She stretched out a hand and touched his forehead, knelt close to him, looking sadly in his face.
“What would you have given me, Tristan,” she asked, “other than the gratitude of a good heart? Am I one to crave weight for weight?”
As she knelt on the stones the sunlight gathered about Tristan’s face, so that it seemed haloed round with gold.
“My soul wings towards Holy Guard,” he said.
“Ah, Tristan——”
“I would that I might look on Rosamunde again and hear her speak to me before I die.”
Blanche leant back against the tomb and stared out straight through the open door. For the moment she saw nothing but the arch of gold, and set therein a woman’s face, fair with all fairness, rich with youth. In Blanche’s heart there was sudden bitterness, since she knew that she was growing old, and that love flew forth to the face of youth. In life this Rosamunde had stood between, and even in death the man’s last thoughts flew past her to Holy Guard by the sea.
And then she looked at Tristan’s face, with its wistful eyes and haggard mouth. How weak he was, how like a child’s this his last desire. Should she balk him when death stood by? No, by God, she was nobler than that.
“Tristan,” she said, “I will send to Holy Guard and fetch Rosamunde hither.”
His face brightened strangely at her words, but there was still a cloud before his eyes.