It was a lash of the tongue suited to rouse such a man as Tristan. The speech was quick and swiftly sped. Tristan sprang from the grass like one who heard a faint voice calling from the grave.
“Vengeance—God hear me—yes!” he cried.
He stood there above Rosamunde and the grave, breathing heavily, the muscles showing in his powerful neck, his face transfigured for the moment. Taking the snake of silver, he wound it about his wrist, made a great vow with his hands uplifted to high Heaven.
“Never shall this poor relic leave this arm,” he said, “till it has hurled down Agravale into the dust.”
CHAPTER XXII
Evening descended, and the green valley was full of golden light. Afar on the hills the great trees dreamed, dome on dome, touching the transient scarlet of the west. Ilex and cedar stood like sombre giants in a shimmering sea. The eastern slopes gleamed in the sun, a cataract of leaves plunging into gloom. The forest was full of shadows and mysterious streams of gold, and a great silence shrouded the wilderness save for the restless thunder of the stream.
Tristan had gone to bring the horses to a thicket on the western bank near the island. Moreover, he had played the Samaritan to Pandart, had twisted the disjointed head of the bone back into the socket, even as he had learnt the trick from a smith in Purple Isle. With the calm of the declining day, some measure of peace had fallen upon Tristan’s soul. He was a sanguine being, brave in a rallying, quick to recover heart. Columbe was dead, and he had wept for her. Vengeance was to be thenceforth his life’s purpose.
And Rosamunde? Tristan had discovered comfort in her presence there, for love takes beauty as a balm into its breast. He had great hopes and passionate prophecies in his heart. Rosamunde had knelt by him; her hand had touched his hand. God, how his lips still thrilled to the magic of her kiss! And those eyes, were they not wonderful, passing the burnished stars in the dark firmament? There was great awe of her in Tristan’s heart, great joy in her rich beauty, faith to defend her against man and beast.
As he came from watering his horses at the stream, he heard the sound of a woman singing, for Rosamunde walked in the garden amid the vines and pomegranates, chanting some sorrowful legend of lost love. Pandart had shown Tristan a rough bridge across the stream, where giant boulders had been set as stepping-stones betwixt the western grassland and the island. There was a narrow postern giving entry through the wall. Tristan stood at the gate and listened. Above the thunder of the foaming stream the rich voice clambered, strong and clear. Even the great golden vault of heaven seemed full of the echoes of that passionate song.
He found Rosamunde seated on the terrace-way where the oleanders bloomed. Under the stone bridge the water foamed and bubbled, the ferns and moss green and brilliant above the foam. About her rose the knolls of the gold-fruited trees. Farther, the forests climbed into the glory of the heavens.