“It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture. "Aye—to pretend to her that you don't care. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. “I get that a lot. To be frank with you, I have an affront to requite, which can be settled at the same time, and in the same way with your affair. ” The lights sank, the prelude to the third act was beginning, the music rose and fell in crowded intimations of lovers separated—lovers separated with scars and memories between them, and the curtain went reefing up to display Tristan lying wounded on his couch and the shepherd crouching with his pipe. “Then I don’t take this as final. This fall saved him, for the horsemen passed over him.
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