She read the heroism in his heart, the bitterness of the faith she compelled from him. The truth troubled her, since it shamed her also; for Tristan had grief enough, as she knew well.
“Pandart has prepared us food,” she said.
“Pandart must speak with me. See yonder sword, Rosamunde; the blade must bide there till I come again.”
“Whose is the sword?” she asked.
“Dead Ogier’s,” he answered her, frowning and clenching his teeth.
Pandart came out to them from the house, and cringed to Tristan like a beaten hound. He had a leather wallet under his arm, a water-flask in his hand. Tristan took him by the shoulder, thrust him towards the grave.
“See yonder sword?” he said.
“Ay, sir, I see it.”
“ ’Tis dead Ogier’s sword. Pluck it thence, and the dead shall rise. Mark me, I return again to take that blood relic from my sister’s grave. Touch yonder sword, and by heaven and hell, you shall pay the price.”
“I’ll not meddle,” said Pandart, with his mouth agape.