“And your charity perhaps,” she answered him.
Jocelyn spoke on.
“You have been unstrung by the terrors of the night,” he said. “Calm yourself, return to your room, wait for the day. Commune with faith; pray, pray that the Holy Virgin may cleanse the heresy from your heart. On the morrow, madame, you shall speak with me again.”
“Bishop,” she said, with face upturned, “words will not serve you to change my heart.”
“Let the future prove,” he answered, “your blood runs hot to-night. Let me counsel you to ponder your peril in solitude.”
“I have considered all,” she said.
“According to the poverty of your faith,” he retorted; “on the morrow, madame, we will sift your doubts together.”
He rang the bell, while his eyes remained fixed on Rosamunde’s face. The guards came forward to take her from the hall. Setting herself between them without a word, she turned and walked steady and erect towards the door. The tongues of those assembled seemed loosed on the instant. A babel of laughter echoed under the roof amid the swirling smoke of the flambeaux; a wave of colour swept along the painted shields. Above the uproar came the insistent tinkling of the Bishop’s bell.
Before the doorway, Rosamunde came to a sudden halt, like one smitten on the face. She had seen Tristan standing by the wall, and their eyes had met, flashed, held in one swift stare. Scorn was on the woman’s lips, a sudden pallor upon her forehead. Tristan read “traitor” in that glance of hers. The white cross seemed to burn his bosom, for even as he stood speechless she passed out and was gone.