“See, am I dust, madame?” he answered her.
“How came you here?”
Tristan felt some cloud between him and her eyes. Her grave and watchful temper puzzled him, nor had he foreshadowed such cold gratitude as this.
“Madame Rosamunde,” he said, “Samson the Heretic saved me from death; you shall hear the tale anon, if you should wish for it. My life was yours, and Columbe my sister’s. I had vowed faith to you both, and so came to Agravale. The Bishop’s captain hired my sword. Yet though I served him with a traitorous heart, I won no word of you till yesterday.”
She went nearer to him again, still gazing on his face, and her eyes were on Tristan’s, nor did he waver. So cold did she seem that he felt great shame growing within his heart, for it flashed on him in a moment that she despised this faith of his.
“Tristan,” she said, very solemnly, as though plotting to challenge his honour.
He rose up and faced her with folded arms.
“Tristan,” and there was more passion in her voice, “I have borne much, suffered many things from the evil men have conceived against my soul. Ah, God! I have lived in hell these many weeks. I am a woman, and I am alone. By your manhood, swear to me you will not trick my trust.”
He frowned a little and his mouth hardened.
“Have I not proved my faith?” he said.