For a moment Tristan stared at the man before him as if he heard some message from afar, the meaning of which he but faintly guessed.
Then a blinding rush of tears came to his eyes. He shook with the agony of his grief regardless of those who passed and paused and wondered, while the friar's words of comfort and solace fell on unmindful ears.
At last, heedless of his companion, heedless of his surroundings, heedless of everything, he rushed away to seek solitude, where he would not see a human face, not hear a human voice.
He must be alone with his grief, alone with his Maker. It seemed to him he was going mad. It was all too monstrous, too terrible, too unbelievable.
How was it possible that one so young, so strong, so beautiful, should die?
Friar Geronimo knew not. But his gaze had caused Tristan to shiver as in an ague.
He remembered the discourse of Basil and his companion in the galleries of the Emperor's Tomb.
Twice was he on the point of warning Hellayne not to attend Basil's banquet.
Each time something had intervened. The warning had remained unspoken.
Would she have heeded it?