“Friend,” she said, very openly, “welcome to Joyous Vale, you and your sword. I, Rosamunde, am the lady of this valley; you may see my husband’s tower yonder, amid the trees. Our guest table waits for strangers—who would tarry for a season.”
Tristan thanked her, and turned towards his horse.
“I am beholden to you,” he said, with that rough shyness which gave to his face a certain charm, “for in the Seven Streams I know no man and am known of none.”
So, when he had taken his horse, and joined her by the ruined shrine, they passed down together over the meadows towards the town.
CHAPTER V
Tristan grew the more bewitched by the woman’s face as they passed on towards the lake together. The lips were thin, tinged slightly with scorn, yet very tender when she smiled. The eyes were large and of a greenish blue. There was a rich, round beauty, upon the face, the rose tint of the skin warm and sensuous as the bloom upon fruit. She was very slim where the girdle ran, but big of bosom and long of limb.
Nor was it the beauty alone that made Tristan marvel. A sadness hovered there, a hidden meaning, that his unlettered senses failed to fathom. Mystery! Such the impress she gave to his mind, like the tragic tone of some antique woe. She seemed a woman to whom life should prove sweet. Yet she had tasted of bitterness, so Tristan thought.
The meadows rippled like golden cloth spread under the trees for a queen to tread. A thousand aspens shivered in the sunlight, their fluttering melancholy chilling the air as with the sound of rain. Poplars towered towards the blue. By the lake stood a thicket of gnarled figs, their broad leaves dappled over with gold.
Rosamunde, Lady of La Vallée Joyeuse, drew Tristan’s tale from him as they walked the meadows. Her swift simplicity was as a magic mirror, wherein all creatures showed her their thoughts. Tristan could but confess to her straight from his soul as he looked into the unwavering depths of her eyes. Not being burdened with the reflective sense, he flung his words in the welkin’s face, with the candour of one who had no shame to fear.
“We are but woodlanders here,” she said at the end. “As for the wide world, we are walled from its ken. This quest of yours troubles my knowledge. To me, it is like seeking a solitary flower in a trackless wild.”