his sword and presented it to her, handle foremost.
“It is the same weapon that slew Sir Morold in fair fight,” he said. “If you still so bitterly regret his death and your previous kindness to me, I pray you slay me!”
“Nay!” she answered, her face growing pale and red by turns. “Such deed would ill requite King Mark, whose ambassador you are. But we will declare a truce, if you will drink the usual cup of peace with me before we land.”
And turning to Brangeane she commanded her to pour out the drink. The maid, pale and trembling, turned to fill the cup. Sounds from without now told them that the vessel was coming to anchor. Isolde took the cup and handed it to Tristan.
“Your unwelcome voyage is over,” she said darkly, looking into his eyes, “will you drink with me?”
Tristan took the cup. He knew that Isolde had been plotting his death, and he now suspected that the drink was poisonous. Yet death seemed welcome to him at this moment.
“I thank you,” he said calmly. “I drink in gladness, giving you my oath of truce for all time—the honour and the pain of Tristan!”
He put the cup to his lips and began to drink. But before he had drunk half its contents, Isolde with a suppressed cry snatched it from his hands and drained the rest. Then the massive cup fell to the floor, unheeded, and the two stood silent, looking at each other.
Only a few moments they remained thus, and yet it seemed ages to them. The drug had begun to take effect in a strange, unaccountable way. Instead of the icy chill of death, which they had expected to sweep through their veins, there came a wonderful tingle of life and love and bliss, all intermingled in a splendid wave drawing each nearer to the other.
“Tristan!”
“Isolde!”
The cries burst from their lips, as though they were in a trance; and forgetful of the whole world without, each sprang forward and was clasped in the other’s arms.
“Alas! What have I done?” moaned Brangeane, wringing her hands. In her terror at giving the brew whose contents she feared, she had poured the love potion in its stead. Now she dreaded lest it should be the more fatal of the two in its consequences. But there was no way of escape. The voices of the sailors and soldiers on the near-by shore proclaimed the fact that King Mark was at hand. Brangeane hastily seized the robe and crown, which Isolde was to wear, and placed them upon her mistress, urging her to make herself ready.
Awakened from her brief dream of happiness, Isolde suffered herself to be clad in the royal attire and led forward, weak and almost fainting, to meet her future husband.
The generous and courtly King received her with every consideration. Noting that she was faint and pale, which he thought due to the voyage, he ordered rooms in his castle to be set aside for her and her maids; and he postponed the betrothal feast and other public events until she should be strong enough to undergo them. He and all his court were delighted with this fair Irish Princess, and looked forward to the time when she should adorn their throne.
The rooms set aside for her use were the choicest in the castle, opening directly out upon a private garden. Here the Princess was glad to take refuge for a few days, and thus put off the wedding as long as possible. She knew now that it was the love potion she and Tristan had swallowed, and so violent was her passion that she felt she could not live without seeing him. So she prevailed upon Brangeane to set a signal for her lover. A light was to be left burning in the window of the tower, and when it was extinguished Tristan knew that he would find Isolde in the garden. His love was no less ardent than hers, and he impatiently awaited the secret meeting. Now there was one knight in the court who had long tried to supplant Tristan in the King’s favour. His name was Melot, and he was wily and treacherous. Always on the watch to trip up Tristan in some way, he had noticed his confusion and Isolde’s weakness when the ship had come to land, and had rightly guessed the cause. So he now sought to surprise the lovers at a meeting and then inform the King.
Brangeane had noticed Melot’s manner and warned her mistress against him, but Isolde was intent upon nothing else than seeing Tristan again. Scarcely was darkness come, upon the eventful evening, when she bade the maid put out the light which was to summon him; and when Brangeane hesitated, she herself extinguished it.
It was a beautiful moonlit night in early summer, when the flowers were in their first freshness and fragrance. It seemed to the Princess that all nature was rejoicing in her love. She was not, however, paying heed to the blossoms on every side. She was pacing eagerly back and forth listening for a welcome footfall. She had not long to wait, for Tristan sprang quickly through the shadows to meet her. Gladly the two greeted each other, without reserve, and wandered together down the path talking in low earnest tones of the happiness that had come to them. Isolde confessed that she had planned his death upon that fateful day on shipboard; while Tristan said he had expected nothing less, and would have welcomed it at her hands.
Meanwhile the faithful maid had been left upon the tower to keep watch. Several times she called in low warning tones that they would best not linger, but the lovers paid no heed to her, until Brangeane suddenly gave a cry of alarm. At the same instant Kurneval rushed upon the scene with drawn sword, imploring Tristan to fly. But it was too late; the sound of horns was heard, and the King and Melot appeared, followed by a hunting party.
Isolde, covered with shame, sank upon the ground. Tristan stood in front of her trying to shield her, but his own head was bent in trouble and he did not meet the King’s gaze.
“What does this mean?” demanded the latter.
“It means that my doubts have been correct, your Majesty!” answered Melot. “Sir Tristan has not been as faithful a servant as you supposed!”
Grief was stronger than anger in the King’s heart. He had loved Tristan like a son, and had gloried in his knightly honour. He told Tristan this, in a quiet yet stern voice, and ended by banishing him from the kingdom.
Tristan was almost heart-broken. He realised that his punishment had been but just, and yet he seemed as though one in a dream, powerless to stem this current which was sweeping him away. He did not answer the King, but, instead, turned to Isolde and asked her if she would go with him into exile. She replied that wherever he went, there would she go, even to death itself.
At this new proof of her devotion Tristan’s joy swept away all his doubts and fears. He drew her tenderly to him and turned proudly to face the King and his party.
“May the King and my foster-father pardon me out of his great kindness,” he said in a low tone, “but Isolde has elected to follow me, and I can do nothing less than protect her. Farewell!”
The King still stood a prey to conflicting emotions. But the traitor Melot, enraged at the turn of affairs, sprang forward, drawing his sword and crying, “Think not to scape so easily, villain! I will avenge the King!”
“Ha, it is you, traitor, who would protect the King’s honour!” said Tristan haughtily. “Defend yourself, Melot!”
He drew, and the weapons clashed sharply. But only for a moment did they meet. Tristan purposely lowered his guard, and before anyone could interpose, Melot had struck him with his sword.
“Disarm him!” commanded the King, himself seizing Melot’s arm. Tristan, sorely wounded, sank to the ground, Isolde clinging to him and supporting his head, while Kurneval strove to raise his stricken master.
King Mark gave orders to certain of his attendants to wait upon Kurneval, and then strode slowly and sorrowfully away. He realised all too late the injustice he had done his nephew in sending him upon the embassy, but he could not understand this breach of faith; it was so unlike Tristan’s knightly honour. It seemed to the old King that he regretted this more than the loss of his fair young bride.
Kurneval lost no time in conveying his master to the ancestral home in Brittany. Tristan had become unconscious, and only the promptest care could save his life. Kurneval vainly tried to nurse him back to health, but he had made the mistake of leaving Isolde in Cornwall. For her Tristan continually called, in his delirium, and her skill and loving care would alone avail to save him. Kurneval soon realised this and sent messengers entreating her to come to Brittany; and now with the return of the next ship he expected her to arrive.
On the day when the ship was looked for, Tristan who had awakened out of his fever, but was very weak, lay under a linden-tree. He had wished to look at the blue sky again, and Kurneval had carried his couch out in the courtyard. The place had long been deserted and was now overgrown with vines and bushes. The ancient tower was crumbling, and the huge drawbridge was in ruins. But to Kurneval this was home, and he hoped that the pleasant air and old surroundings would benefit his master.
Tristan was more nearly himself to-day, and asked many questions about how he had come here, how long it had been, and when the Lady Isolde was coming. Kurneval told him everything, and said that the Princess was looked for, that very day.
A smile broke over Tristan’s face at this. “Ah! then I will live!” was all he said, and sank into slumber again.
Meanwhile a shepherd played upon his pipe, on the rocks below the castle, looking out to sea. The melody was low and plaintive, and as Kurneval listened to it his heart sank; for he had posted the shepherd there and bidden him play thus sadly so long as there was no sail in sight. Now he knew that if Isolde did not come that day, the sun would set upon his master for the last time.
And now, in his delirium, Tristan was telling of the ship which was bringing Isolde from Cornwall.
“Do you not see it?” he asked. “Look! the sails are all filled up, and the ship is steering straight for us. How high the waves pile up about the bows! There on deck is her-pavilion, just as it was on that other lonely voyage. And see! there she stands looking eagerly toward me, her hair garlanded with flowers and her arms outstretched! It is my Isolde! *Mine! She is forsaking all the world and its thrones to come to the side of a poor outcast. Ah, why is that music so sad? They should pipe merrily upon my wedding-day!”
As if in answer to his last words, the shepherd on the lookout suddenly changed his tune and piped shrilly and merrily. The faithful Kurneval sprang to his feet and ran hastily to the rocks. Yes, there was a broad sail and it was heading straight for them. And on the deck stood a slender, white-robed figure that waved a scarf. Unable to restrain himself, Kurneval hastened back to the sleeping knight.
“My lord, my lord!” he exclaimed, shaking him gently. “Awake! a ship is sailing straight to the foot of the castle. We hope it may be the Lady Isolde!”
“Yes, it is my dear lady,” answered Tristan, sitting up. “I saw her in my dreams. Go to her and welcome her in my stead. Hasten, good Kurneval, hasten!”
Kurneval urged him to be as quiet as possible, and went to obey his commands. But Tristan could not be patient. Not knowing what he did, he rose from his couch, in his exertion tearing his bandages loose and causing his wound to bleed afresh. He staggered half-way across the courtyard, dizzy but unconscious of pain; for clear as a bell, from the rocks below, he heard his beloved’s voice; “Tristan!”
“She is coming—my Princess!” he muttered. “That is the voice I have heard in my dream.”
He tried to answer her, but could not. His knees tottered beneath him and he groped blindly as if in the dark.
“Tristan!” called the voice, nearer this time.
“Isolde!” he answered softly, as he sank to the earth. But the voice, weak as it was, had reached his beloved’s ears, for she was bending over him trying to raise him up and imploring him to speak to her once again.
“See, I am here, Tristan—my heart’s delight! I came as speedily as might be, but oh! how slow the ship sailed! Did you not hear my heart calling to you, day and night, Tristan, Tristan, Tristan! Now you will get well—you must get well—and we will be ah! so happy here in Brittany! But are you not glad to see me? Beloved, answer me!”
But the voice she so longed to hear again was stilled forever. Isolde tried in vain to rouse him, then a terrible dread seizing her, she sank unconscious across his lifeless body.
At this moment Kurneval was called from the pathetic sight by a great commotion outside; and the shepherd ran to him crying that a second ship had come to land and armed men were disembarking, followed by one who seemed to be a King. Kurneval’s first glance told him that it was King Mark himself.. Fearing in his own wild grief that the monarch was pursuing the two lovers, he resolved to defend the castle gate to his last breath.
The first man to appear was Helot. Kurneval drew his sword and rushed upon him.
“Back, thou cursed spy!” he exclaimed.
“Peace, fool!” said Melot. “Unbar the gate!”
“Not to such as thee!” retorted the old knight, and began to engage him fiercely.
“Stop them! We come in peace!” called out the voice of King Mark.
“Mistress! Isolde!” It was Brangeane’s voice that was now heard.
But the two combatants fought on. Presently Melot’s sword inflicted an ugly wound.
“Ha, master, I will avenge you yet!” cried Kurneval. with a last mighty stroke, delivered as he sank to the ground, he gave Melot his death wound. Then the old knight crept slowly to his master’s side and tried to make one last stand there, but sank back and breathed his last.
Just then King Mark burst in at the gate, and paused stricken with remorse at the scene which greeted his eyes. Brangeane, sobbing aloud, ran to her mistress and tried to revive her. The maid was frantic with remorse for she felt as though this tragedy was due to her. She had confessed to the King the secret of the love potion, and he had at once set sail to assure the lovers of his pardon and affection. He understood all at last, but now it was too late.
Brangeane brought her mistress to consciousness, and implored her to greet the King.
“He comes as your friend, and Sir Tristan’s,” she said; “he is here to aid you.”
King Mark then hastened to speak to her, gently and kindly. In his courtesy he asked her pardon for the harm he had unwittingly done.
But Isolde paid no heed to his words. Her gaze was fixed upon Tristan, and when she spoke it was in praise of his constancy and truth. Then she told of a glorious land to which they both were going, where they should dwell free from sorrow and care and heartbreak.
“I know not where it is,” she murmured, “but I know my Tristan will be there, and that will be for me a bliss supreme!”
A radiant smile overspread her face as she ended, and with a soft sigh her heart broke and she sank down and nestled her head close against that of Tristan. And while a sunset glory shone through the trees of the old courtyard and illumined the scene, as though it were some radiant picture, those who stood by fancied they could hear strains of music. Near and yet far-off it sounded clear and sweet, rising in soft waves as though bearing the souls of these two weary pilgrims to the land of rest and eternal love.
The End
Famous Myths Series
Each of these handsome volumes contains more than 400 pages of letterpress, and 64 Plates by the best Artists of ancient and modern times. A feature of the Series is the very full Index to each volume.
THE MYTHS OF GREECE AND ROME.
Their Stories, Signification, and Origin. By H. A. GUERBER. With 64 Plates.
The Scotsman says:—“Mr Guerber has woven the classic mythology into a coherent history, and told with remarkable freshness of interest the familiar myths and traditions of Greek and Roman literature. The volume is at once a fascinating story-book and a valuable book of reference, and not its least attraction lies in the beautiful illustrations, all of which are reproductions of famous pictures, ancient and modern.”
MYTHS OF THE NORSEMEN.
From the Eddas and Sagas. By H. A. GUERBER. With 64 Plates.
The Guardian says:—“A well-written series of the fine tales from the Eddas and Sagas, which, as William Morris said of Volsunga Saga, ‘should be to all our race what the tale of Troy was to the Greeks.’ A striking feature of the collection is the number of excellent illustrations after pictures by German and Norse artists, which express the spirit of the ancient myths in a wonderful way.”
MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF THE MIDDLE AGES.
By H. A. GUERBER. With 64 Exquisite Full-page Illustrations from important works of great Artists.
The object of this work is to familiarise students with the myths and legends which form the principal subjects of mediaeval literature, and whose influence is everywhere apparent in the subsequent history of literature and art.
HERO-MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF THE BRITISH RACE.
By M. I. EBBUTT, M.A. With 64 Plates.
Following the plan of the earlier volumes in this Series, this work gives in succinct form all the folk-tales and legends which are the heritage of our race.
MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF THE CELTIC RACE.
By T. W. ROLLESTON. With 64 Original Full-page Illustrations by STEPHEN REID.
This volume follows the plan of the earlier volumes, which have met with so great a success. The Editor’s important Introduction is the result of original research, and is expected to throw new light on the subject.
THE MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF JAPAN.
This new Series owes its inception to the widespread interest now been manifested in the stories from mythology and history which illustrate, as nothing else can, the character and individuality of each of the great races which in turn have played an important part in the development of civilization.
The books comprising “The Romance Series” have been written by authors who are in deep sympathy with the growing number of those cultured men and women who desire to reclaim and conserve all that is precious of the ancient tales of the different races. They have sought to reproduce the stories in such a manner as to preserve the alluring charm which attaches to that which is antique.
The Illustrations are worthy of the stories. With two exceptions they are reproduced in full colours. The illustrations for “The Story of Hereward” and “Harald,” however, are reproduced by collotype, an expensive process similar to photogravure. Each volume contains sixteen plates, and in every case only artists of proved capacity have been employed.
Each volume contains at least 256 pages and 16 Illustrations in Colour or Collotype by the best Artists of the day. Size, 8-1/2 x 5-7/8 in.
1. THE STORY OF HEREWARD. Retold by DOUGLAS C. STEDMAN, B.A.
2. STORIES FROM THE FAERIE QUEENE. Retold by LAWRENCE H. DAWSON.
3. CUCHULAIN: THE HOUND OF ULSTER. Retold from Celtic MSS. by ELEANOR HULL.
4. THE HIGH DEEDS OF FINN. Retold by T. W. ROLLESTON. With Introduction by the Rev. STOPFORD A. BROOKE, M.A.
5. STORIES FROM DANTE. By SUSAN CUNNINGTON.
6. STORIES FROM SHAKESPEARE. Retold by Dr THOMAS CARTER.
7. FOLK TALES FROM MANY LANDS. Retold by LILIAN GASK.
8. HARALD, FIRST OF THE VIKINGS. By Capt. CHARLES YOUNG.
9. STORIES OF INDIAN GODS AND HEROES. Retold by W. D. MONRO.
10. SHAKESPEARE’S STORIES of the ENGLISH KINGS. Retold by Dr T. CARTER, Author of “Stories from Shakespeare.”
11. THE BOYS’ FROISSART. Retold by M. G. EDGAR, M.A.
12. STORIES TO TELL TO CHILDREN. By SARA CONE BRYANT.
Heroes of the Ages
This Series aims to bring before the imagination of boys and girls the outstanding heroic figures of the past. All children, young and old, love a hero, and in this respect human nature has not changed since the remote times when nothing was more certain of applause in the feast-hall than the song of a hero’s deeds.
Some of the heroes told about in these volumes are historic, and their deeds are, more or less, matters of exact knowledge; others, and they are no less dear to us, stand partly in the mist, and their valour and achievements have probably lost nothing during the passage of years.
In the preparation of these books no opportunity is lost of bringing forward those aspects of the stories which are calculated to be helpful in suggesting that which is worthy and of good repute, but there is, of course, no attempt at moralizing, and the narrative is left to inculcate its own moral lessons.
The illustrations are all artistic, and they are of the kind to appeal to boys and girls.
Each volume contains 16 Plates and a Full Index.
1. The Story of Napoleon. By HAROLD F. B. WHEELER. F.R.Hist.S. 320 pages.
2. Famous Voyages of the Great Discoverers. From Henry the Navigator to Raleigh. By ERIC WOOD. 272 pages.
3. The Story of the Crusades. Retold by E. M. WILMOT-BUXTON. 288 pages.
4. Stories of the Scottish Border. Retold by Mr and Mrs WILLIAM PLATT. 256 pages.
5. The Story of Nelson. By H. F. B. WHEELER, F.R.Hist.S., Author of “The Story of Napoleon.” 256 pages.
6. Heroes of the Middle Ages. From Alaric to Columbus By E. M. TAPPAN, Ph.D. 256 pages.
7. The Conquest of Peru. Retold from Prescott by HENRY GILBERT.
8. The Story of Wellington. By H. F. B. WHEELER, Author of “The Story of Napoleon.” 320 pages.
Told Through the Ages
A series of books of entrancing interest for young readers which has become thoroughly established in favour. Designed to include those epics and stories of the past, which have survived the chances of time, reflecting, as they do, the genius of the nations which gave them birth.
Each volume contains 256 pages of letterpress and 16 full-page Illustrations, including reproductions from the best works of Lord Leighton, Sir E. Burne-Jones, G. F. Watts, D. G. Rossetti, Sir John Gilbert, Sir W. B. Richmond, Hon. John Collier, and other famous English and Continental artists.