They bore Tristan from the shrine of St. Geneviève northwards towards
Agravale and the waters of the Gloire. All one day and a night they were
on the road, riding slowly, since Tristan’s wound would stand but little
jolting of the litter. Ever beside him rode Blanche the Bold, sorrowful
at heart for Tristan’s sake, and for the last hours that she grudged to
another. Had she not played the nobler part and contrasted her pity with
Rosamunde’s pride? Yet to Tristan the end would be bitter if he looked
not again on Rosamunde’s face, for the red stream never ceased to flow
from where the barb was buried deep.
It was dawn when they came to the great Gloire and saw Agravale tower on
the heights above, smitten with the sunlight from the east. Very
peaceful seemed the green meadows where the tall poplars barred back the
dawn. All the world seemed bathed in dew; the odours of flowers breathed
in the air.
By the old stone bridge they found boats moored to the grey quays above
the river. Blanche chose a black barge that lay in the shallows, and by
Tristan’s desire he was set in the prow with his face turned towards the
west. Twenty of Blanche’s men manned the barge, stout fellows who had
held the thwarts in the north when the Duchess’s galley put out to sea.
She herself was in the prow, where Tristan had been laid on the narrow
deck.
The barge foamed away on the bosom of the Gloire, gliding with the
strong current as two men toiled at each great oar. Agravale and its
white towers dwindled into the azure above the woods as the sun stood
full in the eastern sky. Far to the south the white peaks gleamed,
seeming to watch the barge pass down the broad river towards the sea.
Very solemn were the wilds that summer day, as the Gloire spread its
curves under the towering hills. Gnarled trees drank like hoar warriors
at the brink, and betwixt the sable deeps of the woods the grassland was
broidered with many flowers. Sunlight and shadow were embattled there
where the hills bristled against the dawn, and the river gleamed into
rippling bays with a thousand lightnings threading the green. Deep were
the mysteries of the woods and deep the chanting of the river as the
sedges sang of the distant sea.
Tristan lay in the prow of the barge with his face turned towards the
west. Like one in a dream he watched the woodland waving by, the great
trees splashed with gold by the sun, the meadows ablaze with a myriad
flowers. Sometimes he would gaze into the blue above and watch the white
clouds sailing by, or a hawk like a black speck poised in the heavens.
Thus the hours sped as in a dream while the barge swept on down the
river, the oars swinging with the steady rhythm of a song. Sometimes
Tristan counted the strokes till they seemed like the breathing of a
mighty beast. Often he would fancy that Holy Guard towered up before him
against the blue, or starting, he would seem to hear Rosamunde’s voice
calling his name as the water bubbled about the prow.
Blanche the Duchess watched beside him, wondering whether his life would
ebb before they brought him to the sea. With her own hands she gave him
food and wine for the staying of his strength. Her voice indeed was as
the voice of a mother as she tended him there, forgetting self in the
hope that his prayers should not prove in vain.
“Courage, Tristan,” she would often say, with her mouth close to the
wounded man’s ear, “the stream runs fast, and there is blood in you
yet.”
So night came, and with it a summer storm of wind and rain sweeping up
the valley from the sea. The men covered Tristan with a canopy of rough
cloth, and propped their shields round him to shelter his bed. Gloom
wrapped the woods where the tall trees battled with the wind. The
Gloire’s waves were capped with foam, yet the men at the oars rowed on
and on. No sounds were there save the groaning of the looms, the heavy
downrush of the storm, the plashing of the water at the prow. Truly did
the Gloire seem a river of the dead as the black barge forged on against
the wind and rain, with the hoarse moan of the forest filling the night.
Yet as the dawn came the clouds gave back and a clear sky waited in the
west. Soon the sun rent the vapoury veil, flashing upon the distant
mountains, while the wind sank to utter rest. The woods seemed wrapped
in a shimmering mist and golden smoke wreathed all the hills. The huge
shadows were startled from their sleep where every tree top pearled by
the rain glimmered and flashed towards the dawn. The great Gloire
laughed as the light came up and the drenched meadows smiled in the sun.
Tristan had slept that night through the rain and the wind, for sheer
weariness had brought him dreams. In his sleep he had beheld Rosamunde
walking the waters, treading the river to meet the barge. Her face had
lit the waters like the moon, and crimson flames had wreathed her feet
as they touched the waves that flowed betwixt the woods. Her gown was of
a splendid green, so bright that it was as some rare emerald shot
through with the sun. She had come to the barge and entered in, knelt
down by Tristan and kissed his lips. And with that dream kiss Tristan
awoke to find the dim woods dripping dew.
Whether it was this dream, or the clear morning air, or the long sleep
that had held him through the hours, Tristan felt stronger with the
dawn. Steadily the long oars still laboured on, for ten men rested while
ten men rowed. There was to be no halting towards the sea, and with the
swift stream the barge moved fast.
Blanche had been long awake at Tristan’s side, watching the woods as
they hurried by with the flower-filled valleys lying between. She had
set her cloak to dry in the sun, and had spread her drenched hair over
her shoulders. At the first lifting of Tristan’s lids she was quick to
greet him with a smile and a word.
“Dawn,” he said; “how long have I slept? Are we nearer Holy Guard and
the sea?”
“The men have rowed all night,” she answered him. “You have slept,
Tristan, while we have watched.”
A strange smile played upon the man’s lips, the smile of one who
remembered a dream, some shining forth of a mystic face from the
shifting vapours of the night.
“I have dreamed a dream,” he said.
“Yes, Tristan,” she echoed.
“Methinks that I shall reach the sea and live to be carried into Holy
Guard. Hark, whose voice is that? The steersman calls to us from the
poop.”
One of Blanche’s men who steered the barge was pointing to where the
tall woods were broken by a valley. Under a thick mist they could see
the shining through of a goodly river, streaked and silvered by the sun.
Its waters came fretting round a rocky point to merge into the bosom of
the Gloire.
“It is the Lorient,” quoth Blanche, standing and looking under her hand.
Tristan half raised himself upon his elbow and gazed over the low
bulwarks towards the woods. A tawny flood came flashing down to smite
into the Gloire’s more silver breadth.
“The Lorient,” he said; “then we are but ten leagues from the sea.”
“By nightfall we should come to Holy Guard.”
He sank back again upon the bed with a spasmodic catching of the breath
as the barb twinged in his wounded side. Fresh blood stained the linen
bands. He coughed and winced as Blanche knelt by him and gave him wine
out of an earthen flask.
“Courage, Tristan, courage,” she said; “for by God’s grace we shall
bring you to Holy Guard before the night shall come again.”
So the day passed, and the great Gloire coursed on with broadening
grandeur towards the sea. The silent thickets clambered down to where
the glittering inlets played on sandy banks and amid the sedges. Ever
the meadows lay between, streaked with green rushes and with golden
flags, while the sky seemed full of thunder clouds, of light and shadow,
and of shimmering mists that wreathed the hills with golden smoke. Ever
the great trees seemed to sing of death as the barge swept on towards
the sea.