She ceased singing as Tristan came to her, put the lute aside, made room for him on the long bench of stone. There was a tinge of petulance on her red mouth, the pathetic perverseness of a heart that loved not by the will of circumstance. Rosamunde was as a woman deceived by dreams. She desired the moon in the person of a man, and since fate bowed not to her desire, she turned her back in anger upon the world.
For Tristan she felt great pity, honest gratitude, but the memory of Samson blinded her to deeper imaginings. That Tristan loved her, being a woman, she knew full well. And yet she feared him for this very love, stiffened her perverseness against his strength.
Tristan sat on the stone seat and looked at her with his honest eyes. To Rosamunde there was a love therein, a love that she could not fathom. The look troubled her, seeing that she had no echo in her heart.
“Tristan, I have words for you,” she said.
“Say on,” he answered her, his eyes fixed solemnly upon her face.
Tristan had served her well, better than man had ever served before. Yet he had raised no such image in her heart as Samson the Heretic had built therein. To Rosamunde, Tristan was still but a generous boy; for she had not comprehended the godlier manhood enshrined behind his youth. He was silent, slow of speech, ignorant in the subtler sense; and feeling herself the wiser of the twain, she did not hesitate to air her wisdom.
“You will sail for Purple Isle?” she said.
He flashed a keen look at her, and his face fell.
“Purple Isle is far from me as yet,” he answered.
“What would you, then?” she asked. “Believe me, Tristan, I will not hinder you. We must part, both of us. There are other claims upon my soul.”