“Tristan, look up,” she said at length. “Is it death with you? Great heart, take courage.”
“I am very weary,” he said, closing his eyes.
“Rest here, then,” she answered; “I can bear your weight.”
Slowly the dawn was streaming up, calm and clear after that night of travail. The peaks were glistening in the sky, the heavens mellowing from grey to blue. Under the white brows of the mountains, Tristan and Blanche were alone together, among the stricken and the dead. In death it seemed they would not be parted, though love and life had denied the dream.
Suddenly the woman’s arm tightened about Tristan’s body. The colour returned to her weary face; her eyes grew bright like the eyes of one who hears deliverance in the wind.
“Listen,” she said, “listen, listen!”
From afar came the stirring cry of a horn, a wild blast echoing among the mountains. From afar seemed to rise the shouts of men, strong and vigorous, hurrying to battle. A faint clamour came from the heights whence Bertrand had been driven by Serjabil’s Saracens.
“It is Lothaire,” Blanche said; “they are climbing the pass. Hear how the heathen give tongue above us.”
Tristan struggled up and gripped his sword. A second life seemed to breathe in his body; a second courage filled his heart.
“By God, they come at last!” he cried, with his eyes taking fire. “Give me a shield and I will hold the Gate.”