The Morholt’s men, they landed in Ireland quite cast down.  For when ever he came back into Whitehaven the Morholt had been wont to take joy in the sight of his clan upon the shore, of the Queen his sister, and of his niece Iseult the Fair.  Tenderly had they cherished him of old, and had he taken some wound, they healed him, for they were skilled in balms and potions.  But now their magic was vain, for he lay dead and the splinter of the foreign brand yet stood in his skull till Iseult plucked it out and shut it in a chest.

From that day Iseult the Fair knew and hated the name of Tristan of Lyonesse.

But over in Tintagel Tristan languished, for there trickled a poisonous blood from his wound.  The doctors found that the Morholt had thrust into him a poisoned barb, and as their potions and their theriac could never heal him they left him in God’s hands.  So hateful a stench came from his wound that all his dearest friends fled him, all save King Mark, Gorvenal and Dinas of Lidan.  They always could stay near his couch because their love overcame their abhorrence.  At last Tristan had himself carried into a boat apart on the shore; and lying facing the sea he awaited death, for he thought:  “I must die; but it is good to see the sun and my heart is still high.  I would like to try the sea that brings all chances. ...  I would have the sea bear me far off alone, to what land no matter, so that it heal me of my wound.”

He begged so long that King Mark accepted his desire.  He bore him into a boat with neither sail nor oar, and Tristan wished that his harp only should be placed beside him:  for sails he could not lift, nor oar ply, nor sword wield; and as a seaman on some long voyage casts to the sea a beloved companion dead, so Gorvenal pushed out to sea that boat where his dear son lay; and the sea drew him away.

For seven days and seven nights the sea so drew him; at times to charm his grief, he harped; and when at last the sea brought him near a shore where fishermen had left their port that night to fish far out, they heard as they rowed a sweet and strong and living tune that ran above the sea, and feathering their oars they listened immovable.

In the first whiteness of the dawn they saw the boat at large:  she went at random and nothing seemed to live in her except the voice of the harp.  But as they neared, the air grew weaker and died; and when they hailed her Tristan’s hands had fallen lifeless on the strings though they still trembled.  The fishermen took him in and bore him back to port, to their lady who was merciful and perhaps would heal him.

It was that same port of Whitehaven where the Morholt lay, and their lady was Iseult the Fair.