Explore "The Seven Streams" by Warwick Deeping on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Bearing the casket with the veil and phial therein, Rosamunde passed out of the chapel of Holy Guard, down many a gallery and winding stair, to the room where Tristan slept. The look of awe still possessed her face, filling her eyes with solemn shadows, loosening the curves of her proud mouth. The lamp's light played upon her hair as the west wind swayed it to and fro like golden threads upon the cloak of night.
Coming once more to the Abbess's room, she found Tristan sleeping even as she had left him. A faint grey haze hung in the east, for the dawn was coming up over the woods and the waters of the Gloire. Rosamunde set the lamp on the sconce in the wall, and laid the casket on the great carved chair. With a rush of tenderness, she stooped and looked into Tristan's face, hung over him with arms outstretched, as though her whole soul gave him its blessing.