“What am I that you should crave for me?” she said. “I have but little beauty, and am growing old. Leave me, Tristan; forget and forgive. I have no heart to surrender to the world.”
Tristan was white to the lips as he stiffened his manhood to meet the wrench.
“Rosamunde, I would have loved you well,” he said. “No matter. God cherish you, and give you peace.”
“Tristan,” she said, leaning towards him from the saddle.
He gave a hoarse cry, covered his face with his hand, would not look at her despite her pity.
“My God!” he said, “say no more to me. It is enough.”
He smote his horse with the spurs, wheeled from her, passed by without a look. His face was as the face of a man who rode to meet his death.
“Tristan!” she cried to him, but he would not hear her. She saw him plunge to a gallop, saw the shield betwixt his shoulders dwindle into the night.
“Tristan!” she cried again, with sudden loneliness seizing on her heart. “Tristan, come back to me! Tristan, Tristan!”
The cry was vain, for he would not hear her, deeming her pity more grievous than her scorn. Despair spurred him on; the black night called. Rosamunde watched him vanish into the increasing gloom, while on the cliffs Holy Guard stood like the great gate of death.