“Tristan——”
“Leave me.”
“Ah, may I not share your sorrow?”
She knelt down suddenly at his side, even like a mother, and drew the arm from before his face. He did not resist her, though he frowned a little.
“Tristan, you have been noble towards me in your faith,” she said; “may I not show a woman’s gratitude? Is there shame in receiving this?”
He looked in her eyes, but did not look for long, for there was still some bitterness within his heart. Was it not for Rosamunde that Columbe his sister had been done to death?
“Rosamunde,” he said, speaking slowly her name, “the wounded bear must lick his wounds and growl out his fury in some lonely den.”
“Ah,” she pleaded, “you grudge my gratitude to you for all.”
“Madame, I cannot parcel out my grief.”
“What of your vengeance—can I not share in that?”