“The holy saints defend you, messire,” he said. “It is long since a Christian took pity on my soul.”
Tristan, ignorant of all leprous lore, and the unsavoury nature of such a wanderer, questioned him concerning La Vallée Joyeuse, and the length of the road that led that way. This Lazarus was very human under his thickened skin. Alms alone did not dazzle his vision. The sick are ever hungry for sympathy, the instinctive pity that shines from the soul. The leper had as long a tongue as most men, though the weapon had grown rusty for lack of use.
“I tread the road towards La Vallée Joyeuse,” he said, rising from before the cross; “if a friend will suffer my infirmities, I can play the guide for a league or more.”
Tristan climbed from the horse with a smile on his face. There was no reflective pride within his heart.
“Mount up, friend,” he said; “my legs are lustier than yours, I wager.”
Scorning debate in his masterful way, he held the stirrup and heeled the man up. The black horse snorted and tossed his mane, as though despising so ragged a burden. Tristan ruled him with hand and voice. If the master chose chivalry, the beast could obey.
In this fashion they set out together, the leper straddling the soldier’s horse, Tristan walking like a groom at his side. They were soon accorded in spirit and speech, for a smile on the lips makes the whole world kin. The leper had lived as a merchant in his day, till disease had beggared him and left him an outcast. He had turned pilgrim, so he said, to visit a certain holy well, whose waters were magical to recover the sick. The shrine lay by the northern seas. Many great miracles had been wrought at this well, and pious folk cleansed of many a malady. Of the Land of the Seven Streams the leper had much to tell; he had gathered shrewd gossip, as he travelled north.
“Good friend,” he said, when Tristan questioned him, “I know neither the temper nor the colour of your sword. If you carry a white heart and travel for peace, I would pray you to beware of La Vallée Joyeuse.”
Tristan, frank soul, unfolded without fear the purpose of his quest. He told the man of Columbe his sister, and of the vow he had sworn to recover her body.
“Where the waves run white,” he said, “there may the voyager find the wrecked ones who have fallen in stormy waters. If this same valley is a perilous region, who knows but that I may win some news of my quest.”