“Strange words!”
“But true. Were I God, should I love the priest puling prayers in a den? Nay, that man should be mine who moved godlike in the world, and strangled fate with the grip of truth. Great deeds are better than prayers. See! it is young Tristan who comes.”
The horseman in the valley had swept at a gallop through a sea of sun-bronzed fern. He was a young knight on a black horse, caparisoned in green and gold. A halo of glistening curls aureoled his boyish face; his eyes were full of a restless radiance, the eyes of a man whose heart was troubled. He sprang from the saddle, and leading his horse by the bridle, kissed the scabbard of Uther’s sword.
“Tidings, sire.”
“Tristan, I listen.”
The knight looked for a moment into the King’s face, but dared not abide the trial. There was such a stare of desperate calm in the dark eyes, that the lad’s courage whimpered, and quailed from the truth. He hung his head, and stood mute.
“Tristan, I listen.”
“Sire—”
“My God, man, speak out!”
“Sire—”