Tristan nodded and smiled the man on.
“The vision, friend, tell us that.”
Reynaud’s esquire was white and faint from the blood lost to him by his wounds. Tristan cheered him on, bade the two guards support his shoulders.
“Ten more words, man, and we will see to your wounds,” he said. “Whither has the Bishop marched with the spears of Agravale?”
“Sire, to the abbey of Holy Guard.”
“By God, for what purpose?”
“To destroy it, as he was bidden in his vision by St. Pelinore.”
The man fell forward fainting in the arms of his guards. They laid him down beside dead Reynaud, began to search his wounds and to pour wine between his lips. Blanche the Duchess was watching Tristan’s face. She saw his eyes flash and kindle, his mouth harden into a grim line. It was as the face of a man who heard of the dishonouring of one he loved. Tristan stood motionless, leaning on his axe, gazing far into the burning west, and once his lips moved as though he uttered a woman’s name.
CHAPTER XXXII
Samson the Heretic’s death had cast Tristan into savage gloom. He had loved the man, and had learnt to lean on him as on a spiritual father, by whose warm eloquence the heavens were opened. Samson had been as a great beacon fire lighting a dark land, startling with his fierce beams the night-ridden gates of the Church. The light was quenched, the mighty spirit sped, and Tristan mourned for him as for a father.