There was the upflashing of a sword, and a hoarse challenge startled the trees.
“Guard, devil, guard!”
Ogier, his great mouth wide, twisted round, saw a furious face glaring dead white front under the shadow of a shield. A sword streaked the sunlight. Ogier blinked at Tristan as at one gone mad.
“Damnation! What’s amiss, my son?”
“By the love of God, I have you now!”
“Fool, are you mad?”
The hoarse voice echoed him; the eyes flashed fire.
“Guard, ravisher, guard!”
“Ten thousand devils! What have we here?”
“Tristan of Purple Isle, avenger of Columbe; Tristan the Heretic, Tristan of the Seven Streams.”