Evening descended, and the green valley was full of golden light. Afar
on the hills the great trees dreamed, dome on dome, touching the
transient scarlet of the west. Ilex and cedar stood like sombre giants
in a shimmering sea. The eastern slopes gleamed in the sun, a cataract
of leaves plunging into gloom. The forest was full of shadows and
mysterious streams of gold, and a great silence shrouded the wilderness
save for the restless thunder of the stream.
Tristan had gone to bring the horses to a thicket on the western bank
near the island. Moreover, he had played the Samaritan to Pandart, had
twisted the disjointed head of the bone back into the socket, even as he
had learnt the trick from a smith in Purple Isle. With the calm of the
declining day, some measure of peace had fallen upon Tristan’s soul. He
was a sanguine being, brave in a rallying, quick to recover heart.
Columbe was dead, and he had wept for her. Vengeance was to be
thenceforth his life’s purpose.
And Rosamunde? Tristan had discovered comfort in her presence there, for
love takes beauty as a balm into its breast. He had great hopes and
passionate prophecies in his heart. Rosamunde had knelt by him; her hand
had touched his hand. God, how his lips still thrilled to the magic of
her kiss! And those eyes, were they not wonderful, passing the burnished
stars in the dark firmament? There was great awe of her in Tristan’s
heart, great joy in her rich beauty, faith to defend her against man and
beast.
As he came from watering his horses at the stream, he heard the sound of
a woman singing, for Rosamunde walked in the garden amid the vines and
pomegranates, chanting some sorrowful legend of lost love. Pandart had
shown Tristan a rough bridge across the stream, where giant boulders had
been set as stepping-stones betwixt the western grassland and the
island. There was a narrow postern giving entry through the wall.
Tristan stood at the gate and listened. Above the thunder of the foaming
stream the rich voice clambered, strong and clear. Even the great golden
vault of heaven seemed full of the echoes of that passionate song.
He found Rosamunde seated on the terrace-way where the oleanders
bloomed. Under the stone bridge the water foamed and bubbled, the ferns
and moss green and brilliant above the foam. About her rose the knolls
of the gold-fruited trees. Farther, the forests climbed into the glory
of the heavens.
She ceased singing as Tristan came to her, put the lute aside, made room
for him on the long bench of stone. There was a tinge of petulance on
her red mouth, the pathetic perverseness of a heart that loved not by
the will of circumstance. Rosamunde was as a woman deceived by dreams.
She desired the moon in the person of a man, and since fate bowed not to
her desire, she turned her back in anger upon the world.
For Tristan she felt great pity, honest gratitude, but the memory of
Samson blinded her to deeper imaginings. That Tristan loved her, being a
woman, she knew full well. And yet she feared him for this very love,
stiffened her perverseness against his strength.
Tristan sat on the stone seat and looked at her with his honest eyes. To
Rosamunde there was a love therein, a love that she could not fathom.
The look troubled her, seeing that she had no echo in her heart.
“Tristan, I have words for you,” she said.
“Say on,” he answered her, his eyes fixed solemnly upon her face.
Tristan had served her well, better than man had ever served before. Yet
he had raised no such image in her heart as Samson the Heretic had built
therein. To Rosamunde, Tristan was still but a generous boy; for she had
not comprehended the godlier manhood enshrined behind his youth. He was
silent, slow of speech, ignorant in the subtler sense; and feeling
herself the wiser of the twain, she did not hesitate to air her wisdom.
“You will sail for Purple Isle?” she said.
He flashed a keen look at her, and his face fell.
“Purple Isle is far from me as yet,” he answered.
“What would you, then?” she asked. “Believe me, Tristan, I will not
hinder you. We must part, both of us. There are other claims upon my
soul.”
“Madame, Jocelyn still lives.”
“And you will deal with him—what then?”
He did not answer Rosamunde for a moment. His eyes were troubled, and he
looked like one whose thoughts were buffeted by a strong wind. Above
them the zenith mellowed to a deeper gold, and they had the noise of
waters in their ears.
“Rosamunde,” he said at last, “what would you with me? Am I not pledged
to guard your honour?”
“Ah,” she said, drooping her lashes, “I will give you your liberty,
Tristan, soon enough. I shall not clog your years.”
“Madame, what purpose have you in your heart?”
There was almost a strain of fierceness in his voice, the tone of a man
tortured by suspense. Rosamunde looked at him, saw love upon his face,
like a sunset streaming through a cloud. She pitied him for a moment,
but hardened her heart the more.
“Tristan, I am weary of the world,” she said.
“Weary, madame, when you are free?”
“Who is free in life? I am fearful of the ruffian passions of the world,
of lusts and terrors, ay, even of love itself. Life seethes with
turbulence and the great throes of wrath. I would be at peace. I would
give myself to God.”
Tristan rose up suddenly, and began to stride to and fro before her. He
loved Rosamunde, knew it in that moment with all the strongest fibres of
his heart. He had hoped too much, trusted too much to the power of his
own faith. He turned and faced her there, calm outwardly, miserable
within.
“Must this thing be?” he asked her.
There was such deep wistfulness in those words of his that she bent her
head and would not look into his face.
“Tristan,” she said, “I pray you plead no further with my heart. I shall
turn nun; there is the truth.”
“As you will, madame,” he answered; “’tis not for me to parley with your
soul.”
He stood motionless with head thrown back, his eyes gazing upon the
darkening windows of the east. The sound of the running waters surged in
his ears; the colours and odours of the place seemed to faint into the
night. As for Rosamunde, she moved never a muscle. The man’s great faith
seemed to fill her with a gradual shame.
“Tristan,” she said at last, “have I not said that I am weary of the
world, its passions and its inconstant smiles? Guard me for one short
week, and I will ask no more.”
There was that inexplicable perversity in her heart that at certain
moments makes a woman traitorous to her own desires. Rosamunde,
passionate pessimist, beckoned her own fate on with a bitterness that
Tristan could not fathom.
“Listen,” she said. “In the province of the Seven Streams there stands
the great convent of Holy Guard, set on a headland above the sea. ’Tis
many leagues south of Joyous Vale, by the great river that parts our
province from Duchess Lilias’s lands. The Papists have spared the place,
since Samson was never there. Thither, Tristan, shall you take me. I
will turn nun, and take the veil.”
Tristan watched her, listening like a man to the reading of his own
doom. Rosamunde did not look at him. Her fair head was bowed down over
her knees.
“Since this is your desire,” he said to her, “I am content to see you
bulwarked from the world.”
“Tristan, you will take me to Holy Guard?”
“Madame, have I not promised?”