“The darker the way, madame,” he answered her, “the more splendid the quest.”
She smiled suddenly, and her fine mouth softened.
“You have the heart of youth in you,” she said, “the heart that never tires on the road.”
“I am strong, madame,” he said, very simply.
“We women love strength.”
“And youth?”
“To me, youth is strength,” she answered, “age—weakness. Only those are strong who keep their hearts young. As for rusty age, it is the season of discretion, of puling sapience, and unkindling courage.”
She seemed to talk beyond the present, as though her thoughts were high in the heavens. Tristan could not tell what was in her heart, save that she seemed sad, full of unrest. It was as though her words were not for him, but for some other soul in a far-off land.
“My life is my sister’s,” he said, with an air of strength. “Though my hair grows grey, madame, I shall seek her out.”
“Happy sister,” she said, with a smile.