“Ha, Samson, shall I not pluck out the heart of that man, even as he plucked the Lady Rosamunde out of Ronan’s tower? What is youth but battle? and I am young, methinks, young enough to fly for the Southern Marches.”
Samson was unsaddling his horse. He stayed with his fingers on the buckle, and half stooping, looked somewhat sadly into Tristan’s face.
“Beware,” he said, “lest you open the old wounds again.”
Tristan spread his arms.
“I have bled,” he said, “and shall bleed again, methinks, or be called coward by every pledge of my good youth.”
Samson lifted the saddle to the grass, and stood up, fingering his beard and looking Tristan over.
“The men murmur for the sword,” he said. “I met Malan in the woods to-day, after I had slain this beast with a long flight. They clamour to be led against those who have harried and sacked the Seven Streams.”
“Let them murmur; I echo them.”
“Your wounds?”
“Are tough as leather. Shall we not take the sword?”