“You cannot cheat me into loving my old self.”
He still looked into her eyes, doubtingly, like a man half disbelieving a dawning truth.
“Rosamunde,” he said, “in those days I was but a rough and impetuous boy. God knows, I served you, even as a rude soldier would have served one throned above him in the hearts of many. What then was Tristan, that he should lift his eyes to yours?”
She coloured and bowed down her head. Her hands were folded upon her bosom; she swayed slightly, even as a woman needing the strength of a strong man’s arm.
“Nay, Tristan,” she said, stammering over the words, “the fault was mine, and I, proud fool, have learnt my lesson. All the horror and heaviness of life have made me wise. What was Rosamunde that she should refuse a heart of gold?”
Tristan stretched out a hand, stooped, and looked into her face.
“Rosamunde,” he said.
“Have I not seen misery enough?”
“The truth, the truth!”
“Before God, Tristan, take and guard me from the world.”