ecoming, sued for
forgiveness and forgetfulness of an unexpiated fault. Let him hope
these from my grace!"--"Be quite sure that I shall tell him!" the
bluff serving-man replies, turning to go: "Now wait and see how
he takes it!"

Isolde flings her arms around Brangaene: "Farewell, Brangaene!
Commend me to the world! Commend me to my father and mother!"--"What
is it?" the handmaid asks, not understanding, yet half frightened;
"What are you meditating? Are you planning flight? Whither must I
follow you?"--"Nay, did you not hear? I shall remain where I am.
I intend to await Tristan. Follow faithfully my command. At once
prepare the peace-draught,--you know the one I showed you."--"What
draught do you mean?" Brangaene asks, not daring to understand.
Isolde takes it out of the coffer once more and holds it up for
Brangaene to see well, the little deadly phial. "This draught!
Pour it into the golden goblet; it will contain the whole without
brimming over.--Mind you are true to me!" she adds, forcing it into
the maid's hand. "But this drink..." falters the appalled girl,
"for whom?"--"For him who betrayed me!"--"Tristan?"--"Shall drink to
our peace-making!" Brangaene falls at Isolde's feet, entreating her
to spare her. "Do you spare me, disloyal girl!" Isolde passionately
chides. What was the purpose, she asks, of that provision made by
her mother for their assistance in a strange land? For hurts and
wounds she had given balm; for poison, antidote; for deepest woe,
for utmost affliction, she had given the death-draught: thanks be
rendered to her now--by death! Brangaene still resisting, Isolde
imperiously presses her command. Their struggle is cut short by
Kurwenal announcing Tristan. Brangaene staggers to the back. Isolde
visibly summons up all her courage, all her strength, and with
queenly self-possession bids Tristan approach.

The music introducing the following scene has the effect of lifting
the story on to a plane of larger things. The proportions of the
personages, in the light of the magnifying music, are seen to be
heroic, their natures vast, their passions, in their very
tremendousness, august.

Tristan stops at the entrance and waits deferentially. Constraint
makes him into a man of chill iron. There is a long moment of
heavy-laden silence. He is first to speak: "Make known to me, lady,
your wish!" She comes to the point at once. "Do you not know my wish,
when the dread of fulfilling it has kept you afar from