Tristan grew the more bewitched by the woman’s face as they passed on
towards the lake together. The lips were thin, tinged slightly with
scorn, yet very tender when she smiled. The eyes were large and of a
greenish blue. There was a rich, round beauty, upon the face, the rose
tint of the skin warm and sensuous as the bloom upon fruit. She was very
slim where the girdle ran, but big of bosom and long of limb.
Nor was it the beauty alone that made Tristan marvel. A sadness hovered
there, a hidden meaning, that his unlettered senses failed to fathom.
Mystery! Such the impress she gave to his mind, like the tragic tone of
some antique woe. She seemed a woman to whom life should prove sweet.
Yet she had tasted of bitterness, so Tristan thought.
The meadows rippled like golden cloth spread under the trees for a queen
to tread. A thousand aspens shivered in the sunlight, their fluttering
melancholy chilling the air as with the sound of rain. Poplars towered
towards the blue. By the lake stood a thicket of gnarled figs, their
broad leaves dappled over with gold.
Rosamunde, Lady of La Vallée Joyeuse, drew Tristan’s tale from him as
they walked the meadows. Her swift simplicity was as a magic mirror,
wherein all creatures showed her their thoughts. Tristan could but
confess to her straight from his soul as he looked into the unwavering
depths of her eyes. Not being burdened with the reflective sense, he
flung his words in the welkin’s face, with the candour of one who had no
shame to fear.
“We are but woodlanders here,” she said at the end. “As for the wide
world, we are walled from its ken. This quest of yours troubles my
knowledge. To me, it is like seeking a solitary flower in a trackless
wild.”
“The darker the way, madame,” he answered her, “the more splendid the
quest.”
She smiled suddenly, and her fine mouth softened.
“You have the heart of youth in you,” she said, “the heart that never
tires on the road.”
“I am strong, madame,” he said, very simply.
“We women love strength.”
“And youth?”
“To me, youth is strength,” she answered, “age—weakness. Only those are
strong who keep their hearts young. As for rusty age, it is the season
of discretion, of puling sapience, and unkindling courage.”
She seemed to talk beyond the present, as though her thoughts were high
in the heavens. Tristan could not tell what was in her heart, save that
she seemed sad, full of unrest. It was as though her words were not for
him, but for some other soul in a far-off land.
“My life is my sister’s,” he said, with an air of strength. “Though my
hair grows grey, madame, I shall seek her out.”
“Happy sister,” she said, with a smile.
“Happy brother,” he retorted, running his hand over the horse’s black
mane.
“Ah, Tristan,” she said, with strange motherliness in voice and mood,
“there will come a day when some woman will be happy with a heart such
as yours. If for a sister you will dare so much, what will your faith be
to one dearer than all the sisters who tread the world?”
They had come to the town, sunk deep in gardens beside the lake. Its
roofs were ruddy as an autumn orchard, its highways paved with white
stones; peace seemed to cover it, and great content. No battlements
frowned black-browed over the meadows. Beauty and simple truth sat
throned in its calm heart.
As for Rosamunde, she was queen therein; Tristan gathered as much before
they had gone fifty paces of the grey, white stones. Her empire lay with
the people’s hearts. She was mother, lady, friend to all. Children ran
to her when they saw her face. She had a kiss, a smile, an outstretched
hand for each. Some brought her flowers, posies of red and white, which
Tristan, taking, laid within his shield. The women beamed from doorways
as she passed. The peasants louted to her, warm homage on their
sun-tanned faces. She had a word, a smile of sympathy for all. That they
loved her, Tristan could reason well.
“To-day, Samson comes to us,” she said to those she passed, “to-night,
friends, gather to the castle. Samson will speak to us there. Bring with
you your children. They must share the truth.”
Tristan, forgetful of the mild eyes that stared at him, a stranger in
Joyous Vale, wondered in his heart who Samson was. Perhaps a priest, a
minstrel, an arch-heretic. If these good folk were apostates, he could
praise their heresy. Sin, poverty, and shame had little heritage in
Joyous Vale. He saw no beggars in the streets, no rags, no misery, no
unclean thing. The faces round him were as fresh as May, serene and
simple, harbingers of good. If this same Samson had wrought all this,
surely of all men he could be counted happy.
In this wise, leading his black horse by the bridle, Tristan came with
Rosamunde to her husband’s home. Tristan was not unloth to see this
Ronan, whose wife she was. One truth he had gathered well: Columbe, his
sister, was not in Joyous Vale.