“Tristan,” she said suddenly, as they neared the sea, “think not hardly of me; rather pity me in your heart. Strife and unrest are everywhere. It is better to escape the world.”
“Better, perhaps,” he said, with his eyes upon the clouds.
“Forget that there is such a woman as Rosamunde,” she said. “In Holy Guard I shall strive to forget the past.”
“Who can forget?” he muttered. “While life lasts, memories live on.”
They had come to the causeway where the track wound like a black snake towards the golden heights. Not a sound was there save the distant surging of the sea. The distorted trees thrust out their hands, and seemed to cry Vale to the two upon the road. At the foot of the causeway, Tristan turned his horse. He took one long look at Rosamunde, then gazed beyond her into the hurrying night.
“God give you peace, madame,” he said, with deep vibrations in his powerful voice.
She stretched out a hand.
“Tristan, you will not leave me yet?”
“Ah,” he cried, with sudden great bitterness, “is it so easy to say farewell?”
The man’s strong despair swept over her like a wind. She sat mute and motionless upon her horse, gazing at him helplessly like one half dazed. On the cliff Holy Guard beckoned with the great cross above its topmost pinnacle. Rosamunde shivered, strove with herself, was perverse as of yore.