No sound came from the silence save the heavy breathing of the men who had broken down the altar. Tristan stood back from the grave, smiled at the mute faces of his men, pointed them to the coffin with his sword.
“I have broken the spell, sirs,” he said. “This good saint will not save his church.”
They took heart and obeyed him, lifted the coffin out, laid it in the choir betwixt the stalls where Samson’s heretics were gathered. Into the grave they lowered Columbe’s body, replaced the stones, piled back at Tristan’s bidding the broken fragments of the altar. Only Blanche and Rosamunde remained while Tristan knelt there awhile and prayed.
When he arose they both came to him, like Hope and Charity who had attended at the burial of Faith.
“God give you joy, Tristan,” said the Duchess. “Columbe is avenged. Turn now, let all dark thoughts elapse.”
He looked at them both and smiled.
“The night is past,” he said.
Blanche had taken Rosamunde by the hand.
“And here, oh my brother, is your dawn.”
They went out into the sunny forecourt where the men were burying the coffin of St. Pelinore under an orange tree. Once more the great church was steeped in solitude, the sunlight plashing through the coloured glass, the arches wreathed with shadowy gloom. Yet the rosary with its stones of white and green would be trodden no more by the penitents of Agravale. An Isaurian spirit had inspired Tristan towards the church, yet he was no mere image-breaker in his victory. The great church of St. Pelinore should cover with its ruins the grave of Columbe, his dead sister.