"You fell?" the question came again.
"In that moment, father, I was no more myself, no more the one whose art is sacred and alone upon the mountain summit of his soul. Its freedom and aspirations were no more. I was undone, a tumbled, wingless thing. My pride had fled. Long, long I looked into her eyes, and when she put her wonderful white arms about me, I, in a dizzy moment of desire, dropped my face to hers. Then was love all uttered. Straightway I arose. I clasped her in my arms. I kissed—I kissed her—"
The monk regarded him sternly, yet not unkindly.
"It was a sin. Yet—there is more?"
Tristan's hands were clasped.
"One evening in the rose garden—at dusk—the evening on which she sent me from her—bade me go to Rome to obtain forgiveness for a sin of which I could not repent."
The monk nodded. "Go on! Go on!"
"The world had fallen away from us. We stood in a grove, our arms about each other. Suddenly I saw a face. I withdrew my arm, overwhelmed by all the shame of guilt. The face vanished and, passion overmastering once more, we touched our lips anew. It was the last time we were to see each other. I left behind the wondrous silken hair my hands had touched in our last mad caress. I left behind that tender face and form. She made no attempt to follow, or to call me back. I hastened to my chamber, and there I fought anew with all that evil impulse of my youth, to face the shame, as long as joy endured. If I had sinned in mind against my high ideal might I not some day recover it and be purified?"
"What of God and Holy Church?" queried the monk.
"To them I gave no heed, but to my honor. This upheld me."