Tristan was astir early with the coming of the day. He passed over the
stream, saddled and bridled the horses for the morning’s sally. The
grass was drenched with dew; the woods towered heavenwards with a
thousand golden peaks, while in the valley the river echoed back the
light, chanting sonorously as it slid under the trees.
Tristan was very solemn about the eyes that morning. He looked like a
man who took little joy in life, but worked that he might ease his
heart. He watched the sun climb over the leafy hills, saw the clouds
tread the heavens, heard the thunder of the stream. There was life in
the day and wild love in the woods. Yet from this world of passion and
delight he was an exile; nay, rather, a pilgrim therein fettered by a
heavy vow. Strong man, he was to bear the Grail of Love through all
these wilds, yet might never look thereon, nor quench his thirst.
He passed back into the garden with dead Ogier’s sword under his arm.
Columbe’s grave lay steeped in sunlight, a-glitter with the dew upon the
grass. Tristan took Ogier’s sword, set it upright in the midst of the
grave, knelt down and prayed there, his face bowed within his folded
arms. He swore that Ogier’s sword should rust in the grass till Jocelyn
should rest in his spilt blood.
As Tristan knelt there, Rosamunde came out to him from Pandart’s house.
She was cloaked in green for riding, the crimson-lined hood turned back
upon her shoulders. Her golden head gleamed bright as yellow gillyflower
in the sun, yet her looks were distraught and somewhat sullen. Tristan
rose to meet her. They kept their distance, seemed fearful of looking in
each other’s eyes.
“Tristan, you are ready?”
“I have saddled the horses,” he said.
She read the heroism in his heart, the bitterness of the faith she
compelled from him. The truth troubled her, since it shamed her also;
for Tristan had grief enough, as she knew well.
“Pandart has prepared us food,” she said.
“Pandart must speak with me. See yonder sword, Rosamunde; the blade must
bide there till I come again.”
“Whose is the sword?” she asked.
“Dead Ogier’s,” he answered her, frowning and clenching his teeth.
Pandart came out to them from the house, and cringed to Tristan like a
beaten hound. He had a leather wallet under his arm, a water-flask in
his hand. Tristan took him by the shoulder, thrust him towards the
grave.
“See yonder sword?” he said.
“Ay, sir, I see it.”
“’Tis dead Ogier’s sword. Pluck it thence, and the dead shall rise. Mark
me, I return again to take that blood relic from my sister’s grave.
Touch yonder sword, and by heaven and hell, you shall pay the price.”
“I’ll not meddle,” said Pandart, with his mouth agape.
Tristan and Rosamunde made no more tarrying. They crossed the stream,
Pandart following with their meagre baggage. Tristan strapped the wallet
and water-flask to his saddle, and lifted Rosamunde to Ogier’s horse.
Then they took leave of Pandart and the island in the stream, and riding
northwards, plunged into the woods.
All that day Tristan strove and struggled with his youth, his great
heart beating fast and loud under his steel hauberk. Love was at his
side, robed in crimson and green; her hair blinded him more than the
noon brightness of the sun. As for her eyes, he dared not look therein,
lest they should tempt him to deceive his honour. Silence bewitched the
pair as though they were half fearful of each other’s thoughts.
Tristan spoke little, keeping his distance, as though mistrusting his
own tongue. As for Rosamunde, the same passionate perversity possessed
her heart, and though she pitied Tristan, she pitied him silently and
from afar.
The first night they lodged them in a beech wood where dead leaves
spread a dry carpet under the boughs. Tristan made a bed of leaves at
the foot of a great tree. He spread a cloak and saddle-cloth for
Rosamunde’s comfort, made as though to leave her alone in the wood.
“Tristan,” she said suddenly, looking slantwise at his face.
He turned and stood waiting.
“You have given me your cloak.”
“A mere rag, Rosamunde; ’twill keep the cold from you.”
“What of yourself?”
“I shall not need it,” he said to her, “for I shall not sleep to-night.
I keep watch and guard you. Have no fear.”
She sighed, hung her head, sat down at the foot of the tree. The man’s
unselfish faith shamed her more and more. Perhaps, in her perversity,
she strove to love him the less for the rough simplicity of his good
faith. His very patience hardened her discontent.
Tristan, with a last look, left her there, and wandered away into the
woods. A full moon climbed in the east, and the wide land was smitten
with her mystery. The valleys were as lakes of glimmering mist, the
hills like icy pinnacles gleaming towards the stars. The forest glades
were white under the moon; the trees, tall, sculptured pyramids, their
trunks as of ebony inlaid with pearl wherever the moonlight splashed the
bark. The silence of the wilderness was as the silence of a windless
sea.
Tristan wandered in the woods, his heart full of the strange, sad beauty
of that summer night. The stars spoke of Rosamunde; the trees had her
name unuttered on their lips. What was this woman that she should bring
such bitterness into his life? Were there not others in the world as
fair as she, with lips as red and eyes as magical? Strangeness; mystery.
She was one with the moon, a goddess shrined in the gloom of forests
dim. White and immaculate, beautifully strange, she was as an elf-child
fated to doom men to despair.
Tristan passed back, found her asleep under the tree. He stood beside
her, gazed on the sleeping face. There was silent faith in that slumber;
trust in the man who guarded her honour. The moonlight streamed on the
upturned face, shining like ivory amid the gleam of her hair. How white
her throat was, how her bosom rose and fell with the long pale hands
folded thereon.
A sudden warmth flooded Tristan’s heart, and youth cried in him like a
desirous wind. Should this beauty be mured in stone, this red rose be
hid by convent trees? Was she not flesh and blood, born to love and to
be loved in turn—and what was life but love and desire?
He crept near on his knees, hung over her breathlessly, gazing on her
face. God, but to wake her with one long kiss, to feel those white arms
steal round his neck! They were alone, the two of them, under the stars.
For many minutes Tristan hung there like a man tottering on a crag
betwixt sea and sky. Passion whimpered in him; his heart smote fast. Yet
even as he crouched over Rosamunde asleep, some dream or vision seemed
to trouble her soul. Her hands stirred, her lids quivered, her breath
came fast betwixt her lips. A shadow as of pain passed over the moonlit
face. Tristan, motionless, heard her utter a low cry, saw tears gleaming
upon her cheeks.
Pity, the strong tenderness of his nobler self, rushed back into the
deeps as a wave from a cliff. The black thoughts flew from his heart
like bats frightened by the light of the sun. Great shame seized on
Tristan; he fell down at the foot of a tree and prayed.