“Madame, Jocelyn still lives.”
“And you will deal with him—what then?”
He did not answer Rosamunde for a moment. His eyes were troubled, and he looked like one whose thoughts were buffeted by a strong wind. Above them the zenith mellowed to a deeper gold, and they had the noise of waters in their ears.
“Rosamunde,” he said at last, “what would you with me? Am I not pledged to guard your honour?”
“Ah,” she said, drooping her lashes, “I will give you your liberty, Tristan, soon enough. I shall not clog your years.”
“Madame, what purpose have you in your heart?”
There was almost a strain of fierceness in his voice, the tone of a man tortured by suspense. Rosamunde looked at him, saw love upon his face, like a sunset streaming through a cloud. She pitied him for a moment, but hardened her heart the more.
“Tristan, I am weary of the world,” she said.
“Weary, madame, when you are free?”
“Who is free in life? I am fearful of the ruffian passions of the world, of lusts and terrors, ay, even of love itself. Life seethes with turbulence and the great throes of wrath. I would be at peace. I would give myself to God.”