The younger man’s face seemed to grow the more sullen. Though he had lost the buoyant zest of youth, he had gained more of the grim purpose of manhood. It was the face of a fanatic that Samson watched.
“I have failed,” he said, simply enough, “failed and yet won, as fate did order it. The Lady Rosamunde I rescued out of Jocelyn’s hands, and set her in Holy Guard by the sea, whither I rode with her at her command.”
“Holy Guard, brother?”
“Rosamunde’s heart was towards the place. What could my ugly face make of love?”
On that wind-swept tower Tristan told Samson of his wanderings in the south. He recounted how he had joined the Bishop’s men and sojourned in Agravale two months or more. He told how he had ridden with Jocelyn and Ogier to the madhouse in the mere, how he had slain Ogier, and found Rosamunde and his sister’s grave. Lastly, he confessed to Rosamunde’s weariness of the world, and told how he had left her in Holy Guard by the sea.
When he had ended, Samson spoke to him, looking tenderly on his face.
“You are with us yet, brother, despite the past?”
“My sword is yours——”
“Till we have slain Jocelyn.”
“And hurled down Agravale into the dust.”