It seemed as if a happy destiny had provided for him in
the charming princess Isoude of the White Hands the best security
for all his good resolutions. This last reflection determined him.
They were married, and passed some months in tranquil happiness at
the court of King Hoel. The pleasure which Tristram felt in his
wife's society increased day by day. An inward grace seemed to
stir within him from the moment when he took the oath to go on the
quest of the Holy Greal; it seemed even to triumph over the power
of the magic love-potion.
The war, which had been quelled for a time, now burst out anew.
Tristram as usual was foremost in every danger. The enemy was
worsted in successive conflicts, and at last shut himself up in
his principal city. Tristram led on the attack of the city. As he
mounted a ladder to scale the walls he was struck on the head by a
fragment of rock, which the besieged threw down upon him. It bore
him to the ground, where he lay insensible.
As soon as he recovered consciousness he demanded to be carried to
his wife. The princess, skilled in the art of surgery, would not
suffer any one but herself to touch her beloved husband. Her fair
hands bound up his wounds; Tristram kissed them with gratitude,
which began to grow into love. At first the devoted cares of
Isoude seemed to meet with great success; but after a while these
flattering appearances vanished, and, in spite of all her care,
the malady grew more serious day by day.
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