The fifth day towards evening Tristan and Rosamunde saw the sea, a wild
streak of troubled gold under the kindling cressets of the west. Beneath
them lay a valley full of tangled scrub and wind-worn trees. Westwards
rose a great rock thrusting its huge black bastions out into the sea.
Upon this rock rose the towers and pinnacles of Holy Guard, smitten with
gold, wrapped in mysterious vapour. Into the east stretched a wilderness
of woods, dim and desolate, welcoming the night.
Tristan and Rosamunde rode out from the woods towards the sea, while in
the west the sun sank into a bank of burning clouds. The trees were
wondrous green in the slant light; the whole world seemed bathed in
strange ethereal glory. Holy Guard upon its headland stood like black
marble above the far glimmerings of the sea.
Tristan le Sauvage rode with his eyes fixed on the burning clouds.
Rosamunde was watching him with strange unrest. Since that first night
in the woods he had held aloof from her, had spoken little, had
harnessed himself with an iron pride. Yet at times, when his eyes had
unwillingly met hers, she had seen the sudden gleam therein of a strong
desire. She had watched the dusky colour rise on Tristan’s sunburnt
face, the deep-drawn breaths that ebbed and flowed under the man’s
hauberk. Though his mouth was as granite, though he hid his heart from
her, she knew full well that he loved her to the death. The fine temper
of his faith had humiliated and even angered her. Though his despair
deified her vanity with heroic silence, the man’s courage made her
miserable from sheer sympathy and shame.
They crossed a small stream and came to a sandy region where stunted
myrtles clambered over the rocks, and tamarisk, tipped as with flame,
waved in the wind. Storm-buffeted and dishevelled pines stood thicketed
upon the hillocks. The place was sombre and very desolate, silent save
for the low piping of the wind.
Neither Rosamunde nor Tristan had spoken since they left the woods and
sighted Holy Guard. The man pointed suddenly with his hand towards the
cliffs, the light of the setting sun streaming upon his white and solemn
face.
“Yonder is Holy Guard,” he said to her.
There was a species of defiance in the cry, as though the man’s soul
challenged fate. His heart’s cords were wrung in the cause of honour.
Rosamunde quailed inwardly like one ashamed, her lips quivered, her eyes
for the moment were in peril of tears.
“Yonder is Holy Guard,” she echoed in an undertone. “There I may escape
the world and be at peace. Tristan, you have served me well.”
“Ah, madame,” he said, with increasing bitterness, “I have done my duty.
Remember me, I pray you, in your prayers.”
“I shall not forget,” she answered him.
“Nor I,” he said, with some grim emphasis.
A narrow causeway curled upwards towards the towers upon the rock. The
sea had sunk behind the cliffs; the sky faded to a less passionate
colour. Rosamunde’s eyes were on the walls of Holy Guard, and she seemed
lost in musings as they rode side by side.
“Tristan,” she said suddenly, as they neared the sea, “think not hardly
of me; rather pity me in your heart. Strife and unrest are everywhere.
It is better to escape the world.”
“Better, perhaps,” he said, with his eyes upon the clouds.
“Forget that there is such a woman as Rosamunde,” she said. “In Holy
Guard I shall strive to forget the past.”
“Who can forget?” he muttered. “While life lasts, memories live on.”
They had come to the causeway where the track wound like a black snake
towards the golden heights. Not a sound was there save the distant
surging of the sea. The distorted trees thrust out their hands, and
seemed to cry _Vale_ to the two upon the road. At the foot of the
causeway, Tristan turned his horse. He took one long look at Rosamunde,
then gazed beyond her into the hurrying night.
“God give you peace, madame,” he said, with deep vibrations in his
powerful voice.
She stretched out a hand.
“Tristan, you will not leave me yet?”
“Ah,” he cried, with sudden great bitterness, “is it so easy to say
farewell?”
The man’s strong despair swept over her like a wind. She sat mute and
motionless upon her horse, gazing at him helplessly like one half dazed.
On the cliff Holy Guard beckoned with the great cross above its topmost
pinnacle. Rosamunde shivered, strove with herself, was perverse as of
yore.
“What am I that you should crave for me?” she said. “I have but little
beauty, and am growing old. Leave me, Tristan; forget and forgive. I
have no heart to surrender to the world.”
Tristan was white to the lips as he stiffened his manhood to meet the
wrench.
“Rosamunde, I would have loved you well,” he said. “No matter. God
cherish you, and give you peace.”
“Tristan,” she said, leaning towards him from the saddle.
He gave a hoarse cry, covered his face with his hand, would not look at
her despite her pity.
“My God!” he said, “say no more to me. It is enough.”
He smote his horse with the spurs, wheeled from her, passed by without a
look. His face was as the face of a man who rode to meet his death.
“Tristan!” she cried to him, but he would not hear her. She saw him
plunge to a gallop, saw the shield betwixt his shoulders dwindle into
the night.
“Tristan!” she cried again, with sudden loneliness seizing on her heart.
“Tristan, come back to me! Tristan, Tristan!”
The cry was vain, for he would not hear her, deeming her pity more
grievous than her scorn. Despair spurred him on; the black night called.
Rosamunde watched him vanish into the increasing gloom, while on the
cliffs Holy Guard stood like the great gate of death.