Without flinching, she met the anger in his eyes, keeping her hold upon his powerful arm.
“Has not Ogier perished at your hand?”
“God did deliver him——”
“Not against this old man can you lift your sword.”
Pandart had slipped aside from under Tristan’s feet. He struggled to his knees and knelt there in the grass, his right arm hanging helpless from the shoulder. Tristan, looking at the grey head and the wrinkled face, relented somewhat, remembering his own sire.
“You shall judge,” he said to Rosamunde, giving her the sword.
She took it and set the point upon the grass.
“Speak with him yet further,” she said. “Have pity on his grey hairs, for the old man has been kind to me.”
She left them there together, while Pandart rose up from the grass and stood before Tristan, holding his maimed arm at the elbow. The anger was melting out of Tristan’s heart, and grief gathered in him as he thought of Columbe’s golden head lying tarnished under the sods.
“Show me the grave,” was all he said.