“Friend,” said the leper, with his hand on his bell, “you misread the riddle. Listen, and I will explain.”
With honest despatch he uncovered to Tristan the tone and temper of the Seven Streams. As he told his tale that green spring day, his hoarse raven’s croak made the theme more sombre, prophetic of the clouds that shadowed the land.
“You have given me courtesy, messire,” he said; “I return you good counsel, a rare commodity when properly handled. The lords and peasant folk of this same land have denied their faith to our Great Father the Pope. They have taken heresy into their hearts; have denied in the Sacrameant the flesh and blood of our Lord. Even in his wrath, the Pope was merciful, deeming them ignorant and seduced by pride. He sent out his legate and his missionaries into the land, but the rude folk here would have none of their preaching. So a crusade has been called against the province, and swords are shining in the Southern Marches.”
Tristan, rebel at heart, questioned the justice of such a crusade.
“By God’s light,” he said, “these priests are over meddlesome with the souls of others. Tell it not in Gath, my friend, but I have no great love for men in petticoats.”
The leper grimaced at him with his misshapen mouth.
“Heresy or no heresy, messire,” he said, “they have spilt holy blood here. I had the news on this road this morning. The deed was done but yesterday.”
“Ha!” quoth Tristan, staring in the man’s face.
“They have slain the Pope’s legate. God have mercy on them, for the Church knows little of that virtue.”
Tristan remembered the wild cry in the woods, the fight by the bridge, the slain man whose horse he had taken. There was new significance in the scene to him. He questioned the leper as to the churchman’s end.