“Tristan, you will live,” she said.
“There is strange strength in me.”
“The dream, the dream!”
“No longer does the warm blood ebb.”
She raised herself from Tristan’s body and knelt with arms stretched towards the east, a great glory lighting her face.
CHAPTER L
It was evening, and Holy Guard was wrapped in silence, save that the sea laughed and clamoured on the rocks beneath.
Up the great stairway climbed Blanche the Duchess, with a purple cloak thrown over her shoulders and a small silver cross held in one hand. Solemnity dwelt on her face, as though joy and pain held converse there, while life and love were not accorded. Shadows there were beneath her eyes, and a sad smile playing about her mouth. Her hair seemed whiter than of yore, and age more manifest, as though her youth gave out at last, and bowed its head.
Very slowly she climbed the stair, as though her heart grew tired apace. The sun came through in golden beams from the thin squints that pierced the wall, smiting the silent shadows through, shadows that seemed to suffer pain.
Presently she came to the cloister court where seven tall windows broke the wall, giving view of the western sea, the great Gloire, and the thronging woods. About Holy Guard the world seemed to sweep like a rare tapestry, sea, forest, and stream, blending azure, silver, and green. The great abbey seemed arched with gold, an irrefragable peace begotten of heaven.