“Amen,” quoth Tristan, a smile on his mouth. “We can fight for another night and a day, if Bertrand can keep the path above.”
“By then Lothaire and the host will be here.”
“If Bertrand holds the path above.”
There was a prophetic spirit in these words, for hardly had they passed from Tristan’s lips than there came sound as of thunder from the cliffs above. Tristan looked up, rapped out an oath, pressed Blanche back against the wall. A great rock came hurtling down, scattering stones from the rugged slope. It leapt out from the last ledge, flew spinning over the narrow road, to disappear into the depths beneath. Tristan’s hand was on Blanche’s wrist. Above the mutterings of the streams they heard the great rock crash below into the branches of the trees.
“By God,” said Tristan, “they have forced the path!”
“On the mountain.”
“Bertrand has been beaten back. They are rolling the rocks on us, curse their souls!”
He set his arm about Blanche’s body and almost bore her to the foot of the cliff, where there was a shallow hollowing of the stone. They could hear the shouts of Serjabil’s men, who cheered when they saw that the heights were won. Tristan’s men were huddling up under the shelter of the cliff; they could face these Saracens on the wall, but not the rocks that smoked from the mountains.
Blanche lay back against the cliff and looked long into Tristan’s face.
“There is yet time,” she said to him suddenly.