trumpets were blowing in avalon of the twelve towers, echoing through the valley where the sun shone upon the woods, the sere leaves glittering like golden byzants as they fell. the sky was a clear canopy, drawn as blue silk from height to height, tenting the green meadows. avalon's towers rose black and strong above the sheen of her quiet waters.

from gambrevault came the lord flavian to claim his wife once more. through the brief days of autumn aurelius of gilderoy had decreed him an exile from the isle of orchards, pleading for the girl's frail breath and her lily soul that might fade if set too soon in the noon of love. in gambrevault the lord flavian had moped like a prisoned falcon, listening to the far cry of the war, hungry for the touch of a woman's hand. modred had snatched the madonna of the pine forest from burning gilderoy. she had been throned at last above the tides of violence and wrong.

that day the lord flavian rode in state for avalon, even as an arthurian, prince coming with splendour from some high-souled quest. the woods had blazoned their banners for his march. trumpets hailed him from the towers and battlements. the sun, like a great patriarch, smoothed his gold beard and beamed upon the world.

over the bridge and beneath the gate, modred led his master's horse. the garrison had gathered in the central court; they tossed their swords, and cheered for gambrevault. trumpets set the wild woods wailing. bombards thundered from the towers.

in the court, amid the panoply of arms, flavian dismounted, took modred's hand, leant upon the great man's shoulder.

"old friend, is she well?"

"ah, sire, youth turns to youth."

"let my minstrels play below the stair some old song of tristan and iseult. and now i go to her. lead on."

in dead duessa's bower a drooping figure knelt before a crucifix in prayer. foreshadowings of misery and woe were stirring in the woman's heart. she had heard the bray of trumpets on the towers, the thunder of cannon, the shouts of strong men cheering in the court. she heard lute, viol, and flute strike up from afar a mournful melody sweet with an antique woe.

time seemed to crawl like a wounded snake in the grass. the figures on the arras gestured and grimaced; the jewelled glass in the oriel burnt in through the dark lattice of her veil. she heard footsteps on the stairs; modred's deep voice, joyous and strangely tender. a hand fumbled at the latch. starting up, she ran towards the shadows, and hid her face in the folds of the arras.

the door had closed and all was silent.

"yeoland."

the cry smote through her like joy barbed with bitterness. she shuddered and caught her breath, swayed as she stood with the arras hiding her face.

"wife, wife."

with sudden strength, compelling herself, she peered round, and saw a figure standing in the shadow, a man with white face turned towards the light, his hands stretched out like a little child's. she stood motionless, breathing fast with short, convulsive breaths, her lips quivering beneath her veil.

"i am here," she said to him, husky, tremulous, and faint.

"yeoland."

"ah!"

"i hear your voice; come near to me."

she wavered forward three steps into the room, stood staring strangely at the figure by the door.

"yeoland, are you near?"

"my god!"

"i give myself to you, a broken man. ah, where are your hands?"

sudden comprehension seized her; she went very near to him, gazing in his face.

"speak."

"wife, i shall never see the sky again, nor watch the stars at night, nor the moon, nor the sea. i shall never look on avalon, her green woods and her lilies, and her sleeping mere. i shall never behold your face again. i am blind, i am blind."

she gave a great cry, tore the veil from her face, and cast it far from her.

"husband, i come to you."

his hands were groping in the dark, groping like souls that sought the light. she went near him, weeping, caught his fingers, kissed them with her lips. the man's arms circled her; she hung therein, and buried her head in his bosom.

"my love, my own."

"i am blind; your hair bathes my face."

"ah, you are blind, mine eyes are yours, and i your wife will be your sun. no more pain shall compass you; there shall be no more grieving, no more tears."

"yeoland."

"husband."

"god in heaven, i give thee thanks for this."

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