Then Tristan asked: 

“How far is this keep of Carhaix?”

“Sir,” said the hermit, “it is but two miles further on this way.”

Then Tristan and Gorvenal lay down, for it was evening.

In the morning, when they had slept, and when the hermit had chanted, and had shared his black bread with them, Tristan thanked him and rode hard to Carhaix.  And as he halted beneath the fast high walls, he saw a little company of men behind the battlements, and he asked if the Duke were there with his son Kaherdin.  Now Hod was among them; and when he cried “yes,” Tristan called up to him and said: 

“I am that Tristan, King of Lyonesse, and Mark of Cornwall is my uncle.  I have heard that your vassals do you a wrong, and I have come to offer you my arms.

“Alas, lord Tristan, go you your way alone and God reward you, for here within we have no more food; no wheat, or meat, or any stores but only lentils and a little oats remaining.”

But Tristan said

“For two years I dwelt in a forest, eating nothing save roots and herbs; yet I found it a good life, so open you the door.”

They welcomed him with honour, and Kaherdin showed him the wall and the dungeon keep with all their devices, and from the battlements he showed the plain where far away gleamed the tents of Duke Riol.  And when they were down in the castle again he said to Tristan: 

“Friend, let us go to the hall where my mother and sister sit.”

So, holding each other’s hands, they came into the women’s room, where the mother and the daughter sat together weaving gold upon English cloth and singing a weaving song.  They sang of Doette the fair who sits alone beneath the white-thorn, and round about her blows the wind.  She waits for Doon, her friend, but he tarries long and does not come.  This was the song they sang.  And Tristan bowed to them, and they to him.  Then Kaherdin, showing the work his mother did, said: 

“See, friend Tristan, what a work-woman is here, and how marvellously she adorns stoles and chasubles for the poor minsters, and how my sister’s hands run thread of gold upon this cloth.  Of right, good sister, are you called, ‘Iseult of the White Hands.’”

But Tristan, hearing her name, smiled and looked at her more gently.

And on the morrow, Tristan, Kaherdin, and twelve young knights left the castle and rode to a pinewood near the enemy’s tents.  And sprang from ambush and captured a waggon of Count Riol’s food; and from that day, by escapade and ruse they would carry tents and convoys and kill off men, nor ever come back without some booty; so that Tristan and Kaherdin began to be brothers in arms, and kept faith and tenderness, as history tells.  And as they came back from these rides, talking chivalry together, often did Kaherdin praise to his comrade his sister, Iseult of the White Hands, for her simplicity and beauty.

One day, as the dawn broke, a sentinel ran from the tower through the halls crying: