The moonbeams flooded the chamber. The soft breeze of the summer night stole through the open casement.
With a moan as of mortal pain he sat up and looked about.
Was he indeed in Rome?
Had it been but a dream, this echo of the past, this visualized parting from the woman he had loved better than life?
Was he indeed in Rome, to do as she had bid him do, not in the misty, flower-scented rose-gardens of Avalon in far Provence?—
And she—Hellayne—where was she at this hour?
Tristan stroked his clammy brow with a hot, dry hand. For a moment the memories evoked by the magic wand of the God of Sleep seemed to banish all consciousness of the present. He cast a fleeting, bewildered glance at the dim, distant housetops, then fell back among his cushions, his lips muttering the name of her who had filled his dream with her never-to-be-forgotten presence, wondering and questioning if they would ever meet again. Thus he tossed and tossed.
After a time he became still.
Once again consciousness was blotted out and the dream realm reigned supreme.