{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_52139/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_52139","id":"gutenberg_52139","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52139","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","Uther Pendragon (Legendary character) -- Fiction"],"text":"UTHER AND IGRAINE\n\n                            [Illustration:\n  \"PELLEAS WATCHED HER AS HER GREY GOWN WENT AMID THE GREEN AND RED\"]\n\n\n\n\n                           UTHER AND IGRAINE\n\n\n                                  BY\n\n                            WARWICK DEEPING\n\n\n                       _ILLUSTRATED BY W. BENDA_\n\n\n                               NEW YORK\n                          THE OUTLOOK COMPANY\n                                 1903\n\n\n\n\n                          COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY\n\n                         THE OUTLOOK COMPANY.\n\n\n                         ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.\n\n\n                       PUBLISHED OCTOBER, 1903.\n\n\n\n\n                                  To\n\n                             MAUDE MERRILL\n\n                       WITH THE AUTHOR'S HOMAGE\n\n\n\n\n  CONTENTS\n\n\n      BOOK I\n\n                                                                    PAGE\n\n  THE WAY TO WINCHESTER                                                1\n\n      BOOK II\n\n  GORLOIS                                                             93\n\n      BOOK III\n\n  THE WAR IN WALES                                                   199\n\n      BOOK IV\n\n  TINTAGEL                                                           325\n\n\n\n\nBOOK I\n\nTHE WAY TO WINCHESTER\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nBeneath the dark cornices of a thicket of wind-stunted pines stood a\nsmall company of women looking out into the hastening night. The half\nlight of evening lay over the scene, rolling wood and valley into\na misty mass, while the horizon stood curbed by a belt of imminent\nclouds. In the western vault, a vast rent in the wall of grey gave out\na blaze of transient gold that slanted like a spear-shaft to a sullen\nsea.\n\nA wind cried restlessly amid the trees, gusty at intervals, but tuning\nits mood to a desolate and constant moan. There was an expression of\ndespair on the face of the west. The woods were full of a vague woe,\nand of troubled breathing. The trees seemed to sway to one another, to\nfling strange words with a tossing of hair, and outstretched hands. The\nfurze in the valley--swept and harrowed--undulated like a green lagoon.\n\nThe women upon the hill were garbed after the fashion of grey nuns.\nTheir gowns stood out blankly against the ascetic trunks of the pines.\nThey were huddled together in a group, like sheep under a thorn hedge\nwhen storms threaten. The dark ovals of their hoods were turned towards\nthe south, where the white patch of a sail showed vaguely through the\ngathering grey.\n\nBetween the hill and the cliffs lay a valley, threaded by a meagre\nstream, that quavered through pastures. A mist hung there despite\nthe wind. Folded by a circle of oaks rose the grey walls of an\necclesiastical building of no inconsiderable size, while the mournful\nclangour of a bell came up upon the wind, with a vague sound as of\nvoices chanting. Valley, stream, and abbey were rapidly melting into\nthe indefinite background of the night.\n\nSuddenly a snarling murmur seemed to swell the plaining of the bell.\nA dark mass that was moving through the meadows beneath like a herd\nof kine broke into a fringe of hurrying specks that dissolved into\nthe shadows of the circle of oaks. The bell still continued to toll,\nwhile the women beneath the pines shivered and drew closer together as\nthough for warmth and comfort. There was not one among them who had not\ngrasped the full significance of the sinister sound that had come to\nthem from the valley. A novice, taller than her sisters, stood forward\nfrom the group, as though eager to catch the first evidence of the\ndeed that was to be done on that drear evening. She held up a hand to\nthose behind her, in mute appeal to them to listen. The bell had ceased\npulsing. In its stead sounded a faint eerie whimper, an occasional\nshrill cry that seemed to leap out of silence like a bubble from a pool\nwhere death has been.\n\nThe women were shaken from their strained vigilance as by a wind. The\nutter grey of the hour seemed to stifle them. Some were on their knees,\npraying and weeping; one had fainted, and lay huddled against the trunk\nof a pine. It was such a tragedy as was often played in those days of\ndisruption and despair, for Rome--the decrepit Saturn of history--had\nfallen from empire to a tottering dotage. Her colonies--those Titans\nof the past--still quivered beneath the doom piled upon them by the\nTeuton. In Britain, the cry of a nation had gone out blindly into the\nnight. Vortigern had perished in the flames of Genorium. Reculbuum,\nRhutupi\u00e6, and Durovernum had fallen. The fair fields of Kent were open\nto the pirate; while Aurelius, stout soldier-king, gathered spear and\nshield to remedy the need of Britain.\n\nThe women upon the hill were but the creatures of destiny. Realism had\ntouched them with cynical finger. The barbarians had come shorewards\nthat day in their ships, and at the first breathing of the news the\nabbey dependants had fled, leaving nun and novice to the mercies of the\nmoment. It had become a matter of flight or martyrdom. Certain fervent\nwomen had chosen to remain beside their abbess in the abbey chapel, to\nawait with vesper chant and bell the coming of sword and saexe. Those\nmore frail of spirit had fled with the novices from the valley, and\nnow knelt numb with a tense terror on the brow of that windswept hill,\nwatching fearfully for the abbey's doom. They could imagine what was\npassing in the shadowy chapel where they had so often worshipped. The\nface of the Madonna would be gazing placidly on death--and on more than\ndeath. It was all very swift--very terrible. Thenceforward cloister and\ngarden were theirs no more.\n\nA red gleam started suddenly from the black mass in the valley. The\nnuns gripped hands and watched, while the gleam became a glare that\npoured steadily above the dark outline of the oaks. A long flame leapt\nup like a red finger above the trees. The belfry of the chapel rose\nblackly from a circlet of fire, and gilded smoke rolled away nebulously\ninto the night. The barbarians had set torch to the place. The abbey of\nAvangel went up in flame.\n\nThe tall novice who had been kneeling in advance of the main company\nrose to her feet, and turned to those who still watched and prayed\nunder the pines. The girl's hood had fallen back; the hair that\nshould have been primly coifed rolled down in billowy bronze upon her\nshoulders. There was infinite pride on the wistful face--a certain\nscorn for the frailer folk who wept and found sustenance in prayer. The\ngirl's eyes shone largely even in the meagre light under the trees, and\nthere was a straight courage about her lips. She approached and spoke\nto the women who knelt and watched the burning abbey in a cataleptic\nstupor.\n\n\"Will you kneel all night?\" she said.\n\nThe words were scourges in their purpose. Several of the nuns looked up\nfrom the flames in the valley.\n\n\"Shame on you, worldling!\" said one of thin and thankless visage;\n\"down on your knees, brat, and pray for the dead.\"\n\nThe novice gave a curt, low laugh. The reproofs of a year rankled in\nher like bitter herbs.\n\n\"Let the dead bury their dead,\" quoth she. \"I am for life and the\nliving.\"\n\n\"Shame, shame!\" came the ready response. \"May the Mother of Mercy melt\nyour proud heart, and punish you for your sins. You are bad to the\ncore.\"\n\n\"Shame or no shame,\" said the girl, \"my heart can grieve for death as\nwell as thine, Sister Claudia; and now the abbey's burnt, you may couch\nhere and scold till dawn if you will. You may scold the heathen when\nthey come to butcher you all. I warrant they will give such a beauty\nshort shrift.\"\n\nThe lean nun ventured no answer. She had been worsted before by this\nrebellious tongue, and had discovered expediency in silence. Several\nof the women had risen, and were thronging round the novice Igraine,\nquerulous and fearful. Implicit faith, though pious and admirable in\nthe extreme, neither pointed a path nor provided a lantern. Southwards\nlay the sea and the barbarians; the purlieus of Andredswold came down\nto touch the ocean. There was night in the sky; no refuge within miles,\nand wild folk enough in the world to make travelling sufficiently\nperilous. Moreover, the day's deed had harried the women's emotions\ninto a condition of vibrating panic. The unknown seemed to hem them in,\nto smother as with a cloak. They were like children who fear to stir in\nthe dark, and shrink from impalpable nothingness as though a strange\nhand waited to grip them to some spiritual torture. As it was, they\nwere fluttering among the pines like birds who fear the falcon.\n\n\"It grows dark,\" said one.\n\n\"Let Claudia pray for us.\"\n\n\"Igraine, you are wiser in the world than we!\"\n\n\"Truth,\" said the girl, \"you may bide and snivel with Claudia if you\nwill. I am for Anderida through the woods.\"\n\n\"But the woods,\" said a child with wide, dark eyes, \"the woods are\nfearful at night.\"\n\n\"They are kinder than the heathen,\" said Igraine, taking the girl's\nhand. \"Come with me; I will mother you.\"\n\nEven as she spoke the novice saw a point of fire disjoint itself from\nthe dark circle of the oaks below. Another and another followed it, and\nbegan to jerk hither and thither in the meadows. The dashes of flame\ngradually took a northern trend, as though the torch-bearers were for\nascending the long slope that idled up to the ragged thicket of pines.\nShe turned without further vigil, and made the most of her tidings in\nan appeal to the women under the trees.\n\n\"Look yonder,\" she said, pointing into the valley. \"Let Sister Claudia\nsay whether she will wait till those torches come over the hill.\"\n\nThere was instant hubbub among the nuns. Cooped as they had been within\nthe mothering arms of the Church, peril found them utterly impotent\nwhen self-reliance and natural instinct were needed to shepherd them\nfrom danger. The night seemed to sweep like a wheel with the burning\npyre in the meadows for axle. The torches were moving hither and\nthither in fantastic fashion, as though the men who bore them were\ndoubling right and left in the dark, like hounds casting about for a\nscent. The sight was sinister, and stirred the women to renewed panic.\n\n\"Igraine, help us,\" came the cry.\n\nEven tyranny is welcome in times of peril. Witless, resourceless, they\ngathered about her in a dumb stupor. Even Claudia lost her greed for\nmartyrdom and became human. They were all eager enough for the forest\nnow, and hungry for a leader. Igraine stood up among them like a tall\nfigure of hope. Her eyes were on the east, where a weird glow above the\ntree tops told her that the moon was rising.\n\n\"See,\" she said, \"we shall have light upon our way. There is a\nbridle-path through the wold here that goes north, and touches the\nroad from Durovernum. I am going by that path, follow who will.\"\n\n\"We will follow Igraine,\" came the answer.\n\nNorth, east, and west lay Andredswold, sinister as a sea at night. The\nhill, tangled with gorse and bracken, and sapped by burrows, dipped to\nit gradually like an outjutting of the land. To the east they could see\na wide tangle of pines latticing the light of the moon. It was dark,\nand the ground more than dubious to the feet. The women, nine in all,\nherded close on Igraine, who walked like an Eastern shepherdess with\nthe sheep following in her track. First came Claudia, who had held sway\nover the linen, with Malt, the stout cellaress, next Elaine and Lily,\ntwin sisters, two nuns, and two novices. There was much stumbling, much\nclutching at one another in the dark; but, thanks to holy terror, their\nprogress was in measure ungracefully speedy.\n\nThe girl Igraine led with a keen gleam in her eyes and a queer\ncheerfulness upon her face, as she stepped out blithely for the dark\nmass where the wold began. Her sojourn in the abbey had been brief\nand stormy, a curt attempt at discipline that had failed most nobly.\nOne might as well have sought to hem in spring with winter as to curb\ndesire that leapt towards greenness and the dawn like joy. She had ever\nthought more of a net for her hair than of her rosary. The little pool\nin the pleasaunce had served her as her mirror, casting back a full\nface set with amber shadowed eyes, and a bosom more attuned to passion\nthan to dreams of quiet sanctity. She had been the wayward child of the\nabbey flock, flooded with homilies, surrendered to eternal penances,\nyet holding her own in a fair worldly fashion that left the good women\nof the place wholly to leeward.\n\nThrust out into the world again she took to the wild like a fox to\nthe woodland, while her more tractable comrades were like caged doves\nbaffled by unaccustomed freedom. Matins, complines, vespers were no\nmore. Cold stone arched no more to tomb her fancies. Above stretched\nthe free dome of the sky; around, the wilderness free and untainted; in\nlieu of psalms she heard the gathering cry of the wind, and the great\nvoice of the forest at night.\n\nIn due course they came to where a dark mass betokened the rampart\nthickets of the wold, rising like a wall across the sky. Igraine hoped\nfor the track, and found it running like a white fillet about the brow\nof a wood. They followed till it thrust into the trees, a thin thread\nin the shadows. As they went, great oaks overreached them with sinuous\nlimbs. The vault was fretted innumerably with the faint overdome of\nthe sky. Now and again a solitary star glimmered through. To the women\nthat place seemed like an interminable cavern, where grotto on grotto\ndwindled away into oblivious gloom. But for the track's narrow comfort,\nIgraine and her company would have been impotent indeed.\n\nThe prospect was sad for these folk who had lived for peace, and had\ntuned their lives to placid chants and the balm of prayer. In Britain\nChrist was worshipped and the Cross adored, yet abbeys were burnt,\nand children martyred, and strong towns given over to sack and fire.\nTruth seemed to taunt them with the apparent impotence of their creed.\nThe abbess Gratia had often said that Britain, for its sloth and sin,\ndeserved to meet the scourge of war, and here were her words exampled\nby her own stark death. The nuns talked of the state of the land, as\nthey plodded on through the night. There was no soul among them that\nhad not been grossly stirred by the fate that had overtaken Avangel,\nGratia, and her more zealous nuns. It was but natural that a cry for\nvengeance should have gained voice in the hearts of these outcast\nwomen, and that a certain querulous bitterness should have found tongue\nagainst those in power.\n\nIgraine, walking in the van, listened to their words, and laughed with\nsome scorn in her heart.\n\n\"You are very wise, all of you,\" she said presently over her shoulder.\n\"You speak of war and disruption as though the whole kingdom were in\nthe dust. True, Kent is lost, the heathen have burnt defenceless places\non the coast, and have stormed a few towns. The abbey of Avangel is not\nall Britain. Have we not Aurelius and the great Uther? Our folk will\ngather head anon, and push these whelps into the sea.\"\n\n\"God grant it,\" said Claudia, with a smirk heavenward.\n\n\"We need a man,\" quoth Igraine.\n\n\"Perhaps you will find him, pert one.\"\n\n\"Peril will,\" said the girl; \"there is no hero when there is no dragon\nor giant in need of the sword. Britain will find her knight ere long.\"\n\n\"Lud,\" said Malt, the cellaress, \"I wish I could find my supper.\"\n\nThereat they all laughed, Igraine as heartily as any.\n\n\"Perhaps Claudia will pray for manna dew,\" she said.\n\n\"Scoffer!\"\n\n\"It will be cranberries, and bread and water, till better seasons come.\nI have heard that there are wild grapes in the wold.\"\n\n\"Bread!\" quoth Malt; \"did some kind soul say bread?\"\n\n\"I have a small loaf here under my habit.\"\n\n\"Ah, Igraine, girl, I would chant twenty psalms for a morsel of that\nloaf.\"\n\n\"Chant away, sister. Begin on the 'Attendite, popule.' I believe it is\none of the longest.\"\n\n\"Don't trifle with a hungry wretch.\"\n\n\"The psalms, Malt, or not a crust.\"\n\n\"Keep it yourself, greedy hussy; I can go without.\"\n\n\"We will share it, all of us, presently,\" said the girl, \"unless Malt\nwants to eat the whole.\"\n\nThey held on under the ban of night, following the track like Theseus\ndid his thread. At times the path struck out into a patch of open\nground, covered with scrub and bracken, or bristling thick with furze.\nIgraine had never seen such timid folk as these nuns from Avangel.\nIf a stick cracked they would start, huddle together, and vow they\nheard footsteps. They mistook an owl's hoot for a heathen cry, and a\nnight-jar's creaking note made them swear they caught the chafe of\nsteel. Once they suffered a most shrewd fright. They drove a herd\nof red deer from cover, and the rush and tumultuous sound of their\ngalloping created a most holy panic among the women. It was some time\nbefore Igraine could get them on the march again.\n\nAs the night wore on they began to lag from sheer weariness. Two or\nthree were feeble as sickly children, and the abbey life had done\nlittle for the body, though it had done much to deform the mind.\nIgraine had to turn tyrant in very earnest. She knew the women looked\nto her for courage and guidance, and that they would be hopeless\nwithout her stronger mind to lead them. She put this knowledge to\neffect, and held it like a lash over their weakly spirits.\n\nIgraine found abundant scope for her ingenuity. When they voted a halt\nfor rest, she vowed she would hold on alone and leave them. The threat\nmade the whole company trail after her like sheep. When they grumbled,\nshe told tales of the savagery and lust of the heathen, and made their\nfears ache more lustily than did their feet. By such devices she kept\nthem to it for the greater portion of the night, knowing that the\nshrewdest kindness lay in seeming harshness, and that to humour them\nwas but mistaken pity.\n\nAt last--heathen or no heathen--they would go no further. It was\nsome hours before dawn. The trees had thinned, and through more open\ncolonnades they looked out on what appeared to be a grass-grown valley\nsleeping peacefully under the moon. A great cedar grew near, a pyramid\nof gloom. Malt, the cellaress, grumbling and groaning, crept under its\nshadows, and commended Igraine to purgatorial fire. The rest, limp\nand spiritless, vowed they would rather die than take another step.\nHuddling together under the branches, they were soon half of them\nasleep in an ecstasy of weariness. Igraine, seeing further effort\nuseless, surrendered to the inevitable, and lay down herself to sleep\nunder the tree.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nDay came with an essential stealth. The great trees stood without a\nrustling leaf, in a stupor of silence. A vast hush held as though the\nwold knelt at orisons. Soon ripple on ripple of light surged from the\nhymning east, and the night was not.\n\nThe sleep of the women from Avangel had proved but brief and fitful,\ncouched as they had been under so strange a roof. They were all awake\nunder the cedar. Igraine, standing under its green ledges, listened to\ntheir monotonous talk as they rehearsed their plight dismally under\nthe shade. The nun Claudia's voice was still raised weakly in pious\nfashion; she had learnt to ape saintliness all her life, and it was a\nmere habit with her. The cellaress's red face was in no measure placid;\nhunger had dissipated her patience like an ague, and she found comfort\nin grumbling. The younger women were less voluble, as age and custom\nbehoved them to be. Unnaturally bred, they were like images of wax,\ncapable only of receiving the impress of the minds about them. Such a\nwoman as Malt owed her individuality solely to the superlative cravings\nof the flesh.\n\nAbout them rose the slopes of a valley, set tier on tier with trees,\nnebulous, silent in the now hurrying light. Grassland, moist and\nspangled, lay dew-heavy in the lap of the valley, with the track\ncurling drearily into a further tunnel of green.\n\nIgraine, scanning the trees and the stretch of grassland, found on a\nsudden something to hold her gaze. On the southern side of the valley\nthe walls of a building showed vaguely through the trees. It was so\nwell screened that a transient glance would have passed over the line\nof foliage without discovering the white glimmer of stone. She pointed\nit out to her companions, who were quickly up from under the cedar\nat the thought of the meal and the material comforts such a forest\nhabitation might provide. They were soon deep in the tall grass, their\nhabits wet to the knee with dew, as they held across the valley for the\nmanor amid the trees.\n\nThe place gathered distinctness as they approached. Two horns of\nwoodland jutted out--enclosing and holding it jealously from the\ntrack through the valley. There were outhouses packed away under the\ntrees. A garden held it on the north. The building itself was modelled\nsomewhat after the fashion of a Roman villa, with a porch--whitely\npillared--leading from a terrace fringed with flowers.\n\nThe silence of the place impressed itself upon Igraine and the women as\nthey drew near from the meadowlands. The manor seemed lifeless as the\nwoods that circled it. There were no cattle--no servants to be seen,\nnot even a hound to bay warning on the threshold. Passing over a small\nstone bridge, they went up an avenue of cypresses that led primly to\nthe garden and the terrace. They halted at the steps leading to the\nportico. The garden, broken in places, and somewhat unkempt, glistened\nwith colour in the early sun; terrace and portico were void and silent;\nthe whole manor seemed utterly asleep.\n\nThe women halted by the stairway, and looked dubiously into one\nanother's faces. There was something sinister about the place--a\nprophetic hush that seemed to stand with finger on lip and bid the\ncurious forbear. After their march over the meadows, and considering\nthe hungry plight they were in, it seemed more than unreasonable to\nturn away without a word. None the less, they all hesitated, beckoning\neach to her fellow to set foot first in this house of silence. Igraine,\nseeing their indecision, took the initiative as usual, and began to\nclimb the steps that led to the portico. Claudia and the rest followed\nher in a body.\n\nWithin the portico the carved doors were wide. The sun streamed down\nthrough a latticed roof into a peristylum, where flowers grew, and a\npool shone silverly. There were statues at the angles; one had been\nthrown down, and lay half buried in a mass of flowers. The place looked\nwholly deserted, though, by the orderly mood of court and garden, it\ncould not have been long since human hands had tended it.\n\nThe women gathered together about the little font in the centre of the\nperistylum, and debated together in low tones. They were still but\nhalf at ease with the place, and quite ready to suspect some sudden\ndevelopment. The house had a scent of tragedy about it that was far\nfrom comforting.\n\nSaid Malt, \"I should judge, sisters, that the folk have fled, and that\nwe are to be sustained by the hand of grace. Come and search.\"\n\nClaudia demurred a moment.\n\n\"Is it lawful,\" quoth she, \"to possess one's self of food and raiment\nin a strange and empty house?\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said the cellaress with a sniff.\n\n\"But, Malt, I never stole a crust in my life.\"\n\n\"Better learn the craft, then. King David stole the shewbread.\"\n\n\"It was given him of the priests.\"\n\n\"Tut, sister, then are we wiser than David; we can thieve with our own\nhands. I say this house is God-sent for our need. May I stifle if I\nerr.\"\n\n\"Malt is right,\" said Igraine, laughing; \"let us deprive the barbarians\nof a pie or a crucifix.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" chimed Malt, \"want makes thieving honest. _Jubilate Deo._ I'm\nfor the pantry.\"\n\nA colonnade enclosed the peristylum on every quarter. Beneath the\nshadows cast by the architrave and roof, showed the portals of the\nvarious chambers. Igraine led the way. The first room that they essayed\nappeared to have been a sleeping apartment, for there were beds in it,\nthe bedding lying disordered and fallen upon the floor as though there\nhad been a struggle, or a sudden wild flight. It was a woman's chamber,\njudging by its mirror of steel, and the articles that were scattered\non floor and table. The next room proved to be a species of parlour or\nliving-room. A meal had been spread upon the table, and left untouched.\nPlatter and drinking cups were there, a dish of cakes, a joint on a\ngreat charger, bread, olives, fruit, and wine. Armour hung on the\nwalls, with mirrors of steel, and paintings upon panels of wood.\n\nThe women made themselves speedily welcome after the trials of the\nnight. Each was enticed by some special object, and character leaked\nout queerly in the choosing. Malt ran for a beaker of wine; the cakes\nwere pilfered by the younger folk; Claudia--whispering of Saxon\ndesecration--possessed herself with an obeisance of a little silver\ncross that hung upon the wall. Igraine took down a bow, a quiver\nof arrows, and a sheathed hunting knife; she slung the quiver over\nher shoulder, and strapped the knife to her girdle. The clear kiss\nof morning had sharpened the hunger of a night, and the meal spread\nin that woodland manor proved very comforting to the fugitives from\nAvangel.\n\nSatisfied, they passed out to explore the rooms as yet unvisited. A\nfine curiosity led them, for they were like children who probe the dark\nplaces of a ruin. The eastern chambers gave no greater revealings than\ndid those upon the west. The kitchen quarters were empty and soundless,\nthough there was a joint upon the spit that hung over the ashes of a\nspent fire. It seemed more than likely that the inmates had fled in\nfear of the barbarians, leaving the house in the early hours of some\nprevious dawn.\n\nAs yet they had not visited a room whose door opened upon the southern\nquarter of the peristyle. Judging by its portal, it promised to be a\ngreater chamber than any of the preceding, probably the banqueting or\nguest room. The door stood ajar, giving view of a frescoed wall within.\n\nMalt, who had waxed jovial since her communion with the tankard, pushed\nthe door open, and went frankly into the half light of a great chamber.\nShe came to an abrupt halt on the threshold, with a fat hand quavering\nthe symbol of a cross in the air. The women crowded the doorway, and\nlooked in over the cellaress's stout shoulders.\n\nIn a gilded chair in the centre of the room sat the figure of a man.\nHis hands were clenched upon the lion-headed arms of the siege, and\nhis chin bowed down upon his breast. He was clad in purple; there were\nrings upon his fingers, and his brow was bound with a band of gold. At\nhis feet crouched a great wolf-hound, motionless, dead.\n\nThe women in the doorway stared on the scene in silence. The man in the\nchair might have been thought asleep save for a certain stark look--a\nbleak immobility that contradicted the possibility of life. Here they\nhad stumbled on tragedy with a vengeance. The mute face of death lurked\nin the shadows, and the vast mystery of life seemed about them like a\ncold vapour. It was a sudden change from sunlight into shade.\n\nIgraine pushed past Malt, and ventured close to the crouching hound.\nBending down, she looked into the dead man's face. It was pinched and\ngrey, but young, none the less, and bearing even in death a certain\nsensuous haughtiness and dissolute beauty. The man had been dark, with\nhair turbulent and lustrous. In his bosom glinted the silver pommel of\na knife, and there were stains upon cloak and tessellated pavement.\nClasped in one hand was a small cross of gold that looked as though it\nhad been plucked from a chain or necklet, and held gripped in the death\nagony. The wolf-hound had been thrust through the body with a sword.\n\n\"Hum,\" said Malt, with a sniff,--\"Christian work here. And a comely\nfellow, too--more's the pity. Look at the rings on his fingers;\nI wonder whether I might take one for prayer money? It would buy\ncandles.\"\n\nIgraine was still looking at the dead man with strange awe in her heart.\n\n\"Keep off,\" she said, thrusting off Malt; \"the man has been stabbed.\"\n\n\"Well, haven't I eyes too, hussy?\"\n\nClaudia came in, white and quavering, with her crucifix up.\n\n\"Poor wretch!\" said she; \"can't we bury him?\"\n\n\"Bury him!\" cried Malt.\n\n\"Yes, sister.\"\n\n\"Thanks, no. It would spoil my dinner.\"\n\nClaudia gave a sudden scream, and jumped back, holding her skirts up.\n\n\"There's blood on the floor! Holy mother! did the dog move?\"\n\n\"Move!\" quoth Malt, giving the brute a kick; \"what a mouse you are,\nClaudia.\"\n\n\"Are you sure the man's dead?\"\n\n\"Dead, and cold,\" said Igraine, touching his cheek, and drawing away\nwith a shiver. \"Come away, the place makes my flesh creep. Shut the\ndoor, Malt. Let us leave him so.\"\n\nThe women from Avangel had seen enough of the manor in the forest.\nCertainly, it held nothing more perilous than a corpse, perched\nstiffly in a gilded chair; but the dead man seemed to exert a sinister\ninfluence upon the spirits of the company, and to stifle any desire for\na further sojourn in the place. Folk with murder fresh upon their hands\nmight still be within the purlieus of the valley. The women thought\nof the glooms of the forest, and of the strong walls of Anderida, and\ndiscovered a very lively desire to be free of Andredswold, and the\nthreats of the unknown.\n\nThey left the man sitting in his chair, with the hound at his feet,\nand went to gather food for the day's journey. Bread they took, and\nmeat, and bound them in a sheet, while Malt filled a flask with wine,\nand bestowed it at her girdle. Igraine still had her bow, shafts,\nand hunting knife. Before sallying, they remembered the dead. It was\nIgraine's thought. They went and stood before the door of the great\nchamber, sang a hymn, and said a prayer. Then they left the place, and\nheld on into the forest.\n\nNothing befell them on their way that morning. It was noon before they\nstruck the road from Durovernum to Anderida, a straight and serious\nhighway that went whitely amid wastes of scrub, thickets, and dark\nknolls of trees. The women were glad of its honest comfort, and blessed\nthe Romans who had wrought the road of old. Later in the day they\nneared the sea again. Between masses of trees, and over the slopes,\nthey caught glimpses of the blue plain that touched the sky. From a\nlittle hill that gave broader view, they saw the white sails of ships\nthat were ploughing westward with a temperate wind. They took them for\nthe galleys of the Saxons, and the thought hurried them on their way\nthe more.\n\nPresently they came to a mild declivity, with a broken toll-house\nstanding by the roadside, and two horsemen on the watch there, as the\ndistant galleys swept over the sea towards the west. The men belonged\nto the royal forces in Anderida. They were reticent in measure, and in\nno optimistic mood. They told how the heathen had swept the coast, how\ntheir ships had ventured even to Vectis, to burn, slay, and martyr. The\nwomen learnt that Andred's town was some ten miles distant. There was\nlittle likelihood, so the men said, of their getting within the walls\nthat night, for the place was in dread of siege, and was shut up like a\nrock after dusk.\n\nIgraine and the nuns elected, none the less, to hold upon their way.\nDespite their weariness, the women preferred to push on and gain\nground, rather than to lag and lose courage. For all they knew, the\nSaxons might be soon ashore, ready to raid and slay in their very path.\nThey left the soldiers at the toll-house, and went downhill into a long\nvalley.\n\nPossibly they had gone a mile or more when they heard the sound of\ngalloping coming in their wake. On the slope of the hill they had left,\nthey could see a distant wave of dust curling down the road like\nsmoke. The two men from Andred's town were coming on at a gallop. They\nwere very soon within bowshot, but gave no hint of halting. Thundering\non, they drew level with the women, shouted as they went by, and held\non fast,--dust and spume flying.\n\n\"God's curse upon the cravens,\" said Malt, the cellaress.\n\nCravens they were in sense; yet the men had reason on their side,\nand the women were left staring at the diminishing fringe of dust.\nThere was much frankness in the phenomenon, a curt hint that carried\nemphasis, and advised action. \"To the woods,\" it said; \"to the woods,\ngood souls, and that quickly.\"\n\nThe road ran through the flats at that place, with marsh and meadowland\non either hand. Further westward, the wold thrust forth a finger from\nthe north to touch the highway. Southward, scrub and grassland swept\naway to the sea. It was when looking southwards that the nuns from\nAvangel discovered the stark truth of the soldier's warning. Against\nthe skyline could be seen a number of jerking specks, moving fast over\nthe open land, and holding north-west as though to touch the road. They\nwere the figures of men riding.\n\nThe outjutting of woodland that rolled down to edge the highway was a\nquarter of a mile from where the women stood. A bleak line of roadway\nparted them from the mazy refuge of the wold. They started away at\na run; Igraine and another novice dragging the nun Claudia between\nthem. The display was neither Olympic nor graceful; it would have been\nridiculous but for the stern need that inspired it. Igraine and her\nfellows made the best of the highway. In the west, the wold seemed to\nstretch an arm to them like a mother.\n\nThe heathen raiders were coming fast over the marshes. Igraine,\ndragging the panting Claudia by the hand, looked back and took measure\nof the chase. There were some score at the gallop three furlongs or\nmore away, with others on foot, holding on to stirrups, running and\nleaping like madmen. The girl caught their wild, burly look even at\nthat distance. They were hallooing one to another, tossing axe and\nspear--making a race of it, like huntsmen at full pelt. Possibly there\nwas sport in hounding a company of women, with the chance of spoil and\nsomething more brutish to entice.\n\nIgraine and her flock were struggling on for very life. Their feet\nseemed weighted with the shackles of an impotent fear, while every\nyard of the white road appeared three to them as they ran. How they\nanguished and prayed for the shadows of the wood. A frail nun, winded\nand lagging, began to scream like a hare when the hounds are hard on\nher haunches. Another minute, and the trees seemed to stride down to\nthem with green-bosomed kindness. A wild scramble through a shallow\ndyke brought them to bracken and a tangled barrier about the hem of the\nwood. Then they were amid the sleek, solemn trunks of a beech wood,\nscurrying up a shadowed aisle with the dull thudding of the nearing\ngallop in their ears.\n\nIt was borne in upon Igraine's reason as she ran that the trees would\nbarely save them from the purpose of pursuit. The women--limp, witless,\ndazed by danger--could hardly hold on fast enough to gain the deeper\nmazes of the place, and the sanctuary the wold could give. Unless the\npursuit could be broken for a season, the whole company would fall to\nthe net of the heathen, and only the Virgin knew what might befall them\nin that solitary place. Sacrifice flashed into the girl's vision--a\nsudden ecstasy of courage, like hot flame. These abbey folk had been\nnone too gentle with her. None the less she would essay to save them.\n\nShe cast Claudia's hand aside, and turned away abruptly from the rest.\nThey wavered, looking at her as though for guidance, too flurried for\nsane measures. Igraine waved them on, with a certain pride in her that\nseemed to chant the triumph song of death.\n\n\"What will you do, girl? Are you mad?\"\n\n\"Go!\" was all she said. \"Perhaps you will pray for me as for Gratia the\nabbess.\"\n\n\"They will kill you!\"\n\n\"Better one than all.\"\n\nThey wavered, unwilling to be wholly selfish despite their fear and\nthe sounding of pursuit. There shone a fine light on the girl's face\nas they beheld her--tyrannical even in heroism. Her look awed them and\nmade them ashamed; yet they obeyed her, and like so many winging birds\nthey fled away into the green shadows.\n\nIgraine watched them a moment, saw the grey flicker of their gowns\ngo amid the trees, and then turned to front her fortune. Pursing her\nlips into a queer smile, she took post behind a tree bole, and waited\nwith an arrow fitted to her string. She heard a sluthering babel as\nthe men reined in, with much shouting, on the forest's margin. They\nwere very near now. Even as she peered round her tree trunk a figure\non foot flashed into the grass ride, and came on at the trot. The bow\nsnapped, the arrow streaked the shadows, and hummed cheerily into the\nman's thigh. Igraine had not hunted for nothing. A second fellow edged\ninto view, and took the point in his shoulder. Igraine darted back some\nforty paces and waited for more.\n\nIn this fashion--slipping from tree to tree, and edging north-west--she\nheld them for a furlong or more. The end came soon with an empty\nquiver. The wood seemed full of armed men; they were too speedy for\nher, too near to her for flight. She threw the empty quiver at her\nfeet, with the bow athwart it, put a hand in the breast of her habit,\nand waited. It was not for long. A man ran out from behind a tree and\ncame to a curt halt fronting her.\n\nHe was young, burly, with a great tangle of hair, and a yellow beard\nthat bristled like a hound's collar. A naked sword was in his hand,\na buckler strapped between his shoulders. He laughed when he saw the\ngirl--the coarse laugh of a Teuton--and came some paces nearer to her,\nstaring in her face. She was very rich and comely in a way foreign to\nthe fellow's fancy. There was that in his eyes that said as much. He\nlaughed again, with a guttural oath, and stretched out a hand to grip\nthe girl's shoulder.\n\nAn instant shimmer of steel, and Igraine had smitten him above the\ngolden torque that ringed his throat. Life rushed out in a red\nfountain. He went back from her with a stagger, clutching at the place,\nand cursing. As the blood ebbed he dropped to his knees, and thence\nfell slantwise against a tree. He had found death in that stroke.\n\nA hand closed on the girl's wrist. The knife that had been turned\ntowards her own heart was smitten away and spurned to a distance. There\nwere men all about her--ogrish folk, moustachioed, jerkined in skins,\nbare armed, bare legged. Igraine stood like a statue--impotent--frozen\ninto a species of apathy. The bearded faces thronged her, gaped at her\nwith a gross solemnity. She had no glance for them, but thought only of\nthe man twitching in the death trance. The wood seemed full of gruff\nvoices, of grotesque words mouthed through hair.\n\nThen the barbaric circle rippled and parted. A rugged-faced old man\nwith white hair and beard came forward slowly. There was a tense\nsilence over the throng as the old man stood and looked at the figure\nat his feet. There were shadows on the earl's face, and his hands\nshook, for the smitten man was his son.\n\nOut of silence grew clamour. Hands were raised, fingers pointed, a\nsword was poised tentatively above the girl's head. The wood seemed\nfull of bearded and grotesque wrath, and the hollow aisles rang with\nthe clash of sword on buckler. But age was not for sudden violence,\nthough the blood of youth ebbed on the grass. The old man pointed to a\ntree, spoke briefly, quietly, and the rough warriors obeyed him.\n\nThey stripped Igraine, cast her clothes at her feet, and bound her to\nthe trunk of the tree with their girdles. Then they took up the body of\nthe dead man, and so departed into the forest.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nIt was well towards evening when the men disappeared into the wood,\nleaving the girl bound naked to the tree. The day was calm and\ntranquil, with the mood of June on the wind, and a benign sky above.\nIgraine's hair had fallen from its band, and now hung in bronze masses\nwell-nigh to her knees, covering her as with a cloak. Her habit, shift,\nand sandals lay close beside her on the grass. The barbarians had\nrobbed her of nothing, according to their old earl's wishes. She was\nsimply bound there, and left unscathed.\n\nWhen the men were gone, and she began to realise what had passed, she\nfelt a flush spread from face to ankle, a glow of shame that was keen\nas fire. Her whole body seemed rosily flaked with blushes. The very\ntrees had eyes, and the wind seemed to whisper mischief. There were\nnone to see, none to wonder, and yet she felt like Eve in Eden when\nknowledge had smitten the pure flesh with gradual shame. Though the\nplace was solitary as a dry planet, her aspen fancy peopled it with\nlife. She could still see the heavy-jowled barbaric faces staring at\nher like the malign masks of a dream.\n\nThe west was already prophetic of night. There was the golden glow of\nthe decline through the billowy foliage of the trees, and the shadows\nwere very still and reverent, for the day was passing. A beam of gold\nslanted down upon Igraine's breast, and slowly died there amid her\nhair. The west flamed and faded, the east grew blind. Soon the day was\nnot.\n\nIgraine watched the light faint above the trees, wondering in her heart\nwhat might befall her before another sun could set. She had tried her\nbonds, and had found them lacking sympathy in that they were staunch\nas strength could make them. She was cramped, too, and began to long\nfor the hated habit that had trailed the galleries of Avangel, and had\nbrought such scorn into her discontented heart. There was no hope for\nit. She was pilloried there, bound body, wrist, and ankle. Philosophy\nalone remained to her, a poor enough cloak to the soul, still worse for\nthings tangible.\n\nHer plight gave her ample time for meditation. There were many chances\nopen to her, and even in mere possibilities fate had her at a vantage.\nIn the first place, she might starve, or other unsavoury folk find her,\nand her second state be worse than her first. Then there were wolves in\nthe wold; or country people might find and release her, or even Claudia\nand the women might return and see how she had fared. There was little\ncomfort in this last thought. She shrewdly guessed that the abbey folk\nwould not stop till they happened on a stone wall, or the heathen took\nthem. Lastly, the road was at no very great distance, and she might\nhear perchance if any one passed that way.\n\nPresently the moon rose upon Andredswold with a stupendous splendour.\nThe veil of night seemed dusted with silver as it swept from her\ntiar of stars. Innumerable glimmering eyes starred the foliage of\nthe beeches. Vague lights streamed down and netted the shadows with\nmysterious magic. Here and there a tree trunk stood like a ghost,\nsplashed with a phosphor tunic.\n\nThe wilderness was soundless, the billowy bastions of the trees\nunruffled by a breath. The hush seemed vast, irrefutable, supreme. Not\na leaf sighed, not a wind wandered in its sleep. The great trees stood\nin a silver stupor, and dreamt of the moon. The solemn aisles were\nstill as Thebes at midnight; the smooth boles of the beeches like ebony\nbeneath canopies of jet.\n\nThe scene held Igraine in wonder. There was a mystery about a moonlit\nforest that never lessened for her. The vasty void of the night,\nuntainted by a sound, seemed like eternity unfolded above her ken. She\nforgot her plight for the time, and took to dreaming, such dreams as\nthe warm fancy of the young heart loves to remember. Perhaps beneath\nsuch a benediction she thought of a pavilion set amid water lilies, and\na boy who had looked at her with boyish eyes. Yet these were childish\nthings. They lost substance before the chafing of the cords that bound\nher to the tree.\n\nPresently she began to sing softly to herself for the cheating of\nmonotony. She was growing cold and hungry, too, despite all the magic\nof the place, and the hours seemed to drag like a homily. Then with\na gradual stealthiness the creeping fear of death and the unknown\nbegan to steal in and cramp even her buoyant courage. It was vain for\nher to put the peril from her, and to trust to day and the succour\nthat she vowed in her heart must come. Dread smote into her more\ncynically than did the night air. What might be her end? To hang there\nparched, starved, delirious till life left her; to hang there still,\na loathsome, livid thing, rotting like a cloak. To be torn and fed\nupon by birds. She knew the region was as solitary as death, and that\nthe heathen had emptied it of the living. The picture grew upon her\ndistraught imagination till she feared to look on it lest it should be\nthe lurid truth.\n\nIt was about midnight, and she was beginning to quake with cold, when\na sound stumbled suddenly out of silence, and set her listening. It\ndwindled and grew again, came nearer, became rhythmic, and ringing in\nthe keen air. Igraine soon had no doubts as to its nature. It was the\nsteady smite of hoofs on the high-road, the rhythm of a horse walking.\n\nNow was her chance if she dared risk the character of the rider. Doubts\nflashed before her a moment, hovered, and then merged into decision.\nBetter to risk the unknown, she thought, than tempt starvation tied to\nthe tree. She made her choice and acted.\n\n\"Help, there! Help!\"\n\nThe words went like silver through the woods. Igraine, listening\nhungrily, strained forward at her bonds to catch the answer that might\ncome to her. The sound of hoofs ceased, and gave place to silence.\nPossibly the rider was in doubt as to the testimony of his own hearing.\nIgraine called again, and again waited.\n\nStillness held. Then there was a stir, and a crackling as of trampled\nbrushwood, followed by the snort of a horse and the thrill of steel.\nThe sounds came nearer, with the deadened tramp of hoofs for an\nunderchant. Igraine, full of hope and fear, of doubt and gratitude,\nkept calling for his guidance. Presently a cry came back to her in turn.\n\n\"By the holy cross, who are you that calls?\"\n\n\"A woman,\" she cried in turn, \"bound here by the heathen.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"Here, in a grass ride, tied to a tree.\"\n\nThe words that had come to her were very welcome, heralding, as they\ndid, a friend, at least in race, and there was a manly depth in the\nvoice, too, that gave her comfort. She saw a glimmer of steel in the\nshadows of the wood as man and horse drew into being from the darkness.\nMoonlight played fitfully upon them, weaving silver gleams amid a smoke\nof gloom, making a white mist about the man's great horse. A single\nray burnt and blazed like a halo about the rider's casque, and his\nspear-point flickered like a star beneath the vaultings of the trees.\nHe had halted, a solitary figure wrapped round with night, and rendered\ngrand and wizard by the misty web of the moon.\n\nThe sight was pathetic enough, yet infinitely fair. Light streamed\nthrough, and fell full upon the tree where Igraine stood. The girl's\nlimbs were white and luminous against the dark bosom of the beech,\nand her rich hair fell about her like mist. As for the strange rider,\nhe could at least claim the inspiration accorded to a Christian.\nThe servant of the Galilean has, like Constantine, a symbol in the\nsky, prophetic in all need, generous of all guidance. The Cross is a\nperpetual Delphi oracular on trivial matters as on the destinies of\nkingdoms. The man dismounted, knelt for a moment with sword held before\nhim, and then rose and strode to the tree with shield held before his\nface.\n\nIgraine was looking at the figure in armour, kindly, redly, from amid\nthe masses of her hair. The small noblenesses of his bearing towards\nher had won her trust with a flush of gratitude. The man saw only\nthe white feet like marble amid the moss as he cut the thongs where\nthey circled the tree. The bands fell, he saw the white feet flicker,\na trail of hair waving under his shield. Then he turned on his heel\nwithout a word, and went to tether his horse.\n\nThe interlude was as considerate as courtesy had intended. Igraine\ndarted for her habit with a rapturous sigh. When the man turned\nleisurely again, a tall girl met him, cloaked in grey, with her hair\nstill hanging about her, and sandals on her feet.\n\n\"Mother Virgin, a nun!\"\n\nThe words seemed sudden as an echo. Igraine bent her head to hide\nthe half-abashed, half-smiling look upon her face. It had been thus\nat Avangel. Nun and novice had worn like habits, and there had\nbeen nothing to distinguish them save the final solemn vow. The\nman's notions were plainly celibate, and, with a sudden twinkling\ninspiration, she fancied they should bide so. It would make matters\nsmoother for them both, she thought.\n\n\"My prayers are yours, daily, for this service,\" she said.\n\nThe man bent his head to her.\n\n\"I am thankful, madame,\" he answered, \"that I should have been so good\nfortuned as to be able to befriend you. How came you by such evil\nhazard?\"\n\n\"I was of Avangel,\" she said.\n\n\"You speak as of the past,\" quoth he, with a keen look.\n\n\"Avangel was burnt and sacked but yesterday,\" she said. \"Many of the\nnuns were martyred; some few escaped. I was made captive here, and\nbound to this tree by the heathen.\"\n\nIgraine could see the man's face darken even in the moonlight, as\nthough pain and wrath held mute confederacy there. He crossed himself,\nand then stood with both hands on the pommel of his sword, stately and\nstatuesque.\n\n\"And the Lady Gratia?\" he said.\n\n\"Dead, I fear.\"\n\nA half-heard groan seemed to come from the man's helmet. He bent his\nhead into the shadows and stood stiff and silent as though smitten into\nthought. Presently he seemed to remember himself, Igraine, and the\noccasion.\n\n\"And yourself, madame?\" he said, with a twinge of tenderness in his\nvoice.\n\nThe girl blushed, and nearly stammered.\n\n\"I am unscathed,\" she hastened to say, \"thanks to heaven. I am safe and\nwhole as if I had spent the day in a convent cell. My name is Igraine,\nif you would know it. I fear I have told you heavy tidings.\"\n\nThe man turned his face to the sky like one who looks into other worlds.\n\n\"It is nothing,\" he said, gazing into the night; \"nothing but what\nwe must look for in these stark days. Our altars smoke, our blood is\nspilt, and yet we still pray. Yet may I be cursed, and cursed again, if\nI do not dye my sword for this.\"\n\nThere was a sudden bleak fierceness in his voice that betrayed his\nfibre and the strong thoughts that were stirring in his heart that\nmoment. His face looked almost fanatical in the cold gloom, gaunt,\nheavy-jawed, lion-like. Igraine watched this thunder-cloud of thought\nand passion in silence, thinking she would meet the man in the wrack of\nlife rather as friend than as foe. The brief mood seemed to pass, or at\nleast to lose expression. Again, there was that in the kindness of his\nface that made the girl feel beneath the eye of a brother.\n\n\"You will ride with me?\" he asked.\n\nIgraine hesitated a moment.\n\n\"I was for Anderida,\" she said, \"and it is only three leagues distant.\nNow that I am free I can go through the wold alone, for I am no child.\"\n\n\"An insult to my manhood,\" said the stranger.\n\n\"But the heathen are everywhere, and I should but cumber you.\"\n\n\"Madame, you talk like a fool.\"\n\nThere was a sheer sincerity about the speech that pleased Igraine. His\nspirit seemed to overtop hers, and to silence argument. Proud heart!\nyet without thought of debate she gave way in the most placid manner,\nand was content to be shepherded.\n\n\"I might walk at your stirrup,\" she said meekly.\n\nThe man seemed to ponder. He merely looked at her with dark, solemn\neyes, showing a quiet disregard for her humility.\n\n\"Listen to me,\" he said, \"you, a woman, must not attempt Anderida\nalone. The town will be beleaguered, or I am no prophet. To Anderida\nI cannot go, for I have folk at Winchester who wait my coming. If you\ncan put trust in me, and will ride with me to Winchester, you will find\nharbour there.\"\n\nShe considered a moment.\n\n\"Winchester,\" she said, \"yes, and most certainly I trust you.\"\n\nThe man stretched out a hand to her with a smile.\n\n\"God willing,\" he said, \"I will bear you safe to the place. As for your\nfrocks and vows, they must follow necessity, and pocket their pride. It\nwill not damn you to ride before a man.\"\n\n\"I trow not,\" she said, with a little laugh that seemed to make the\nleaves quiver. So they took horse together, and rode out from the beech\nwood into the moonlight.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nWhen they were clear of the solemn beeches, and saw the road white\nas white before them, Igraine began to tell the man of the doom of\nAvangel, and the great end made by Gratia the abbess. The knight had\nfolded his red cloak and spread it for her comfort. Her tale seemed\nvery welcome to him despite its grievous humour, and he questioned\nher much concerning Gratia, her goodness and her charity. Now it had\nbeen well known in Avangel that Gratia had come of noble and excellent\ndescent, and seeing that this stranger had been familiar with her in\nthe past, Igraine guessed shrewdly that he himself was of some ancient\nand goodly stock. To tell the truth, she was very curious concerning\nhim, and it was not long before she found a speech ready to her tongue\nlikely to draw some confession from his lips.\n\n\"I have promised to pray for you,\" she said, \"and pray for you I will,\nseeing that you have done me so great a blessing to-night. When I bow\nto the Virgin and the Saints, what name may I remember?\"\n\nThe man did not look at her, for her face was in the shadow of her hood\nand his clear and white in the light of the moon.\n\n\"To some I am known as Sir Pelleas,\" he said.\n\n\"And to me?\"\n\n\"As Sir Pelleas, if it please you, madame.\"\n\nIgraine understood that she was to be pleased with the name, whether\nshe liked it or not.\n\n\"Then for Sir Pelleas I will pray,\" she said, \"and may my gratitude\navail him.\"\n\nThere was silence for a space, broken by the rhythmic play of hoofs\nupon the road, and the dull jar of steel. Igraine was meditating\nfurther catechism, adapting her questions for the knowledge she wished\nfor.\n\n\"You ride errant,\" she said presently.\n\n\"I ride alone, madame.\"\n\n\"The wold is a rude region set thick with perils.\"\n\n\"Very true,\" quoth the man.\n\n\"Perhaps you are a venturesome spirit.\"\n\n\"I believe that I am often as careful as death.\"\n\nIgraine made her culminating suggestion.\n\n\"Some high deed must have been in your heart,\" she said, \"or probably\nyou would not have risked so much.\"\n\nThe man Pelleas did not even look at her. She felt the bridle-arm that\nhalf held her tighten unconsciously, as though he were steeling himself\nagainst her curiosity.\n\n\"Madame,\" he said very gravely, \"every man's business should be for his\nown heart, and I do not know that I have any need to share the right or\nwrong of mine with others. It is a grand thing to be able to keep one's\nown counsel. It is enough for you to know my name.\"\n\nIgraine none the less was not a bit abashed.\n\n\"There is one thing I would hear,\" she said, \"and that is how you came\nto know of the abbess Gratia.\"\n\nFor the moment the man looked black, and his lips were stern--\n\n\"You may know if you wish,\" he said.\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Madame, the Lady Gratia was my mother.\"\n\nIgraine felt a flood of sudden shame burst redly into her heart. Gratia\nwas the man's mother, and she had been plying him with questions,\ncruelly curious. She caught a short, shallow breath, and hung her head,\nshrinking like a prodigal.\n\n\"Set me down,\" she said. \"I am not worthy to ride with you.\"\n\n\"Pardon me,\" quoth the man; \"you did not think, not knowing I was in\npain.\"\n\n\"Set me down,\" was all she said; \"set me down--set me down.\"\n\nThe man Pelleas changed his tone.\n\n\"Madame,\" he said, with a sudden gentleness that made her desire to\nweep, \"I have forgiven you. What, then, does it matter?\"\n\nIgraine hung her head.\n\n\"I am altogether ashamed,\" she said.\n\nShe drew her hood well over her face, and took her reproof to heart\nlike a veritable penitent. Even religious solemnities make little\nchange in the notorious weaknesses of woman. Igraine was angry, not\nonly for having blundered clumsily against the man's sorrow, but also\nbecause of the somewhat graceless part she seemed to have played after\nthe deliverance he had vouchsafed her. As yet her character seemed to\nhave lost honour fast by mere brief contrast with the man's.\n\nPelleas meanwhile rode with eyes watching the wan stretch of road to\nthe west. On either hand the woods rose up like nebulous hills bowelled\nby tunnelled mysteries of gloom. He had turned his horse to the grass\nbeside the roadway, so that the tramp of hoofs should fall muffled on\nthe air. Igraine, close against his steeled breast, with his bridle-arm\nabout her, looked into his face from the shadows of her hood, and found\nmuch to initiate her liking.\n\nIf she loved strength, it was there. If she desired the grand reserve\nof silent vigour, it was there also. The deeply caverned eyes watching\nthrough the night seemed dark with a quiet destiny. The large, finely\nmoulded face, gaunt and white in its meditative repose, seemed fit to\nfront the ruins of a stricken land. It was the face of a man who had\nwatched and striven, who had followed truth like a shadow, and had\nfound the light of life in the heavens. There was bitterness there,\npain, and the ghost of a sad desire that had pleaded with death. The\nface would have seemed morose, but for a certain something that made\nits shadows kind.\n\nInstinctively, as she watched the mask of thought beneath the dark arch\nof his open casque, she felt that he had memories in his heart at that\nmoment. His thoughts were not for her, however much she pitied him or\nlonged to tell him of her shame and sympathy. Nothing could come into\nthat sad session of remembrances, save the soul of the man and the\nmemories of his mother. That he was grieving deeply Igraine knew well.\nHis was a strong nature that brooded in silence, and felt the more;\nit must be a terrible thing, she thought, to have the martyrdom of a\nmother haunting the heart like a fell dream at night.\n\nSlipping from such a reverie, the turmoil and weariness of the past\ndays returned to take their tribute. Despite the strangeness of the\nnight, Igraine began to feel sleepy as a tired child. The magnetic\ncalm of the man beside her seemed to lull to slumber, while the motion\nof the ride cradled her the more. The noise of hoofs, the dull clink\nof scabbard against spur or harness, grew faint and faint. The woods\nseemed to swim into a mist of silver. She saw, as in a dream, the\nstrong face above her staring calmly into the night, the long spear\npoised heavenwards. Her head was on the man's shoulder. With scarcely a\nthought she was asleep.\n\nIt was then that Pelleas discovered the girl heavy in his arms, and\nlooked down to find her sleeping, with hood fallen and a white face\nturned peacefully to his. Strangely enough, the sorrow that had taken\nhim seemed to make his senses vibrate strongly to the more human things\nof life. The supple warmth of the girl's slim body crept up the sinews\nof his arm like a subtle flame. From her half-parted lips the sigh of\nher breathing came into his bosom. Over his harness clouded her hair,\nand her two hands had fastened themselves upon his sword-belt with a\nrestful trust.\n\nThe man bent his head and watched her in some awe. Her lips were like\nautumn fruit fed wistfully on moonlight. To Pelleas, woman was still\nwonderful, a creature to be touched with reverence and soft delight.\nThe drab, the scold, and the harlot had failed to debase the ideals\nof a staunch spirit, and the fair flesh at his breast was as full of\nmystery as a woman could be.\n\nHe took his fill of gazing, feeling half ashamed of the deed, and half\ndreading lest Igraine should wake suddenly and look deeply into his\neyes. He felt his flesh creep with magic when she stirred or sighed,\nor when the hands upon his belt twitched in their slumber. Pelleas\nhad seen stark things of late, burnt hamlets, priests slaughtered and\nchurches in flames, children dead in the trampled places of the slain.\nHe had ridden where smoke ebbed heavenwards, and blood clotted the\ngreen grass. Now this ride beneath the quiet eyes of night, with the\nbosomed silence of the woods around, and this lily plucked from death\nin his arms, seemed like a passage of calm after a page of tempest.\nLittle wonder that he looked long into the girl's face, and thrilled\nto the soft sway of her bosom. He thanked God in his heart that he\nhad plucked her blemishless from gradual death. It was even thus, he\nthought, that a good soldier should ride into Paradise bearing the soul\nof the woman he loved.\n\nIgraine stirred little in her sleep. \"Poor child,\" thought Pelleas,\n\"she has suffered much, has feared death, and is weary. Let her sleep\nthe night through if she can.\" So he drew the cloak gently about her,\nsaid his prayers in his heart, and, holding as much as possible under\nthe shadows of the trees, kept watch patiently on the track before him.\n\nAll that night Pelleas rode, thinking of his mother, with the girl\nsleeping in his arms. He saw the moon go down in the west, while the\ngrey mist of the hour before dawn made the forest gaunt like an abode\nof the dead. He heard the birds wake in brake and thicket. He saw the\nred deer scamper, frightened into the glooms, and the rabbits scurrying\namid the bracken. When the east mellowed he found himself in fair\nmeadowlands lying locked in the depths of the wold, where flowers were\nthick as on some rich tapestry, and where the scent of dawn was as the\nincense of many temples. With a calm sorrow for the dead he rode on,\nthreading the meadowland, till the girl woke and looked up into his\nface with a little sigh. Then he smiled at her half sadly, and wished\nher good-morning.\n\nIgraine, wide-eyed, looked round in a daze.\n\n\"Day?\" she said, \"and meadows? It was moonlight when I fell asleep.\"\n\n\"It has dawned an hour or more.\"\n\n\"Then I have slept the night through? You must be tired to death, and\nstiff with holding me.\"\n\n\"Not so,\" said Pelleas.\n\n\"I am sorry that I have been selfish,\" she said. \"I was asleep before I\ncould think. Have you ridden all night?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" quoth he, with a smile, \"and not a soul have I seen. I\nhave been watching your face and the moon.\"\n\nIgraine coloured slightly, and looked sideways at him from under her\nlong lashes. Her sleep had chastened her, and she felt blithe as a\nbird, and ready to sing. Putting the man's scarlet cloak from her, she\nshook her hair from her shoulders, and sprang lightly from her seat to\nthe grass.\n\n\"I will run at your side awhile,\" she said, \"and so rest you. Perhaps\nyou will halt presently, and sleep an hour or two under a tree. I can\nwatch and keep guard with your sword.\"\n\nPelleas smiled down at her like the sun from behind a cloud.\n\n\"Not yet,\" he said; \"a soldier needs no sleep for a week, and I feel\nlusty as Christopher. We will go awhile before breakfast, if it please\nyou. There is a stream near where I can water my horse, and we can make\na meal from such stuff as I have. When you are tired, tell me, and I\nwill mount you here again.\"\n\nShe nodded at him gravely. Grass and flowers were well-nigh to her\nwaist. Her gown shook showers of dew from the feathery hay. Foxgloves\nrose like purple rods amid the snow webs of the wild daisy. Tangled\ndomes of dogrose and honeysuckle lined the white track, and there were\ncountless harebells lying like a deep blue haze under the green shadows\nof the grass.\n\nPresently they came to where red poppies grew thickly in the golden\nmeads. Igraine ran in among them, and began to make a great posy, while\nPelleas watched her as her grey gown went amid the green and red. In\ndue course she came back to him holding her flowers in her bosom.\n\n\"Scarlet is your colour,\" she said, \"and these are the flowers of sleep\nand of dreams for those that grieve. Hold them in the hollow of your\nshield for me.\"\n\nPelleas obeyed her mutely. She began to sing a soft slumberous dirge\nwhile she walked beside the great black horse and plaited the flowers\ninto its mane. The man watched her with a kind of wondering pain. The\nsong seemed to wake echoes in him, like sea surges wake in the caverns\nof a cliff. He understood Igraine's grace to him, and was grateful in\nhis heart.\n\n\"How long were you mewed in Avangel?\" he said, presently.\n\n\"Long enough,\" quoth she, betwixt her singing, \"to learn to love life.\"\n\n\"So I should judge,\" said Pelleas, curtly.\n\nHis tone disenchanted her. She threw the rest of the flowers aside, and\nwalked quietly beside him, looking up with a frank seriousness into his\nface.\n\n\"I was placed there by my parents,\" she said, by way of explanation,\n\"and against my will, for I had no hope in me to be a nun. But the\ntimes were wild, and my father--a solemn soul--thought for the best.\"\n\n\"But your novitiate. You had your choice.\"\n\n\"I had my choice,\" she answered vaguely. \"Did ever a woman choose for\nthe best? Avangel was no place for me.\"\n\nPelleas eyed her somewhat sadly from his higher vantage. \"The nun's is\na sorry life,\" he said, \"when her thoughts fly over the convent walls.\"\n\nA level kindness in the words seemed to loose her tongue like magic.\nTwelve long months had her sympathies been outraged, and her young\ndesires crushed by the heel of a so-called godliness. Never had so kind\na chance for the outpouring of her discontent come to her. Women love\nan honest grumble. In a moment all her bitterness found ready flight\ninto the man's ears.\n\n\"I hated it!\" she said, \"I hated it! Avangel had no hold on me. What\nwere vigils, penitences, and long prayers to a girl? They made us kneel\non stone, and sleep on boards. The chapel bell seemed to ring every\nminute of the day; we had vile food, and no liberty. It was Saint This,\nSaint That, from morning till night. We saw no men. We might never\ndress our hair; and, believe me, there were no mirrors. I had to go to\na little pool in the garden to see my face.\n\n\"And they were so dull,--so dismal. No one ever laughed; no one ever\ntold romances; all our legends were of pious things in petticoats. And\nwhat was the use of it all? Was any one ever a jot the better? I used\nto get into my cell and stamp. I felt like a corpse in a charnel-house,\nand the whole world seemed dead.\"\n\nPelleas scanned her half smilingly, half sadly.\n\n\"I am sorry for your heart,\" he said.\n\n\"Sorry! You needs must be when you are a soldier, with life in your\nears like a clarion cry.\"\n\n\"Life is a sorry ballad, Sister Igraine, unless we remember the Cross.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes, I have all the saints in mind--dear souls; but then, Sir\nPelleas, one cannot live on one's knees. I was made to laugh and\ntwinkle, and if such is sin, then a sorry nun am I.\"\n\n\"You misunderstand me,\" said the man. \"I would that a Christian held\nhis course over the world, with a great cross set in the west to lead\nhim. He can laugh and joy as he goes, sleep like the good, and take\nthe fruits of life in his time. Yet ever above him should be the glory\nof the cross, to chasten, purge, and purify. There is no sin in living\nmerrily if we live well, but to plot for pleasure is to lose it. Look\nat the sun; there is no need for us to be ever on our knees to him, yet\nwe know well it would be a sorry world without his comfort.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" she said, with a little gesture. \"I see you are too devout for\nme, despite my habit. Take me up again, Sir Pelleas, and I will ride\nwith you, though I may not argue.\"\n\nPelleas halted his horse, and she was soon in the saddle before him,\nsomewhat subdued and pensive in contrast to her former vivacity. The\nman believed her a nun, and she had a character to play. Well, when she\nwearied of it, which would probably be soon, she could tell him and\nso end the matter. It was not long before they came to the ford across\nthe stream Pelleas had spoken of. It was a green spot shut in by thorn\ntrees, and here they made a halt as the knight had purposed.\n\nBefore the meal Pelleas knelt by the stream and prayed. Igraine, seeing\nhim so devout, did likewise, though her eyes were more on the man than\non heaven. Her thoughts never got above the clouds. When they were at\ntheir meal of meat and bread, with a horn of water from the stream, she\ntalked yet further of her life at Avangel, and the meagre blessing it\nhad been to her. It was while she talked thus that she saw something\nabout the man's person that fired her memory, and set her thinking of\nthe journey of yesterday.\n\nPelleas was wearing a gold chain that bore a cross hanging above the\nleft breast, but with no cross over the right. Looking more keenly,\nIgraine saw a broken link still hanging from the right portion of the\nchain. Instinctively her thoughts fled back to the silent manor in the\nwood, and the dead man seated stiffly in the great carved chair.\n\nWithout duly weighing the possible gravity of her words, she began to\ntell Pelleas of the incident.\n\n\"Yesterday,\" she said, \"I saw a strange thing as we fled through the\nwold. We came to a villa, and, seeking food there, found it deserted,\nsave for a dead man seated in a chair, and stricken in the breast. The\ndead man had a small gold cross clutched in his fingers, and there was\na dead hound at his feet.\"\n\nThe man gave her a keen look from the depths of his dark eyes, and then\nglanced at the broken chain.\n\n\"You see that I have lost a cross,\" he said.\n\nIgraine nodded.\n\n\"Your reason can read the rest.\"\n\nShe nodded again.\n\n\"There is nothing like the truth.\"\n\nIgraine stared at the man in some astonishment. He was cold as a frost,\nand there was no shadow of discomfort on his strong face. Knowledge\nhad come to her so sharply that she had no answer for him at the\nmoment. Yet there stood a sublime certainty in her heart that this\nviolent deed was deserving of absolute approval, so soon had her faith\nin him become like steel.\n\n\"The man deserved death,\" she said presently, with a curt and ingenuous\nconfidence.\n\nPelleas eyed her curiously.\n\n\"How should you know?\" he asked.\n\n\"I have faith in you,\" was all she said.\n\nPelleas smiled, despite the subject.\n\n\"No man deserved death better.\"\n\n\"And so you slew him.\"\n\nHe nodded without looking at her, and she could see still the embers of\nwrath in his eyes.\n\n\"I slew him in his own manor, finding him alone, and ready to justify\nhimself with lies. Honour does not love such deeds; but what would\nyou?--Britain is free of a viper.\"\n\n\"And you have blood on your hand.\"\n\nHe winced slightly, and glanced at his fingers as though she had not\nspoken in metaphor.\n\n\"All is blood in these days,\" he said.\n\n\"And what think you of such laws?\" she ventured, with a supreme\nreaching after the requirements of her Order. \"What of the Cross?\"\n\n\"There was blood upon it.\"\n\n\"But the blood of self-sacrifice.\"\n\nHer words moved him more than she had purposed. His dark face flushed,\nand light kindled in his eyes as though the basal tenets of his life\nhad been called in question. He glowed like a man whose very creed\nis threatened. Igraine watched the fire rising in him with a secret\npleasure,--the love of a woman for the hot courage of a man.\n\n\"Listen to me,\" he said strongly; \"which think you is the worthier\nlife: to dream in a stone cell mewed from the world like a weak weed\nin a cellar, or to go forth with a red heart and a mellow honour; to\nstrive and smite for the weak and the wounded; to right the wrong; to\navenge the fatherless? Choose and declare.\"\n\n\"Choose,\" she said, with a shrill laugh and a kindling colour, \"truth,\nand I will. Away with the rosary; give me the sword.\"\n\nLike a wild echo to her human choice came the distant cry of a horn\nborne hollowly over the sleeping meadows. Both heard it and started.\nThe great war-horse, grazing near by, tossed his head, snorted, and\nstood listening with ears twitching and head to the east. Pelleas rose\nup and scanned the road from under his hand, with the girl Igraine\nbeside him.\n\n\"A Saxon horn,\" he said laconically; \"the heathen are in the woods.\"\n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nAs they watched, looking down betwixt two thorn trees, a faint puff\nof dust rose on the road far to the east, and hung like a diminutive\ncloud over the meadows. This danger signal counselled the pair. Pelleas\ncaught his horse and sprang to selle; Igraine clambered by his stirrup,\nand was lifted to her seat before him. Pelleas slung his shield\nforward, and loosened his sword.\n\n\"If it comes to battle,\" he said, \"I will set you down, and you must\nhide in the meadows or woods, while I fight. You would but cumber me,\nand be in great peril here. Rest assured, though, that I shall not\ndesert you while I live.\"\n\nWith that he turned his horse to the road, and halted, gazing down amid\nthe placid fields to where the little cloud of dust had hinted at life.\nIt was there still, only larger, and sounded on by the distant triple\ncanter of horses at the gallop. Pelleas and Igraine could see three\nmounted figures coming up the road amid a white haze, moving fast, as\nthough pressed by some as yet unseen enemy. It was soon evident to\nPelleas and the girl that one of the fugitives was a woman.\n\n\"We will abide them,\" said the man, \"and learn their peril. We shall be\nstronger, too, for company, and may succour one another if it comes to\nsmiting. Look! yonder comes the heathen pack.\"\n\nA second and larger cloud of dust had appeared, a mile or less beyond\nthe first. Pelleas watched it awhile, and then turned and began riding\nat a trot towards the west, so that the three fugitives should overtake\nhim. He bade Igraine keep watch over his shoulder while he scanned the\nmeadows before them for sign of peril or of friendly harbour.\n\n\"Have no fear, child,\" he said; \"I could vow, by these fields, that\nthere is a manor near. I trust confidently that we shall find refuge.\"\n\nIgraine smiled at him.\n\n\"I am no coward,\" she said.\n\n\"That is well spoken.\"\n\n\"I would, though, that you would give me your dagger, so that, if\nthings come to an evil pass, I shall know how to quit myself.\"\n\n\"My dagger!\" he said, with a sudden stare. \"I left it in the man's\nheart in Andredswold.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Igraine; \"then I must do without.\"\n\nThe dull thunder of the nearing gallop came up to them--a stirring\nsound, full of terse life and eager hazard. Pelleas spurred to a\ncanter, while Igraine's hair blew about his face and helmet as they\nbegan to meet the kiss of the wind. She clung fast to him with both\nhands, and told what was passing on the road in their rear.\n\n\"How they ride,\" she said; \"a tangle of dust and whirling hoofs.\nThere is a lady in blue on a white horse, with an armed man on either\nflank. They are very near now. I can see the heathen far away over the\nmeadows. They are galloping, too, in a smoke of dust. Our folk will be\nwith us soon.\"\n\nIn a minute the lady and her men were hurtling close in Pelleas's wake.\nHe spurred to a gallop in turn, and bade Igraine wave them on to his\nside. The three were soon with them, stride for stride. The girl on the\nwhite horse drew up on Pelleas's right flank. She was habited in blue\nand silver--a flaxen-haired damosel, with the round face of a child.\nSeemingly she was possessed of little hardihood, for her mouth was a\nred streak in a waste of white, and her blue eyes so full of fear that\nIgraine pitied her. She cried shrilly to Pelleas, her voice rising\nabove the din like the cry of a frightened bird.\n\n\"The heathen!\" she cried.\n\n\"Many?\" shouted the man.\n\n\"Two score or more. There is a strong manor near. If we gain it we may\nlive.\"\n\n\"How far?\"\n\n\"Not a mile over the meadows.\"\n\n\"Lead on,\" said Pelleas; \"we will follow as we may.\"\n\nThe damosel on the white horse turned from the road, and headed\nsouthwards over the meadows, with her men galloping beside her. The\nlong grass swayed, water-like, before them, its summer seed flying like\na mist of dew. Wood and pasture slid back on either hand. The ground\nseemed to rise and fall before them as a sea, while rocks here and\nthere thrust up bluff noses in the grass like great lizards stirred by\nthe hurtling thunder of the gallop.\n\nOn they went, with white spume on breast and bridle; leaping, swerving\nwhere rough ground showed. To Igraine the ride was life indeed,\nbringing back many a whistling gallop from the past. She felt her heart\nin her leaping to the horse's stride. Now and again she took a sly look\nat Pelleas's face, finding it calm and vigilant--the face of a man\nwhose thought ran a silent course unruffled by the breeze of peril.\nShe felt his bridle-arm staunchly about her like a girdle of steel.\nAlthough she could see the dust gathering thickly on the distant road,\nshe felt blithe as a new bride in the man's company, and there was no\nfear at all in her thought.\n\nThe grassland began to slope gradually towards the south. A quavering\nscreech of joy came back to them from the woman riding in the van.\nPelleas spoke his first word during the gallop.\n\n\"Courage,\" he said. \"Southwards lies our refuge.\"\n\nIgraine looked over his shoulder, and saw how their flight tended down\nthe flank of a gentle hill into the lap of a fair valley. The grass\nstretch was broken by great trees--oaks, beeches, and huge, corniced\ncedars. Down in the green hollow below them a mere shone with the soul\nof the sky steeped in its quiet waters. It was ringed with trailing\nwillows, and an island held its centre, piled with green shadows and\nthe grey shape of a fair manor. The place looked as peaceful as sleep\nin the eye of the morning.\n\nThe woman on the white horse bade one of her men take his bugle-horn\nand blow a summons thereon to rouse the folk upon the island. Twice the\nsummons sounded down over the water, but there was no answering stir to\nbe marked about the house or garden. The place was smokeless, lifeless,\nsilent. Like many another home, its hearths were cold for fear of the\nbarbarian sword.\n\nAs they held downhill, Igraine wove the matter through her thought like\nswift silk through a shuttle.\n\n\"Should there be no boat,\" she said, giving voice to her misgivings,\n\"what can you do for us?\"\n\n\"We must swim for it,\" said Pelleas, keenly.\n\n\"It is a broad, fair water, and the horse cannot bear us both.\"\n\n\"He shall, if needs be.\"\n\nShe felt that the brute would, after Pelleas had spoken so. She patted\nthe arched black neck, and smiled at the sky as they came down to the\nmere's edge at a canter. The water was lapping softly at the sedges\namid a blaze of marsh marigolds and purple flags, the surface gleaming\nlike glass in the sun. Half a score water-hens went winging from the\nreeds, and skimming low and fast towards the island. A heron rose from\nthe shallows, and laboured heavenwards with legs trailing.\n\nRiding round the margin, they found to their joy a barge grounded in\na little bay, with sweeps ready upon the thwarts, and a horse-board\nfitted at the prow. A purple cloak hung over one bulwark, trailing in\nthe water; a small crucifix and a few trinkets were scattered on the\npoop, as though those who had used the ferry last had fled in fear,\nforgetful of everything save flight.\n\nThen came the embarkation. The barge would but hold three horses at one\nvoyage, so Pelleas ordered Igraine and the rest into the boat, and bade\nthe men row over and return. Igraine demurred a moment.\n\n\"Leave your horse,\" she said; \"they may come before the boat can take\nyou.\"\n\nPelleas refused her with a smile, running his fingers through the\nbrute's black mane.\n\n\"I have a truer heart than that,\" he said.\n\nThe men launched away, and pulled at the sweeps with a will, Igraine\nhelping, and doing her devoir for the man Pelleas's sake. The barge\nslid away, with ripples playing from the prow, and a gush of foam\nleaping from each smile of the blades. It was a hundred yards or more\nto the island, and the craft was ponderous enough to make the crossing\nslow.\n\nPelleas sat still and watched the meadows. Suddenly--bleakly--a figure\non horseback topped the low hill on the north, and held motionless on\nthe summit, scanning the valley. A second joined the first. Pelleas\ncaught a shout, muffled by the wind, as the two plunged down at full\ngallop for the mere, sleeping in its bed of green. Here were two\ngentlemen who had outstripped their fellows, and were as keen as could\nbe to catch Pelleas before the barge could recross, and set the mere\nbetwixt them. Pelleas saw his hazard in a moment. Even if the barge\ncame before the heathen, there would be some peril of its capture in\nthe shallows.\n\nHe would have to fight for it, unless he cared to swim the mere.\nProvided he could deal with these two outriders before the main company\ncame up, well and good, the raiders would find clear water between\nthe quarry and their swords. He thought of Avangel, and grew iron of\nheart. Then there was the nun, Igraine, with the wonderful eyes, and\nhair warm as the dun woods in autumn. He was her sworn knight as far\nas Winchester. God helping him, he thought, he would yet see her face\nagain. So he rode out grimly to get fair field for horsecraft, and\nwaited for the two who swept the meadows.\n\nIgraine, standing on the wooden stage at the water's edge, saw Pelleas\ntaking ground and preparing for a tussle. The barge had put off again\nand had already half spanned the water. She was alone with the woman\nof the white horse, who stood beside her still quaking like a reed,\nand almost voiceless from the fulsome terror of an unshrived death.\nIgraine had no heed for her at the moment. Her whole thought lurked\nwith the red shield and the black horse in the meadows. Worldly heart!\nher desire burnt redly in her own bosom, and found no flutter for the\npowers above.\n\nShe saw Pelleas gathering for the course, while the heathen slackened\nso as not to override their mark. A crescent of steel flashed as the\nforemost man launched his axe at the knight's head. The red shield\ncaught and turned it. In a trice Pelleas's spear had picked the rogue\nfrom the saddle, despite his crouching low and seeking to shun it. The\nsecond fellow came in like a whirlwind. His horse caught the black\ndestrier cross counter and rolled him down like a rammed wall. Pelleas\navoided, and was up with bleak sword. Smiting low, he caught the man's\nthigh, and broke the bone like a lath. The Saxon lost his seat, and\ncame down with a snarling yell. The rest was easy as beating down a\nmaimed wolf.\n\nThe main company had just topped the hill. Pelleas, with the skirmish\nended to his credit, shook his sword at them, and led his horse into\nthe shallows. The barge swept in, took its burden from the bank, and\nheld back for the island, where Igraine stood watching on the stage,\nready with her welcome. She was glad of Pelleas in her heart, as though\nthe comradeship of half a day had given her the right to share his\nhonour, and to chime her joy with his. The woman in her swamped the\nassumed sanctity of the nun. As the water stretch lessened between\nthem, Pelleas, silent and dark-browed as was his wont, found himself\nbeneath the beck of eyes that gazed like the half-born wonder of the\nsky at dawn. It was neither joy nor great light in them, but a kind of\nquiet musing, as though there were strange new music in her soul.\n\n\"Are you hurt?\" she asked, as he sprang from the barge and stood beside\nher, with head thrown back and his great shoulders squared.\n\n\"Not a graze.\"\n\n\"Two to one, and a fair field,\" quoth she, with a quaver of triumph;\n\"my heart sang when those men went down. That was a great spear thrust.\"\n\n\"Less and less of the rosary!\"\n\nShe caught his deep smile, and laughed.\n\n\"I am a greater heathen than either,\" she said. \"God rest their souls.\"\n\nMeanwhile the lady in the blue tunic had somewhat recovered her\nsquandered wits and courage. She came forward with a simpering dignity,\nwalking daintily, with her gown gathered in her right hand, and her\nleft laid over her heart. Her eyes were very big and blue, their\nbrightness giving her an eager, sanguine look that was upheld the more\nby an assumed simpleness of manner. Her childish bearing, winsomely\nstudied, exercised its subtleties with a lavish embellishment of smiles\nand blushes. Looked at more closely, and in repose, her face belied\nin measure the perspicuous personality she had adopted. A sensual\nboldness lurked in mouth and nostrils, and there was more carnal\nwisdom there than a pretended child should possess.\n\n\"Courtesy fails me, sir,\" she said, letting her shoulders fall into a\ngraceful stoop, and turning her large eyes to Pelleas's face; \"courtesy\nfails me when I would most praise you for your knightly deed in yonder\nmeadows. I am so frightened that I cannot speak as I would. My heart is\nquite tired with its fear and flutter. Think you--you can save us from\nthese wolves?\"\n\nPelleas had neither the desire nor the leisure to stand juggling\ncourtesies with the woman.\n\n\"Madame,\" he said, \"we shall fight. Leave the rest to Providence. I can\ngive you no better comfort.\"\n\n\"No,\" she said, \"no\"--as in a daze.\n\nPelleas, reading her misery, repented somewhat of his abrupt\ntruthfulness.\n\n\"Come,\" he said, with a kind strength and a hand on her shoulder; \"go\nto the house and rest there with Sister Igraine. I see you are too much\nshaken. Go in and pray if you can, while we hold the island.\"\n\nThe girl looked at him unreservedly for a moment. Then she gave a\nlittle laugh that was half a sob, and, bending to him, kissed his hand\nbefore he could prevent her. Giving him yet another glance from her\ntumbled hair, she stepped aside to Igraine, and they turned together\ntowards the manor, and the trees and gardens that ringed it. The\ngirl had set her hand in Igraine's with a little gesture that was\nintended to be indicative of confidence in the supposed nun's greater\nintelligence.\n\n\"Let us go and sit under that yew tree,\" she suggested. \"I cannot\nstifle within walls now. You are named Igraine. I am called\nMorgan--Morgan la Blanche,--and I am a lord's daughter. I almost envy\nyou your frock now, for death cannot frighten you as it frightens me.\nOf course you are very good, and the Saints guard and watch over you.\nAs for me, I have always been very thoughtless.\"\n\n\"Not more than I,\" said Igraine, with a smile. \"I have often hummed\nromances when I should have praised Paul or Peter.\"\n\n\"But doesn't the fear of death blight you like a frost?\"\n\n\"I never think of death.\"\n\n\"It seems so near us now that I can hardly breathe. Do you think we are\ntortured in the other world, if there be one?\"\n\n\"How should I know, simple one?\"\n\n\"I wish the mere were a league broad. I should feel further from the\npit.\"\n\n\"Is your conscience so unkind?\"\n\n\"Conscience, sister? It is self-love, not conscience. I only want to\nlive. Look!--the heathen are coming down to the mere. How their axes\nshine. Holy Mother!--I wish I could pray.\"\n\nIgraine, catching the girl's pinched face, with lips drawn and\ntwitching, pitied her from her very heart.\n\n\"Come then, I will pray with you,\" she said.\n\n\"No, no, my prayers would blacken heaven. I cannot, I cannot.\"\n\nThe wild company had swept down between the great trees in disorderly\narray. Their weapons shone in the sunlight, their round bucklers\nblickered. They were soon at the place where Pelleas had slain his men\nin fair and open field. Dismounting, they gathered about their dead\nfellows, and sent up, after their custom, a vicious, dismal ululation,\na sound like the howling of wolves, drear enough to make the flesh\ntingle under the stoutest steel. Lining the bank among the willows,\nthey shook buckler and axe, gesticulating, threatening, their long hair\nblowing wild, their skin-clad bodies giving them a wolfin look not\npleasant to behold. Round the margin they paddled--searching--casting\nabout for a boat. They seemed like beasts behind the gates of some\nRoman amphitheatre--caged from the slaughter. The girl Morgan looked\nat them, screamed, and hid her face in her tunic. Igraine found the\ngirl's quaking hand, and held it fast in hers.\n\n\"Courage, courage,\" she said; \"there is no boat, and, even if they\nswim, Sir Pelleas is a great knight.\"\n\n\"What can he do against fifty?\" whined the girl, with her face still\ncovered.\n\n\"Fifty? There are but a score. I have numbered them myself.\"\n\n\"I would give all the jewels in the world to be in Winchester.\"\n\n\"Ah! girl, I have no jewels to give; but this, I promise you, is better\nthan a convent.\"\n\nThe barbarians had gathered in a group beneath a great willow. Plainly\nthey were in debate as to what should be done. Some, by their gestures,\ntheir tossing weapons, and their bombast, were for swimming the mere.\nTheir councils were palpably divided. Possibly the sager folk among\nthem did not think the venture worth the loss to them it might entail,\nseeing that one of those cooped upon the island had already given proof\nof no mean prowess. They could see the three armed men waiting grimly\nby the water's edge, ready to strike down the swimmer who should crawl\nhalf-naked from the water weeds and mire. Gradually, but surely, the\nelder tongues held the argument, and the balance went down solemnly for\nthose upon the island.\n\nPelleas and the two men, watching keenly for any movement, saw the\ncircle of figures break and melt towards the horses. They saw them\npick up the bodies of their two dead fellows, and lay them across the\nsaddle. In a minute the whole troop turned, and held away southwards\nat a trot, flinging back a last wild cry over the water. The meadows\nrolled away behind them; the gradual trees hid them from moment to\nmoment. Pelleas and the two servants stood and watched till the black\nline had gone southwards into the thickening woods.\n\nUnder the yew tree Morgan la Blanche had uncased her white face, and\nwas smiling feebly.\n\n\"I am glad I did not pray,\" she said; \"it would have been so weak.\nLook! I have torn my tunic, and my belt's awry. Bind my hair for me,\nsister, quickly,--before Sir Pelleas comes.\"\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nWith the heathen lost in the distant woods, Pelleas and the women\nessayed the house, leaving the two servants to sentinel the island.\n\nThe great gates of the porch were ajar. Pushing in, they crossed\ninto the atrium, and found it sleepy as solitude. The water in the\nimpluvium gleamed with the gold flanks of the fish that moved through\nits shadows. Lilies were there, white and wonderful, swooning to their\nown images in the pool. The tiled floor was rich with colour. Venturing\nfurther, they found the triclinium untouched, rich couches and flaming\ncurtains everywhere, gilded chairs, and deep-lustred mirrors, urns, and\nflowers. In the chapel candles were guttered on the altar; dim lights\ncame down upon a wealth of solemn beauty--saints, censers, crosses,\nfrescoed walls all green and azure, gold and scarlet. The viridarium,\nset betwixt chapel and tablinum, held them dazed with a glowing\nparadise of flowers. Here were dreamy palms, orange trees like mounts\nof gold, roses that slept in a deep delight of green. Over all was\nsilence, untainted even by the silken purr of a bird's wing.\n\nGyn\u0153cium and bower were void of them in turn. Everywhere they found\nthe relics of a swift desertion. The manor folk had gone, as if to\nthe ferry of death, taking no worldly store or sumptuous baggage with\nthem. Not a living thing did they discover, save the fish darting in\nthe water. The cubicula were empty, their couches tumbled; the culina\nfireless, and its hearth cold.\n\nPelleas and the women marvelled much at the beauty of the place; its\nsolitude seemed but a ghostly charm to them. As for the girl Morgan,\nshe had taken Pelleas into her immediate and especial favour, holding\nat his side everywhere, a-bubble with delight. The luxury of the place\npleased her at every glance; her vanity ran riot like a bee among\nflowers. She eyed herself furtively in mirrors, and put a rose daintily\nin her hair while Pelleas was not looking. She had already rifled a\ncabinet, strung a chain of amethysts about her neck, and poked her\nfingers into numberless rings. Then she would try the couches, queen\nit for a moment in some stately chair, or smother her face sensuously\nin the flowers growing from the urns. All these pretty vapourings were\ncarried through with a most mischievous grace. Igraine, who had seen\nthe girl white and whimpering an hour before and in deadly horror of\nthe pit, wondered at her, and hated her liberally in her heart.\n\nNor was Pelleas glad of the change her presence had wrought; for her\nchildish subtleties had no hold on him, and even her thieving seemed\ninsipid. With solemn and shadowy thoughts in his heart, her frivolous\nworldliness came like some tinkling discord. Igraine seemed to have\ndimmed her eyes from him beneath the shadow of her hood. Her face was\nset like the face of a statue, and there was no play of thought upon\nit. She walked proudly behind the pair--not with them--like one elbowed\nout of companionship by a vapouring rival.\n\nIn the women's bower Morgan found a lute, and pounced upon it.\n\n\"One's whole desire seems here,\" she chattered. \"This bower suits my\nfancy like a dream, and I could lodge here a month for love of it.\nWhat think you, Knight Pelleas? I never set foot in a fairer manor. I\nwarrant you there are meat and wine in the cellars. We will feast and\nhave music anon.\"\n\nPelleas's face looked more suited to a burial. Igraine pitied him, for\nhis eyes looked tired and sad. Morgan ran on like a jay. In the chapel\nshe found Igraine a share.\n\n\"Here is your portion, holy Sister,\" she said; \"mine the bower, yours\nthe altar. So you see we are all well suited. Come, though, is it not\nvery horrible having to look solemn all day, and to wear a grey gown?\nI should fade in a week inside such a hood; besides, it makes you look\nsuch a colour.\"\n\nIgraine could certainly boast a colour at that moment that might have\nwarned the woman of her rising fume. Pelleas broke in and took up the\nargument.\n\n\"Men do not consider dress,\" he said; \"everything is fair to the\ncomely. I look into a woman's face and into her eyes, and take the\nmeasure of her heart. Such is my catechism.\"\n\n\"But you like to see rich silks and a smile, and to hear a laugh at\ntimes. What is a girl if she is not gay? No discourtesy to you, sister;\nbut you seem so far set from Sir Pelleas and myself.\"\n\nIgraine, lacking patience, flared up like a torch. \"Ha! mark you,\" she\nsaid, \"my habit makes me no coward, nor do I thieve. No discourtesy to\nyou, my dear lady.\"\n\nMorgan set up a thrill of laughter.\n\n\"How true a woman is a nun,\" quoth she; \"but you are too severe, too\ncareful. Thieving, too; why, I may as well have a trinket or so before\nthe place is rifled, even if I take a single ring. And what is more, I\nhave been turned from my own house with hardly a bracelet or a bodkin.\nCome, Sir Pelleas, let us be going; the Sister would be at her prayers.\nI see we but hinder her.\"\n\nPelleas had lost both pity and patience in the last minute.\nPartisanship is inevitable even in the most trivial differences, and\nPelleas's frown was strongly for Morgan la Blanche.\n\n\"Perhaps it would be well, madame,\" said he, \"if we all went on our\nknees for the day's deliverance. I cannot see that there is any shame\nin gratitude.\"\n\n\"Gratitude!\" chirped the girl. \"Gratitude to whom?\"\n\n\"To the Lord Saviour, madame, and the Mother Virgin.\"\n\nShe half laughed in his face, but his eyes sobered her. For a moment\nshe fronted him with an incredulous smirk, then her glance wavered,\nand lowered to his breast. It held there with a tense stare, while\nher whole face hardened. Pelleas saw her pupils darken, her cheeks\nflush and pale in a moment. He thought nothing of it, or ascribed her\ndistraught and strange look to some sudden shame or shock of penitence.\nIn a trice the smile was back again, and she seemed pert and pleased as\never.\n\n\"I see you are too devout for me,\" she said with a glib laugh, \"and\nthat I am too wicked a thing for the moment. I will leave you to Sister\nIgraine till you both have prayed your fill.\" Here she laughed again, a\nlaugh that made Igraine's cheeks burn. \"Remember me to St. Anthony if\nyou may. If I recollect rightly he was a nice old gentleman, who cured\n'the fire' for a miracle, and nearly fell in love with a devil. Till\nyou have done, I will go and gather flowers.\"\n\nPelleas and Igraine looked at one another.\n\n\"A devout child,\" said the man.\n\n\"And not bred in a nunnery.\"\n\n\"The world's convent, I should say.\"\n\nFor the moment Igraine was almost for telling him of her own hypocrisy,\nbut the thought found her more troubled on that score than she could\nhave guessed. She had acted a lie to the man, and feared his true eyes\ndespite her courage. \"Another day I will tell him,\" she thought; \"it\nis not so great a sin after all.\" So they turned and knelt at their\ndevotions.\n\nMorgan la Blanche went away like the wind. She ran through atrium and\nporch with hate free in her eyes, and her child's face twisted into\na scowl of temper. In the garden she idled up and down awhile in a\nrestless fume, like one whose thoughts bubble bodingly. Sometimes she\nwould smite a lily peevishly with her open hand, or pluck a flower and\ntrample it under her feet as though it had wronged her. Then she would\ntake something from her bosom and stare at it while her lips worked,\nor while she bit her fingers as though galled by some inward barb.\nPresently she found her way by a laurel walk to the orchard, and thence\nby a wicket-gate to the island's rim, where one of her men kept watch\non the further meadows.\n\nShe stood under an apple tree, called to him, and beckoned. He came\nto her--a short, burly fellow with the look of a bull, and brute writ\nlarge on his visage. Morgan drew him under the swooping dome of the\ntree, plucked something that shone from her bosom, and dangled it\nbefore his eyes.\n\n\"The cross,\" she said, almost in a whisper. \"Galerius, the cross.\"\n\nThe man stared at her stupidly. Morgan lifted a finger, ran this way\nand that peering into the green glooms and listening. Then she came\nback to the man, soft-footed, glib as a cat, with the cross of gold\ngripped in her fingers. She smiled at him, a smile that was almost a\nleer.\n\n\"Galerius,\" she said, \"the knight in the house yonder wears a chain\nwith one cross missing, and the fellow cross matches this. Moreover,\nhis poniard sheath is empty. I marked all this as I stood by him a\nmoment ago. This is the man who slew my lord.\"\n\nThe servant's heavy face showed that he understood her well enough now.\n\n\"To-night,\" she said, almost skipping under the trees with the\nintensity of her malice, \"it shall be with his own poniard. I have it\nhere. Galerius, you have always been a good fellow.\"\n\nThe man grinned.\n\n\"Keep silence and leave all to me. I shall need your hand and no more.\"\n\n\"Nor shall he,\" said Galerius curtly.\n\nMorgan grew suddenly bleak and quiet, with the thought of murder\nharboured in her heart.\n\n\"Look for yourself, Galerius,\" she said; \"see that my eyes have not\ndeceived me. The man must have come upon Lord Madan when he was alone,\nafter our hirelings had deserted the house. He slew him in the winter\nroom--this whelp sent by Aurelius the king. You and I, Galerius,\nfound the cross in my lord's dead hand, and the poniard in his bosom.\nI warrant you we will level this deed before we hold again for\nWinchester.\"\n\n\"Trust my hand, Madame Morgan,\" quoth the man; \"if you can have the\nfellow sleeping, so much the better, one need not strike in a hurry.\"\n\n\"Leave it to me,\" she said; \"I will give you your knife and your chance\nto-night.\"\n\nWith that she sent the fellow back to his watching, and threaded the\norchard to the manor garden. Pelleas and Igraine had long ended their\nprayers in the chapel. Morgan found them in the atrium, watching the\nfish in the water and their own reflections in the pool. The girl\nhad quite smothered the bleak look that had held her features in the\norchard. She was the same ingenuous, self-pleased little woman whose\nblue eyes seemed as clear and honest as a sleeping sea in summer.\nBefore, she had flown in Pelleas's face for vanity's sake; now she\nseemed no less his woman--ready with smiles and childish flattery, and\nall the pleasantness she could gather. She was at his side again--quick\nwith her eyes and tongue. Probably she guessed that the man despised\nher, but then that was of no moment now, seeing that it made the secret\nin her heart more bitter.\n\nAt noon they dined in the triclinium, with man Galerius to serve. He\nhad ransacked kitchen and pantry, and from the ample store discovered,\nhad spread a sufficient meal. His eyes were ever on Pelleas as he\nwaited. There was no doubt about cross or poniard sheath; and Galerius\nfound pleasure in scanning the knight's armour and looking for the\nplace where he might strike.\n\nThe afternoon proved sultry, and Pelleas took his turn in keeping watch\nby the bank. Cool and placid lay the water in the sun, while vapoury\nheat hung over the meadows and the distant woods. There was still\nfear lest the heathen might return, thinking to catch the islanders\nnapping. The very abruptness of their retreat had been in itself\nsuspicious; and Pelleas was all for caution. Igraine's face seemed to\nmake him more careful of peril. He thought much of her as he paced the\ngreen bank for three hours or more, before leaving the duty to Galerius\nand his fellow.\n\nReturning to the manor he found Igraine cushioned on the tiled floor\nbeside the impluvium, fingering the lute that Morgan la Blanche had\nfound. The latter lady was still in the tablinum, so Igraine said,\npilfering and admiring at her leisure, with fruit and a cup of spiced\nwine ready at her hand. Pelleas took post on the opposite side of the\npool to Igraine, unarmed himself at his leisure, and began to clean his\nharness. No task could have pleased Igraine better. She put the lute\naway, took his helmet on her lap, and burnished it with the corner of\nher gown. Pelleas had sword, breast-plate, greaves and shoulder pieces\nbeside him. Their eyes often met over the pool as they sat with the\nscent of lilies in the air, and talked little--but thought the more.\n\nIgraine felt queerly happy. There seemed a warm fire in her bosom, a\nstealthy, happy heat that crept through every atom of her frame like\nthe sap into the fibres of some rich rose. Her heart seemed to unfold\nitself like a flower in the sun. She looked often at Pelleas, and her\neyes were very soft and bright.\n\n\"A fair place, this,\" she said presently, as the man furbished his\nsword.\n\n\"Fair indeed,\" said he; \"a rich manor.\"\n\n\"It is strange to me after Avangel.\"\n\n\"Perhaps more beautiful.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" she said, with a sudden kindling; \"I think my whole soul was made\nfor beauty, my whole desire born for fair and lovely things. You will\nsmile at me for a dreamer, but often my thoughts seem to fly through\nforests--marvellous green glooms all drowned in moonlight. I love to\nhear the wind, to watch the great oaks battling, to see the sea one\nlaugh of gold. Every sunset harrows me into a moan of woe. I can sing\nto the stars at night--songs such as the woods weave from the voice of\na gentle wind, dew-ladened, green and lovely. Sometimes I feel faint\nfor sheer love of this fair earth.\"\n\nPelleas's eyes were on her with a strange deep look. His dark face was\naglow with a new wonder, as though his soul had flashed to hers. The\ngreat sword lay naked and idle in his hands.\n\n\"Often have I felt thus,\" he said, \"but my lips could never say it.\nThoughts are given to some without words.\"\n\n\"But the joy is there,\" she answered, with a quiet smile.\n\n\"Joy in beauty?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Ah, girl, a beautiful face, or a blaze of gold and scarlet over the\nwestern hills, are like strange wine to my heart.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, it is grand to live,\" said Igraine.\n\nPelleas's head went down over his sword as though in thought.\n\n\"It would seem,\" he said presently, \"that beauty is a closed book, save\nto the few. It is good to find a heart that understands.\"\n\n\"Ah, that know I well,\" she chimed; \"in Avangel they had souls like\nclay; they saw nothing, understood nothing. I think I would rather die\nthan be soul blind.\"\n\n\"So many folk,\" said the man, \"seem to live as though they were ever\nscanning the bottom of a pot. They never get beyond reflections on\nappetite.\"\n\nAs they talked, Morgan la Blanche came in from behind the looped\ncurtains, with silks, samites, siclatons, and sarcanets in her arms.\nShe had found some rich chest in the bower accomplice to her fingers,\nand had revelled gloriously. She sat herself down near Pelleas, and\nbegan to laugh and chatter like a pleased child. The dainty stuffs\nwere tossed this way and that, gathered into scarves or frills, spread\nover her lap and eyed critically as to colour, before being bound in\na bale for her journey. Vain and vapid as her behaviour seemed, there\nwas more in this little woman's heart than either Pelleas or Igraine\ncould have guessed. Her whole mood was false. Foolish as she seemed on\nthe surface, she was more keen, more subtle by far than Igraine, whose\nwhole soul spelt fire and courage.\n\nAs the day drew towards evening, Morgan became more stiff and silent.\nHer eyes were bright as the jewels round her neck; they would flash\nand waver, or fall at times into long, sidelong stares. More than\nonce Igraine caught the girl's face in hard thought, the pert lips\nstraight and cruel, the eyes hungry and very shallow. It reminded\nher of Morgan's look in the morning, when she was in such stark fear\nof the heathen and of death. Yet while she watched her, smiles and\nglib vivacity would sweep back again as though there had been but a\ntransient cloud of thought over the girl's face.\n\nWith the shadows lengthening, they turned, all three of them, into\nthe garden, and found ease on a grass bank beneath the black boughs\nof a great cedar. The arch of the dark foliage cut the sky into a\nsemicircle of azure. All about them the grass seemed dusted with dim\nflowers--blue, white, and violet. A rich company of tiger lilies bowed\nto the west. Dense banks of laurels and cypresses stood like screens of\nblackest marble, for the sun was sinking. As they lay under the tree,\nthey could look down upon the water, sheeny and glorious in the evening\npeace. Further still, the willows slept like a mist of green, with the\nfields Elysian and full of sweet stupors, the woods beyond standing\nsolemn and still at the beck of night.\n\nMorgan, who had brought the lute with her, began to touch the strings,\nand to sing softly in a thin, elfin voice--\n\n    My heart is open at the hour of night\n    When lilies swoon\n    And roses kiss in bed.\n    When all the dreams of sad-lipped passion rise\n    From sleep's blue bowers\n    To die in lover's eyes.\n      Come flame,\n      Come fire,\n    A woman's bosom\n    Is but life's desire.\n    So, all my treasures are but held for love\n    In scarlet silks\n    And tapestries of snow.\n    I long, white-bosomed like the stars that sigh\n    A bed in heaven\n    For love's ecstasy.\n      Come flame,\n      Come fire,\n    A woman's bosom\n    Is all man's desire.\n\nThe birds were nestling and gossiping in the laurel bushes, taking\nlodging for the night. From the topmost pinnacle of the cedar, a\nthrush, a feathered muezzin, had called the world to prayer. From the\nmere came the cries of water-fowl; the eerie wail of the lapwing rose\nin the meadows. Presently, all was still and breathless; a vast hush\nseemed to hold the world. The west was fast dying.\n\nUnder the cedar the light lurked dim and magic. Morgan's fingers were\nstill hovering on the strings, and she was singing to herself in a\nwhisper, as though she had care for nothing, save for that which was\nin her heart. Pelleas and Igraine were quite near each other in the\nshadow. They had looked into each other's eyes--one long, deep look.\nEach had turned away troubled, yet with a sudden glory of quick anguish\nin their hearts. The night seemed very subtle to them, and the whole\nworld sweet.\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n\nIgraine's thoughts were to music when she went to bed that night.\nPelleas's eyes stayed with her, darkly, sadly; his tragic face seemed\nto look out of the night, like the face of one dead. And he more than\nliked her. She felt sure of that, even if she did not dream of kinder\nthings sprung from long looks and quiet sighings. She sat on her bed,\nand smiled the whole strange day over to herself again. She had the\nman before her in all his looks and poses; how he sat his horse, the\nhabit he had of looking deeply into nothingness, his strength and quiet\nknightliness, and above all his devout soul. He seemed to please her\nat every point in a way that set her thrilling within herself with a\ndelicious wonder. Last, she thought of the weird twilight under the\ngrand old tree--rare climax to a day of deeds and memories. She felt\nher heart leap as she remembered the great wistful look that had shone\nout on her from Pelleas's eyes.\n\nThe manor house seemed still as the night itself. Morgan la Blanche had\ntaken herself to a couch in the triclinium, choosing it rather than one\nof the cubicles leading from the atrium. Galerius was on guard, pacing\nthe mere's bank, while his comrade slept in the kitchen. Pelleas,\narmed, with sword and shield beside him, had quartered himself on\ncushions in the great porch, with the doors open.\n\nIt was about ten o'clock. Igraine, full of sweet broodings, crept\ninto bed, and settled herself for sleep. The night was wonderfully\npeaceful. The window of the room was overgrown with a tangle of roses,\nthe flowers seeming to mellow the air as it came softly in, and there\nwas a faint shimmer into the shadows that hinted at moonlight. Igraine\nlay long awake, with her eyes on the few stars that peeped through\nbetween the jambs. There was too much in her heart to let sleep in for\nthe while, and her thoughts were a'dance within her brain like wild,\nfleet-footed things. As she lay in a happy fever of thought, her face\ngrew hot upon the pillow, and her tumbled hair was like a lustrous lava\nflow over the bed. In course, despite her tossing, she fell into a\nshallow, fitful sleep that verged between wakefulness and dreams.\n\nIt was well past midnight when she started, wide awake, with the\nhalf-dreamt memory of some eerie sound in her ears. She sat up in bed,\nand listened, shivering. There were footfalls, swift and light, on the\npavement of the atrium. From somewhere came a gruff voice, speaking\ntersely and in bated tones. Next, there was something that sounded like\na groan, and then silence.\n\nIgraine crept out of bed, hurried on her habit, opened the door gently,\nand looked out. Moonlight streamed in through the square aperture in\nthe roof of the hall, but all else lay in darkness. The porch gates\nwere ajar, with a band of light slanting through upon the tiles. Eager,\ntremulous, she fancied as she stood that she heard the beat of oars.\nThen the low, groaning cough that she had heard before thrilled her\ninto action like a trumpet cry.\n\nShe was across the court in a second, and into the darkened porch. The\ndoors swung back to her hands, and the night streamed in. Clear before\nher, lit with a silver emphasis, lay the water, and on it she saw the\ndark outline of the barge, moving with foaming oars towards the further\nbank. For the moment her heart seemed to halt within her.\n\n\"Pelleas!\" she cried. \"Pelleas!\"\n\nA stifled sound answered her from a dark corner of the porch. With a\nsudden frost in her bosom she saw a black rill trickling over the tiles\nin the moonlight, even touching her feet. Great fear came upon her, but\nleft her power to think. In the triclinium she had seen a lamp, with\ntinder, steel, and flint in a tray beside it, and in her fear she ran\nthither, tore her fingers in her haste with stone and steel, but had\nthe lamp lit with such speed as she had never learnt at Avangel. Then\nshe went back trembling into the porch.\n\nThe knight Pelleas lay in the corner, half propped against the wall.\nHis head was bowed down upon his chest, and he had both hands clasped\nupon the neck-band of his tunic. Blood was trickling from his mouth,\nand he seemed to be hardly breathing, while under the left arm-pit\nshone the silver hilt of the knife that had been thrust there by\nGalerius's hand. To the thought of the girl it seemed as if the man\nwere in his death agony.\n\nThe utter realism of the moment drove all fear from her. She set the\nlamp on the tiles, and kneeling by Pelleas, pulled the knife slowly\nfrom his side. A gush of blood followed. She strove to staunch it with\na corner of her gown. The man was quite unconscious, and never heeded\nher, though he was still breathing jerkily and feebly, with a rattling\nstridor in his throat. She lifted his head and rested it upon her\nshoulder, while she knelt and pressed her hand over the wound, dreading\nto see him die each moment.\n\nFor an hour she knelt, cold and almost bare-kneed, on the stone floor,\nholding the man to her, watching his breathing with a tense fear,\npressing upon the wound as though ethereal life would ebb and mock\nher fingers. Little by little she felt the warm flow cease, felt her\nfingers stiffened at their task, while the minutes dragged like \u00e6ons,\nand the lamp flickered low in the night. At last she knew that the\nissue was stayed, and that Pelleas bled no more. Gradually, fearfully,\nlest life should fall away like a poised wand, she laid the man\ndown, and again watched with her hand over the stricken side. He was\nbreathing more noticeably now, with less of the look of death about\nhim. Encouraged thus, she dared to meditate leaving him to find wine,\nand sheets to cover him there. When she essayed to move she found her\nhabit clotted to the wound where she had held it. It took her minutes\nto cut the cloth through with the knife that had stabbed Pelleas, for\nshe was palsied lest the wound should break again and lose her her\nlove's labour.\n\nFree at last, she fled into her room, tore the clothes in which she\nhad lain from the bed, and carried them trailing into the porch. Then,\nlamp in hand, she spoiled the triclinium of rugs and cushions, and\nfound there the chalice of wine that Morgan had sipped from. Ladened,\nshe struggled back across the hall, fearing all the while to find the\nman parted. No such foul fortune, however. He was breathing better and\nbetter.\n\nThen she set to to make a bed. She spread cushions and rugs; and then,\nso slowly, so gently, that she seemed hardly to move, she had the man\nlaid upon the couch, with two cushions under his head. Next she covered\nhim with the clothes taken from her own bed. Thus much completed\nwithout mishap, she washed his lips and face with water taken from the\npool, trickled some wine down his throat, and set the doors wide to\nwatch for dawn.\n\nSo pressed had she been by the man's peril, that even the right of\nthought had been denied her. Now, seated by the lamp, she began to sift\nmatters as well as her meagre knowledge would suffer, keeping constant\nwatch on wounded Pelleas the while. She knew that Morgan and her men\nwere gone in the barge, but as to who gave Pelleas his wound, she could\ncome to no clear understanding in her heart. There must have been some\ndeep feud for such a stroke, though she could find no reason for the\ndeed. Still, she could believe anything of that chit Morgan la Blanche,\nand there the riddle rested for a season.\n\nBefore long she saw the summer dawn stealing silently and mysteriously\ninto the east. The face of the sky grew grey with waking light, and the\nhold of the moon and night relaxed on wood and meadow. Then the birds\nbegan in the garden, till she thought their shrill piping must wake\nPelleas from his swoon, so blithe and lusty were they. The east was\nforging day fast in its furnace of gold. The glare touched the clouds\nand rolled them into wreaths of amber fire.\n\nA sigh from the couch brought her to her feet like magic. She went and\nknelt by the bed in quite a tumult of expectation. Pelleas's hands\nwere groping feebly over the coverlet like weak, blind things. Igraine\ncaught them in hers, thrilled as they closed upon her fingers, and,\nbending low, she waited with her lips almost on the man's, her hair on\nhis forehead, her eyes fixed on his closed lids. All her soul seemed\nto droop above him like a lily over a grave. Presently he sighed again,\nstirred and opened his eyes full on Igraine's, as she knelt and mingled\nher breath with his.\n\n\"Pelleas,\" she whispered. \"Pelleas.\"\n\nHe looked at her for a moment with a dazed stare that dawned into a\nsmile that made her long to sing.\n\n\"It is Igraine,\" she said.\n\nPelleas caught a deep breath, and groaned as his stricken side twinged\nto the quick.\n\nIgraine put two fingers on his lips.\n\n\"Lie still,\" she said, \"lie still if you love earth. You must not\nspeak, no, not one little word. I must have you quiet as a child,\nPelleas. You have been so near death.\"\n\nShe felt the man's hand answer hers. He did not speak or move, but lay\nand looked at her as a little child in a cradle looks at its mother, or\nas a dog eyes his master. Igraine put his hands gently down upon the\ncoverlet, and smiled at him.\n\n\"Lie so, Pelleas,\" she said; \"be very quiet, for I am to leave you, for\na minute and no more. You must not move a finger, or I shall scold.\"\n\nShe beamed at him, started up and ran straight to the chapel, her heart\na-whimper with a joy that was not mute. She went full length on the\naltar steps with her face turned to the cross above--the cross whose\ngolden arms were aglow with the sun through the eastern window. In her\nmood, the white Christ's face seemed to smile on her with equal joy.\nShe learnt more in that moment than Avangel had taught her in a year.\n\nHardly five minutes had passed before she was with Pelleas again,\nbearing fruit and olives, bread and oil. She made a sweet dish of bread\nand berries, with some wine in it for his heart's sake, and then knelt\nat his side to feed him. She would not let him lift a finger, but\nserved him herself with silver spoon and platter, smiling to give him\ncourage as he obeyed her like a babe. It seemed very pitiful to her\nthat so much strength and manliness should have been smitten so low\nin one brief night. None the less, the man's feebleness brought her\nmore joy than ever his courage had done, and his peril had discovered\nclear wells of ruth in her that might have been months hidden but for\nthe hand of Galerius. When Pelleas had finished the bread and fruit,\nshe gave him more wine, and then set to to bathe his hands and face\nwith scented water taken from the tablinum. Pelleas's eyes, with deep\nshadows under them now, watched her all the while with a kind of\nwondering calm. The sunlight flooded in, and lit her hair like red\ngold, and made her neck to shine like alabaster. Meeting his look, she\nreddened, and turned to hide her face for a moment, that he might not\nsee all that was writ there in letters of flame.\n\n\"Now you must sleep, Pelleas,\" she said, crossing his hands upon the\nquilt.\n\nHe shook his head feebly.\n\n\"I am going to leave you,\" she persisted, \"so you must not flout me,\nPelleas. I shall be here, ready, when you wake.\"\n\nShe smiled at him, and closed his lids gently with her finger tips.\n\n\"Sleep,\" she said, brushing her hand softly over his forehead, \"for\nsleep will give you strength again. You may need it.\"\n\nShe left him there, and taking bread and olives with her, she closed\nthe porch gates to shade him, and went herself into the garden. After a\nmeal under the old cedar, she went down to the water's edge and washed\nher feet from the stains of Pelleas's blood, and bathed her hands and\nface. She saw the barge amid the reeds and rushes on the further bank.\nThere was no sign of life in the meadows, and the woods were deep with\npeace.\n\nThen she remembered Pelleas's horse. Going to the stable behind the\nmanor, she found the beast stalled there, though Morgan's horses had\nbeen taken by the men in the barge. Igraine took hay from the rack,\ngave him a measure of oats in his manger, and watered him with water\nfrom the mere. Then she stood and combed his mane with her fingers\nas he fed. Some of the poppies she had plaited there were dead and\ndrooping in the black hair. She thought as she unbound the withered\nthings how nearly Pelleas's life had withered with theirs. She was very\nhappy in her heart, and she sang softly the low tender songs women love\nwhen their thoughts are maying.\n\nIgraine passed the whole morning in the garden, going every now and\nagain to the porch to open the doors gently, and peep in upon the\nsleeper. She gathered a basket of fruit and a lapful of flowers. About\nnoon she went in, and bringing jars from the triclinium, she filled\nthem with water and garnished them with flowers. These jars she set in\narray about Pelleas's bed, one of tiger lilies and one of white lilies;\na bowl of roses at his head, a jar of hollyhocks and one of thyme, and\nfragrant herbs at the foot. Moreover, she strewed the coverlet with\npansies, and scattered rose leaves on his pillow. Then she went to the\nchapel to pray awhile, before sitting down to watch beside his bed.\n\nPelleas woke about an hour after noon had turned. At his first\nstirring, Igraine was hanging over him like a mother, with her hands\non his. Pelleas looked up at her, saw the flowers about his bed, and,\nrisking her menaces, spoke his first word.\n\n\"Igraine,\" he said.\n\nShe put her face down to his.\n\n\"I am much stronger,\" he said; \"I can talk now.\"\n\n\"Perhaps a very little,\" she answered, with her eyes on his.\n\n\"Igraine!\"\n\n\"Yes, Pelleas.\"\n\n\"You are very wonderful.\"\n\n\"Pelleas!\" she said redly.\n\n\"I should have died without you, for I was witless, and coughing blood.\"\n\n\"I thought you would die,\" she said very softly, with her eyes\ndowncast. \"I held you in my arms and, God helping me, staunched the\nflow from your wound. But tell me, Pelleas, who was it stabbed you?\"\n\nThe man smiled at her.\n\n\"There, I am as ignorant as you,\" he said. \"I woke with a fiery twinge\nin my side, and saw a man running out of the porch in the dark. I\nstruggled to rise. Blood came into my mouth, and betwixt coughing and\nhard breathing I must have fainted. What of the others?\"\n\nIgraine knelt up from stooping over him, and thought.\n\n\"Morgan and her men,\" she said presently, \"fled across the mere in the\nbarge just after you had been stabbed. I saw them go in the moonlight.\nIt was your cry that woke me in bed. I came and found you senseless in\nthe corner, and the woman and her rascals making off in the boat. One\nof the men must have smitten you while you slept.\"\n\nPelleas kept silence for a while, as though he were thinking hard.\n\n\"Show me the knife,\" he said anon.\n\nIgraine had washed away the stains, and laid it aside in a corner. She\nheld it up now before Pelleas's eyes as he lay in bed. He took it from\nher with trembling hands, and handled it, his face darkening.\n\n\"This is my own poniard,\" he said, \"the poniard I left in the heart of\nthe man in Andredswold. Look, girl, look! Search and see, mayhap you\nmay find a cross.\"\n\nIgraine did his bidding, and searched the pavement, but found nothing.\nThen she came back to the bed, and began to turn the cushions up here\nand there, and to scan the tiled floor. Sure enough, under the foot of\nthe bed, she found a small gold cross lying, smeared lightly with dried\nblood. She took it up and gave it to Pelleas. He caught and held it\nwith a terse cry.\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\n\nPelleas lay the afternoon through in a half dream of shifting thought.\nBut for the tangible things about him there might have been elfin\nmischief in the air, for the last few days had passed with such flash\nof new feeling and desire that the man's mind was still in a daze.\n\nHe lay in bed, with jars of lilies round him, and a woman tending him\nwith the grace of a Diana. It was all very strange, very pleasant,\ndespite the ague in his ribs and his inordinate weakness. He was not so\nsure after all that he bore Morgan la Blanche any so fervent a piece of\nmalice; fortune seemed to beckon him towards generosity, seeing that\nhis condition was so truly picturesque. Uncouth feelings were swallowed\nup for the time being by a benignant stupor of contentment.\n\nBut the balance of human happiness is often very nice and subtle.\nLeaden reason tumbled into the scale of melancholy may even outscale\nthe bowl of dreams. Love and law often dangle on either beam of a man's\nmind, or philosophy anchored to a rock may sky poor fancy into the\nclouds. So it was with Pelleas that day, wisdom being often enough a\nmiserable nurse. When he thought of Igraine, reason as he would with\nhimself, his soul began to shimmer like moon-rippled water. When she\nlooked at him the very pillars of his manhood seemed to quake. When\nshe passed, light-footed, from garden to porch, she seemed to come\nin like the sun, bringing streams of warmth into his wounded flesh.\nOf necessity, he soon met other cogitations less pleasant, and no\nless imperative. From legal quarters came that inevitable pedagogue\nblear-eyed Verity, paunched up with dogma and breathing ethical\nplatitudes like garlic. \"The woman's a nun,\" quoth Dom Verity, with\na sneer. \"Keep your fancy in leash, my good Pelleas, and forswear\nromance. Bar your thoughts from a child of the church or you will rue\nit. No man may serve a nun. The world has said.\"\n\nWhat with his wound and his fractious meditations, Pelleas soon\nfell into a most dismal temper. Like most sick folk he had lost for\nthe time that level sense of proportion that is the sure outcome of\nhealth. His thoughts began to gape at him, and to pull most melancholy\ngrimaces. Even the dead man squatting in the great chair in the manor\nin Andredswold began to haunt him like an ogrish conscience. Hot and\nracked, he could stand his own company at last no longer. Calling\nIgraine to him, he began to unburden himself to her with regard to the\nman he had done to death in the forest.\n\nThe girl listened, mild as moonlight, and ready to swear away her soul\nto soothe him.\n\n\"I am troubled for the deed,\" he was saying, \"though the man deserved\ndeath, twenty deaths, and though I served justice to the echo. His\nblood hangs on my hands, and makes me restless at heart.\"\n\n\"Tell me his sin, Pelleas.\"\n\n\"They were many, and too gross for ears such as thine.\"\n\n\"Then palpably he was too gross to live.\"\n\n\"No doubt, child.\"\n\n\"Then why trouble for his death, Pelleas; you would not shrink from\ntreading out an adder's brains?\"\n\n\"Ah, but there is the man's soul. I feel for him after my own\ndown-bringing. What chance had he of penitence?\"\n\n\"True,\" she said gravely, \"but your mother, the Abbess Gratia, used to\ntell us that bad men repented only in legends and in the Bible; never\nin grim life. Besides, you prevented the man committing worse offences\nin the future, and getting deeper into the pit. Why, Pelleas, hundreds\nof good knights have lost life for a mere matter of love; why trouble\nfor the life of a wretch who perhaps never knew what truth meant. You\nwould not grieve for men slain in battle.\"\n\n\"In battle the blood is hot and the brain afire. This was a rank and\nreasonable stroke.\"\n\n\"And therefore the more deserved. Why trouble about it, Pelleas? In\nfaith, since your plight makes me tyrant, I forbid such brooding. It is\nbut the evil fancy of a distraught mind, an incubus I must chase away.\nSee, your hands are hot, and your forehead too. Will you sleep again,\nor shall I sing to you?\"\n\n\"Presently,\" he said. \"I have more to speak of yet.\"\n\nIgraine knelt by him on her cushion, serene and tender.\n\n\"Say on, Pelleas,\" she said; \"a woman loves a man's confidence. If I\ncan give you comfort I will gladly listen here till midnight. You are\nnot yourself, weak from loss of blood, and a gnat's sting is like a\nlance thrust to you. Tell me your other troubles.\"\n\nPelleas groaned, hesitated, looked up into her eyes, and recanted\ninwardly. He furbished up a minor woe to serve the occasion.\n\n\"It is my sword and shield,\" he said; \"they were given me blessed and\nconsecrated by my mother. It is in my thought that I had smirched them\nby this deed. What think you, girl?\"\n\n\"I cannot think so,\" she said stoutly.\n\nThen since his face was so wistful and troubled, she racked her fancy\nfor some plan she thought might soothe him. A sudden purpose came to\nher like prophecy.\n\n\"Listen,\" she said. \"I can do this for you. Give me your shield and\nsword, and let me lay them on the high altar under the cross with\ncandles burning, and let me pray for them there. Will that comfort you,\nPelleas?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, with a sudden sad smile; \"pray for me, go and pray for\nme, Igraine.\"\n\nIt was the impulse of a moment. She bent down with a great thrill of\nwonder, and kissed the man's lips. It was soon done, soon sped. She saw\nPelleas's blood stream to his face, saw something in his eyes that made\nher heart canter. Then she darted away, took up the great sword and\nthe shield with its red face, and went to the chapel singing like a\nseraph. Her prayers were a strange jumble of worship and recollection.\n\"Lord Jesu, cleanse his spirit,\" said her heart one moment; \"truth,\nhow he coloured and looked at me,\" it sang with more human refrain the\nnext. \"May he be a knight above knights,\" quoth devotion; \"and may I be\never fair in his eyes,\" chimed love. Altogether, it was a most quaint\nprayer.\n\nNow, a certain mundane matter had been troubling Igraine's thought that\nday. The barge, seized and put to use by Morgan and her men, lay amid\nthe reeds on the nether shore, ready to give passage to any chance\nwayfarer, welcome or otherwise, who should choose to cross the mere.\nThe boat, so fixed, floated as a constant peril to Pelleas and herself.\nShe felt that peace would flout them so long as the barge lay ready\nto play ferry-boat to any casual intruder. Pelleas's wound might keep\nthem cooped many days in the place. She vowed to herself that the boat\nshould be regained, and blushed when the oath accused her.\n\nAt dusk, when the birds were piping, and there was a green hush over\nthe world, she went back to Pelleas, a beautiful shameface, accompliced\nby the twilight.\n\n\"I have prayed,\" she said simply.\n\nPelleas touched her fingers.\n\n\"I feel happier,\" he said.\n\n\"That is well.\"\n\n\"Stay near me, Igraine. It grows dark fast.\"\n\n\"I shall be with you till you sleep,\" she said.\n\nIgraine fed him with her own hands, talking little the while, but\nfeeling very enamoured of her lot. She was thinking of her new surprise\nwith some mischieful pleasure as she tended Pelleas. The man was\nsilent, yet very placid and facile to her willing. When she had bathed\nhis face and neck, and seen him well couched, she took the lute Morgan\nhad handled, and began to sing to him softly--wistfully, as though the\nsong was the song of a quiet wind through willows. It was a chant for\nthe dusk, for the quiet gazing of the first fires of heaven. Pelleas\nheard it like the distant touching of strings over charmed water, and\nwith the breath of lilies over him he fell asleep.\n\nIgraine held by him still as a mouse in the dark, till she knew by his\nbreathing that he was deep in slumber. Then she set the lute aside, put\nthe lamp by the porch door, so that it should be ready to hand, and\nstole out into the garden.\n\nThe moon was just coming up above the distant trees. Igraine waited\nunder the black-vaulted cedar till the great ring rode bleak above the\nfringe of the tops before she went down between laurels to the water's\nedge. There was a deep cedarn scent on the warm air, and everything\nseemed deathly still. Going to the landing stage, she stood there\nawhile looking at the water, dark and mysterious, with pale webs of\nlight upon its agate surface. Then she began to bind her hair closely\non her head, smiling to herself, and staring down at her vague image in\nthe water.\n\nHer hair in shackles, she turned to her task in earnest. Soon habit,\nshift, and sandals were lying in a heap, and she was standing clean,\nrare, gleamingly straight as a statue, with her arms folded upon her\nbreast. For a moment she stood, making the night to swoon, before\ntaking to the mere. Pearly white with an aureole of foam, she swam\nflankwise with an overhand stroke, one arm thrusting out like a silver\nsickle. Here and there, fretted by the willows, long moonbeams glinted\non her round whiteness, as the maddened foam bubbled, and the water\nsighed and yearned amid the sedges. A fine glow had leapt through her\nbody like wine, and the mere seemed to sway and sing as she swam for\nthe main bank, where the willows stood blackly in a mist of phosphor\nglory. Soon she reached the shallows at a pleasant place where stretch\nof grassland tongued down into the mere. She climbed out, and stood\nlike a water nymph, her body agleam and asparkle with its dew, her skin\nlike rare silk, smooth as a star's glance. Down fell her hair like\nsmoke. She stretched her arms to the moon, and laughed, aglow with the\nwarmth gotten of her swim. Then she went to where the barge lay amid\nthe reeds, and boarding it poled out into the deeps.\n\nStanding on the poop she used an oar as a paddle, and so brought the\ncumbrous barge slowly under way. It stole out from the fretted shadows\nof the trees, and glided like a great ark over the mere in black\nsilence, save for the dip of the blade and the drip of water. The\nvoyage took Igraine longer than her swim. At last, with the boat moored\nat the stage, she dried her limbs and body with her hair, and took\nagain to shift and habit. Then she stole back to the manor, listened a\nmoment to Pelleas's breathing, and having lit her lamp she went to bed.\n\nNext morning Igraine, with her deed locked up in her heart, was\npreparing Pelleas a meal. He had just stirred and roused himself from\nsleep with a little cry, and he was watching the girl with the mute\nreflective look of one just freed from the visions of the night.\n\n\"Igraine,\" he said.\n\nShe turned to him with a soft smile.\n\n\"I have been dreaming,\" he confessed gravely.\n\n\"Dreaming, Pelleas?\"\n\n\"I thought,\" said he, \"that I saw a great dragon of gold come over the\nmeadows with a naked sword in his mouth, and a collar of rubies round\nhis throat. And he came to the mere's edge, ramping and breathing fire.\nAnd lo! he entered into the barge there, and the barge went forth\nbearing him, while all the mere's water boiled and shone about the\nboat like flame. So he came to the island, and all greenness seemed to\nwither before him, and with the fear of him I awoke.\"\n\nIgraine shook her head at the man.\n\n\"Your dreams are distraught,\" she said; \"it is your wound, Pelleas. In\nfaith we should need the great Merlin for such a vision.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said he, \"I can read you the riddle, Igraine. Our barge lies by\nthe land bank ready for any foe. That is where the dream touches us.\"\n\nIgraine brought him a bowl of crushed bread and fruit, and made as\nthough to feed him.\n\n\"Never worry,\" she said; \"the barge is moored safe at the stage.\"\n\nPelleas put the bowl aside with one hand, and stared at her from his\npillows.\n\n\"Did the barge swim the mere of herself,\" quoth he, \"and anchor for us\nso fairly?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then--\"\n\nIgraine went red of a sudden, and looked at her knees.\n\n\"Sooth, Pelleas,\" she said, \"I must have been the dragon of your dream;\nGod pardon me.\"\n\n\"Igraine!\"\n\n\"I never knew I seemed so fearful a creature.\"\n\n\"Honour and praise--\"\n\nHe half rose on his pillows in his enthusiasm. Igraine put him gently\nback, and took up the bowl of bread and fruit.\n\n\"That will do, my dear Pelleas,\" she said; \"now just lie still and have\nyour breakfast.\"\n\nWhat boots it to chronicle at length their sojourn in the island manor.\nTwelve days Igraine nursed the man there, giving all her heart for\nservice, tending him from sunrise to the fall of night. She seemed\nto have no other joy than to sit and talk to him, to make music with\nvoice and hand, to keep his couch posied round with flowers. On waking\nPelleas would find her by him, fresh as the dawn and full of a golden\ntenderness; at night his eyes closed upon her gracious figure as she\nsat in the gloaming and sang. She was near to hear his voice, quick to\nsee his needs and to remedy them with soft hands and softer looks. The\nvery atmosphere about the man seemed touched and mellowed by her, and\nthe hours seemed to trip to the measure of a golden rhyme.\n\nPelleas mended very rapidly under her care. His wound, sweet and\ninnocent, gave him no trouble save some slight feverishness on the\nthird day. The sixth morning found him so stalwart of temper that\nIgraine consented to his leaving bed for a morning provided he obeyed\nher to the letter. His first steps were taken in the atrium with\nIgraine's arm about his waist, and his upon her shoulders. So well did\nhe bear himself that the girl led him to the chapel, and there side\nby side on the altar steps they winged up their devotion to heaven.\nIgraine's prayers, be it known, were all for love; Pelleas's for the\nthreatening shadows over his own soul.\n\nDaily after this innovation Igraine would make him a couch under the\ngreat cedar tree in the garden, where he could rest shaded from the\nsun, and there, morn, noon, and eve, they had much comradeship and\nspeech together. They would talk of God, the saints, and the souls of\nmen, of love and honour, and the needs of Britain. Pelleas would tell\nher of his own service with Aurelius, of all the fair pomp of Lesser\nBritain, where Conan had begun a goodly kingdom years ago, and where\nmany British folk had taken refuge. He had been to Rome as a boy, and\nhe described that vast city to her, or told her of the bloody fields he\nhad seen when the steel of Christendom met the heathen. Fresh streams\nfrom either soul welled out, and mingled much during those summer days.\nPelleas and Igraine looked deep each into the heart of the other,\nfinding fine store of nobleness, of truth, and of things beautiful,\ntill the heart of each had treasured everything for love and for love's\ndesire. They were fair hours and very sweet to the two. The day seemed\na casket of gold, and the night a bowl of ebony ablaze with stars.\n\nAbout this time the man Pelleas began to go down into deep waters. Many\ndays had passed with a flare of torches in the west; their sojourn was\ndrawing to a close, and the night seemed near. The haler Pelleas grew\nin body, the more halt and hopeless waxed his soul. The whole world\nseemed to grow wounded to his eyes; the west was wistful at evening,\nand the starry sky a sob of pain. When Igraine harped and sang, each\nnote flew like winged death into his heart. He had no joy that was not\nsmitten through with anguish, no thought that was not crowned with\nthorns. It was a very simple matter indeed, but perverse to utter\nbitterness. Pelleas saw no hope for himself in the end. He would rock\nand toss, and think at night till the darkness seemed to crush him into\na mere mass of misery. Above all there seemed to rise a great hand\nholding a cross of gold, and a voice that said, \"Beware thy soul and\ndeath.\"\n\nNot so was it with Igraine. To her life had no shroud, and love\nprophesied of love alone. She knew what she knew, and her heart was\nfull of summer and the song of birds. Pelleas loved her; she would have\nstaked her soul on it, though she did not realise the desperate turmoil\npassing in the man's clean heart. Knowing what she did, she was all for\nsun and moods of radiant thought and happiness. Each day she imagined\nthat she would tell Pelleas of her secret; each day she gave the golden\nmoment to the morrow. She knew how the man's face would flame up with\nthe fulness of great wonder, and like a woman she hoarded anticipation\nin her heart and waited.\n\nThe day soon came when Pelleas declared himself hale enough to\nbear armour, though the admission was made with no great amount of\nsatisfaction. To test his strength he armed himself with Igraine's\nhelp, harnessed his black horse, and rode round the island, first at\na level pace with Igraine running beside him. Then he tried a gallop,\nhandling spear and shield the while. Lastly, he took Igraine up to him,\nand rode with her as he had ridden through the wold. Suffering nothing\nfrom these ventures, and seeming sure in selle as ever, he declared\nwith heavy heart that they should sally for Winchester on the morrow.\n\nPelleas and Igraine passed their last evening in the island under the\ngreat cedar in the garden. The place had deep memories for them, and\nvery loth were they to leave it, so fair and kind a refuge had it\nproved to them in peril. Neither said much that evening, for their\nthoughts were busy. As for Pelleas, he was glum and heavy-browed as\nthunder, with a look in his deep eyes that spelt misery. It was as\nthough he were leaving his very soul in the place to ride out like a\ncorpse on a pilgrimage with despair. How much she might have eased him,\nperhaps Igraine never knew.\n\nThe west was already red and rosy, and there was a green hush over the\nmeadows, and a canopy of pale porphyry in the east. All the soul of the\nworld seemed to lift white hands to the night in a stupor of mutest\nwoe. Yet the girl's mood tended towards mere sensitive regret, for the\nfuture was not dark to her imaginings.\n\n\"You are sad, Pelleas,\" she said.\n\n\"I am only thinking, Igraine.\"\n\n\"I am sorry to leave this place.\"\n\nPelleas sighed for answer. With a contradictory spirit, born of pain,\nhe longed for night and the peace it would not bring. Something swore\nto him that he was more to the girl than man had ever been, and yet she\nseemed happy when he compared her humour with his own. The possibility\nthat she could dream of broken vows was never in his thought. He could\nonly believe that her heart was less deep than his, and the thought\nonly added bitterness to his mead of sorrow.\n\n\"Igraine,\" he said anon.\n\nShe turned to him.\n\n\"You love life?\"\n\n\"Truth, Pelleas, I do.\"\n\n\"Then love it not, girl.\"\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\n\"'Tis a broken bowl.\"\n\n\"How so?\" she said, thrilling.\n\nPelleas turned his face from her to hide the strife thereon. He felt\nas though death was in his heart, yet he spoke as quietly as though\nhe were telling some mundane tale, and not words conjured up by a\ndesperate wisdom.\n\n\"Igraine,\" he said, \"I have lived and learnt something in my time,\nand my words are honest. On earth what do we find--a lie on truth's\nlips, and anguish on the face of joy. The roses bloom and die, white\nhands shrivel, and harness rusts under the green grass. As for fame, it\nbreeds hate and jealousy, and the curse of the proud. Music is broken\nby the laugh of the fool, nor can youth forget the crabbed noisomeness\nof age. Women sing and pass. A man marries one night and is tombed the\nnext. And love, what of love? I tell you love lives only in the eyes of\nwoe. It is all mockery, cold damned mockery. I have said.\"\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\n\nPelleas and Igraine were stirring soon after dawn on the morning of\ntheir sally for Winchester. It was a summer dawn, still and stealthy;\nthe meadows were full of a shimmering mist, the mere spirit-wrapped,\nand dappled here and there with gold.\n\nSilent and distraught they made their last meal in the quiet manor.\nEverything seemed sad and solemn, as though the stones could grieve;\nthe lilies by the impluvium seemed adroop, and the flowers about\nPelleas's bed were withered. After the meal Pelleas armed himself, and\nwent to harness his horse, while Igraine put up bread and foodstuff\ninto a linen cloth for their journey. Before sallying they went all\nround the manor, into the chapel, where they prayed before the altar,\ninto bower, parlour, and viridarium. The porch with its empty bed and\nwithered flowers they took leave of last. There was such wistfulness\nthere that even the dumb things seemed to cry out in pain.\n\nPelleas closed the gates with bowed head, and made the sign of the\ncross upon them with the pommel of his dagger. His throat seemed full\nof one great muffled sob. Together they wandered for the last time\nthrough the garden, while Igraine plucked some flowers for a keepsake.\nPelleas felt that he loved every leaf in the place like his own soul.\nThen they went down to the water's edge, and, getting the horse on\nboard, they loosed the barge from the bank, and came slowly to the\nnether shore. It might have been the fury of death, so stark and solemn\nwas Pelleas's face.\n\nBefore turning their backs and riding away, they stood and looked long\nat the place girdled with its quiet waters. The great cedar slept there\nwith a hood of mist over his green poll. Like a dream island it seemed,\nplucked by magic from some southern sea, fair with all fairness. Anon,\ndespite their grieving, the last strand cracked, and the wrench was\ndone. They were holding over vapoury meadows with their faces to the\nwest.\n\nPelleas was very stoical that morning. As a matter of fact he had been\nawake all night, couched with misery and with thoughts that wounded\nhim. All night through the lagging hours he had tossed and turned,\ncursing his destiny in his heart--too bitter for any prayer. What\nmockery that he who had passed so long unscathed should fall into\nhopeless homage to a nun. Desperate, he left his bed in the dark, and\nmade the garden a dim cloister until dawn. Yet in the rack of struggle\na clear voice had come to touch and dominate his being, and day had\nfound him steadfast. He would hold to the truth, he vowed, do his duty,\nand let God judge of the measure of his gratitude. He could obey, but\nnot with humility; he could suffer, but not with resignation.\n\nIt was after such a night in the furnace of struggle that he forged his\ntemper for the days to come. He had thought to meet love with a stark\nhardihood, to talk lightly, to go with unruffled brow while his heart\nhungered. Nothing should move him to any emotion. He would meet destiny\nlike a rock, let surges beat and melt back to the sea. It was better\nthus, he thought, than to go moaning for the moon.\n\nSuch was the determination that met Igraine's lighter humour that\nmorning. She could make nothing of the man as she rode before him. He\nwas bleak, dismal, yet striving to seem contented with their lot, now\nconjuring up a withered smile, now lapsing into interminable silence.\nHis eyes were stern in measure, but there was the old light in them\nwhen she looked deeply, and the staunch flame was there still. After\nall, Pelleas's quiet humour did not trouble her very vastly. She had\nher own reading of the riddle, and a word in her heart that could\nunlock his trouble. Moreover, she was more than inclined to put him to\nsuch a test as should bring his manhood to a splendid trial. Perhaps\nthere was some imp of vanity deep down in her woman's heart. At all\nevents, she suited herself to the occasion, and passed much of the time\nin thought.\n\nA ride of some seventy miles lay before them before they should come\nto the gates of Winchester. Much of that region was wild forestland\nand moor, bleak wastes of scrub let into woods and gloom. Occasional\nmeadows, and rare acres of glebe ringing some rude hamlet, broke\nthe shadowy desolation of the land. Great oaks, gnarled, vast, and\nterrible, held giant sway amid the huddled masses of the lesser folk.\nHere the boar lurked, and the wolf hunted. But, for the most, it was\ndark and calamitous--a ghostly wilderness almost forsaken by man, and\ngiven over to the savagery of beasts.\n\nPelleas and Igraine came upon the occasional trail of the heathen as\nthey went. A smoking villa, a burnt village with a dun mist hanging\nover it like a shroud, and once a naked man, bruised and bloody, bound\nto a tree, and shot through with arrows--such were the few sights that\nremembered to them their own need of caution. The wild country had been\nraided, and its sparse civilisation scattered to the woods. The crosses\nat the cross-roads had been thrown down and broken. A hermitage they\ncame on in the woods had been sacked, and in it, to their pity, they\nfound the body of a dead girl. They halted there to pray for her, and\nto give her burial. Pelleas dug a shallow grave under an oak, and they\nleft her there, and went on their way with greater caution.\n\nNot a soul did they meet, yet Pelleas kept under cover as much as\npossible for prudence' sake. He scanned well every valley or piece of\nopen land before crossing it, and kept under the wooelshawe whenever\nthe track ran near trees. Fear of the unknown, and the dear burden\nthat he bore, kept him alert as a goshawk for possible peril. By noon,\ndespite sundry halts and reconnoitrings, they had covered nearly twenty\nmiles, and by the evening of the same day they had added another score,\nfor Pelleas's horse was a powerful beast, and Igraine's weight cumbered\nhim little.\n\nTowards evening it began to rain, a heavy, summer, windless shower,\nthat made moist rattle in the leaves, and flooded fragrant freshness\ninto the air. Pelleas gave Igraine his cloak, and made her wear it,\ndespite her excuses. As luck would have it, they came upon a little inn\nbuilt in the grey shelter of a forsaken quarry. The inn folk were still\nthere--an old woman, and a brat of a boy, her grandson. Seeing so great\na knight, the beldam was ready enough to give them lodgings, and what\nwelcome she could muster. She spread a supper of goat's milk, brown\nbread, and venison--not a bad table for such a hovel. The meal over,\nshe pointed Pelleas with a leer to a little inner room that boasted a\nrough bed, a water-pot, and ewer.\n\n\"We will not disturb ye,\" she said; \"my lad has foddered the horse. You\nwould be stirring early?\"\n\nPelleas gave the woman her orders, and sent Igraine into the inner\nroom. He made himself a bed of dried bracken before her door, and laid\nhimself there so that none could enter save over his body. The woman\nand the boy slept on straw in a corner. In this wise they passed the\nnight.\n\nOn the morrow, after more goat's milk and brown bread, with some wild\nstrawberries to smooth it, they sallied early, and held on their way to\nWinchester. The shower of the night had given place to fair weather,\nand a fresh breeze blowing from the west. Soon the sun was up in such\nstrength that the green woods lost their dankness, and the leaves their\ndew. It was the very morning for a ride.\n\nIf possible, Pelleas was even more gloomy than on the day before. There\nwas such a level air of dejection over his whole being that Igraine\nbegan to have grave qualms of conscience, and to suffer the reproaches\nof a pity that grew more clamorous hour by hour. None the less, maugre\nthe man's sorry humour, there was a certain stealthy joy in it all, for\nPelleas, by his very moodiness, flattered her tenderness for him not a\nlittle. She began to see, in very truth, how staunch the man was; how\nhe meant to honour to the letter her imagined vows, though his love\ngrieved like a winged merlion. His great strength became more and more\napparent. A lighter spirit would have gone with the wind, or made great\nmoan over the whole business. Pelleas, she saw, was striving to buckle\nhis sorrow deep in his bosom, to save her the pain of knowing his\ndistress. There was nothing little about the man. Palpably he had not\nsucceeded eminently in his attempt to spur a wounded spirit into light\ncourtliness and easy hypocrisy. Still, that was not his fault; it only\nsaid the more for his love.\n\nIt was not till noon had passed that Pelleas, with a heavy courage,\nconstrained himself to speak calmly of their parting. Even then he was\nso eager to shape his speech into mere courtesies, that he overdid the\nthing, more than betraying himself to the girl's quick wit.\n\nHe had questioned her as to her friends in Winchester, and her purposes\nfor the future. His rambling took somewhat of a didactic turn as he\nlaboured at his mentorship.\n\n\"There is a fair abbey within the walls,\" he said; \"I have heard it\nnobly spoken of both as to devoutness and comfort. Their rules are not\nof such iron caste as at some other holy houses; the library is good,\nand there is a well-planted garden. The abbess is a gracious and kindly\nwoman, and of high family. I have often had speech with her myself, and\ncan vouch for her courtliness and benevolence. Assuredly you may find\nvery safe and peaceful harbour there.\"\n\nIgraine smiled to herself at the callous benignity of his counsel. He\nmight have been her grandfather by his manner.\n\n\"You see,\" she said naively, \"I do not like being caged; it spoils\none's temper so. I have an uncle in the place--an uncle by marriage--a\nman not loved vastly by the proud folk of my own family. He is a\ngoldsmith by trade, and is named Radamanth.\"\n\nPelleas's quick answer was not prophetic of great favour.\n\n\"Radamanth,\" he said--\"a gentleman who weighs his religion by the\npound, and is seen much at church. Pardon my frankness, I had this\ngold chain of him. He is rich as Rome, and has high rank among the\nmerchants.\"\n\n\"So I had heard,\" she answered.\n\nPelleas looked into space with a most judicial air.\n\n\"You do not think of going to a secular house,\" he said.\n\nIgraine smiled to herself, and halted a moment in her answer.\n\n\"Why not?\" she said.\n\n\"You--a nun?\"\n\n\"Pelleas, I do not see why it is necessary for holiness to be bricked\nup like a frog in a wall in order to escape corruption. Why, you are\neating your own words.\"\n\n\"But you have vows,\" he said.\n\n\"I have; and doubts also.\"\n\n\"Doubts?\" quoth the man, with a quick look, thrilling inwardly.\n\n\"Doubts, Pelleas, doubts.\"\n\nShe caught his eyes with hers, and gave him one long, deep stare that\nmade him quake as though all that had been flame within him--that which\nhe had sought to tread to ashes--had but spread redly into her bosom.\nThere was no parrying such a message. It smote him blind in a moment.\nThe spiritual bastions of his soul seemed to reel and rock as though\nsome chaos had broken on their stones. There was great outcry in his\nheart, as of a leaguer when guards and stormers are at grapple on the\nwalls. \"Cross! Holy Cross!\" cried Conscience, in the moil. \"Yield ye,\nyield ye, Pelleas,\" sang a voice more subtle, \"yield ye, and let Love\nin!\" He sat stiff in the saddle, and shut his eyes to the day, while\nthe fight boiled on within him. Now Love had him heart and hand; now\nHonour, blind and bleeding, struggled in and stemmed the rout. He was\nwon and lost, lost and won, a dozen times in a minute.\n\nRecovered somewhat, he made bold to question Igraine yet further.\n\n\"Tell me your doubts, girl,\" he said.\n\n\"They are deep, Pelleas, deep as the sea.\"\n\n\"Whence came they, then?\"\n\n\"Some great power put them in my heart, and they are steadfast as\ndeath.\"\n\nAgain the wild flush of liberty swept Pelleas like wind.\n\n\"Tell me, Igraine,\" he said, in a gasp.\n\nShe put her fingers gently on his lips. \"Patience--patience,\" she said,\n\"and perhaps I will tell them to you, Pelleas, ere long.\"\n\nThus much she suffered him to go, and no further. Her quick instinct\nhad read him nearly to the \"Explicit,\" and there she halted, content\nfor an hour or a day. Her love was singing like a lark in the blue.\nShe beamed on the man in spirit streams of pride and tumultuous\ntenderness. How she would comfort him in the end! He should carry her\ninto Winchester on his horse, and she would lodge there, but not at the\ngreat inn that harboured souls for heaven. She would have the bow and\nthe torch for her signs, and possibly the Church might serve her in\nother fashion. Like a lotus eater, she dallied with all these dreams in\nher heart.\n\nWith the sun low in the west, Pelleas and Igraine were still three\nleagues or so from Winchester. The day was passing gloriously, with\nthe radiant acolytes of evening swinging their jasper censers in the\nsky. The two were riding on a pine-crowned ridge, and the stretch of\nwilderness beyond seemed wrapped in one mysterious blaze of smoking\ngold. Hills and woods were glittering shadows, like spirit things in a\nspirit atmosphere. The west was a great curtain of transcendent gold.\nPelleas and Igraine could not look at it without great wonder.\n\nPresently they came to a little glade, green and quiet, with a clear\npool in it ringed round with rushes. A lush cushion of grass and moss\nswept from the water to the bases of the trees. It was as quaint and\nsweet a nook as they had passed that day. The place, with its solitude\nand stillness, pleased Igraine very greatly.\n\n\"What say you, Pelleas,\" she said, \"let us off-saddle, and harbour here\nthe night. This little refuge will serve us more kindly than a ride in\nthe dark to Winchester.\"\n\nPelleas looked round about him, knelt for once without struggle to his\nown inmost wishes, and agreed with Igraine.\n\n\"Very good,\" he said. \"I can build you a bower to sleep in. There are\nhazels yonder--just the stuff for a booth. The water in the pool there\nlooks sweet enough to drink, and we have ample in the cloth for a\nsupper.\"\n\nIgraine gave him no more leisure to moralise on such trifles. She\nsprang down to the cushiony turf, and took his horse by the bridle.\n\n\"I will be master again for once, Pelleas,\" she said, \"since, well of\nyour wound, you have played the tyrant. At least you shall obey me\nto-night.\"\n\nPelleas, half in a stupor, gave up fighting his own heart for a while,\nand fell in with Igraine's humour. She was strangely full of smiles and\nquiet glances; her eyes would meet his, flash, thrill him, and then\nevade his soul with sudden mischief. She tethered his horse for him,\nand then, making him sit down under a tree, she began to unarm him,\nkneeling confidently by his side. Her fingers lingered over-long on the\nbuckles. When she lifted off his helmet, her hands touched his face\nand forehead, and set him blushing like a boy. The very nearness of\nher--her breath, her dress, her lips and eyes so near to his--made him\nlike so much wax--passive, obedient, yet red as fire.\n\nWhen she had ended her task, she gave him his naked sword and her\norders.\n\n\"Now you may cut me hazels for a bower, Pelleas,\" she said. \"I will\nhave it here under this tree where the moss is soft and dry. This\nsummer night one could sleep under the stars and never feel the dew.\"\n\nPelleas rose up and did her bidding. The green boughs were ready to\nhis great sword, as it gleamed and glimmered in the wizard light. He\ncut two forked stakes, and set them upright in the ground, with a pole\nbetween them. Then he built up branches about this centrepiece till\nthe whole was roofed and walled with shelving green; he spread his\nred cloak therein for a carpet. Igraine sat and watched his labour.\nLife seemed to have rushed nearly to its zenith, and her thoughts were\nsoaring in regions of gold.\n\nThe black moth night had come into the sky with his golden-spotted\nwings all spread. It was time for idyllic love, pure looks, and the\ntouch of hands. The billowy bosoms of the trees rolled sombrously\nabove, and the little pool was like a wizard's glass, black and deep\nwith sheeny mysteries.\n\nIgraine beckoned Pelleas to a seat on the grass bank at her feet when\nhe had finished. There was a light on her face that the man had not\nseen before, a kind of quiet rapture, a veil of exultation, as though\nher maidenhood were flowering gold under a net of pinkest satin. She\nhad loosened her hair in straight streams upon her shoulders, and her\nhabit lay open to the very base of her shapely throat. She sat there\nand looked at him, with hands clasped in her lap, and her grey gown\nrising and falling markedly as she breathed. It seemed to Pelleas that\nthere was nothing in the whole universe save twilight, two eyes, a\nstirring bosom, and two wistful lips.\n\nThey had been speaking of their ride, and of the many strange things\nthat had befallen them during their adventures together. Igraine had\nwaxed strangely tender in her talk, and had spoken subtle bodeful\nwords that meant much at such a season. She was flinging bonds about\nPelleas that made him exult and suffer. His heart seemed great within\nhim and ready to break, for the blood that bubbled and yearned in it in\nglorious anguish.\n\n\"To-morrow,\" said the girl, \"we enter Winchester, and I have known you,\nPelleas, two weeks and some few hours more. You seem to have been in my\nlife many years.\"\n\nWords flooded into Pelleas's heart, and stifled all struggle for a\nmoment. He was breathing like a hunted thing.\n\n\"Igraine,\" he said.\n\n\"Pelleas.\"\n\n\"I never lived till our lives were joined.\"\n\nIgraine gave a little gasp, and bent over him suddenly, her eyes aglow,\nher hair falling down into his face.\n\n\"Kiss me, Pelleas,\" she said; \"in the name of God, kiss me.\"\n\nPelleas gave a great groan.\n\n\"Girl, I dare not.\"\n\n\"You dare.\"\n\n\"Igraine?\"\n\nShe bent herself till her lips were over his, and both their heads were\nclouded in her hair. Her eyes glimmered, her breath beat on his, he saw\nthe whiteness of her teeth between her half-closed lips.\n\n\"Igraine,\" he said again, half in a groan.\n\nShe did not answer him, but simply took his face between her hands and\nlooked into his eyes.\n\n\"Coward, Pelleas.\"\n\nPower seemed to go from the man in a moment. He put his hands upon\nher shoulders and looked at her as in a splendid dream. Her face was\nbeautifully peevish, and there lurked an infinite hunger on her lips.\nThen with a great woe in his heart he drew her face down to his and\nkissed her. There was such sweet pain in the grand despair of it all\nthat he felt faint for strength of loving. Before he had gathered\nbreath, Igraine had slipped away from him and was in the bower.\n\n\"Till dawn, Pelleas, till dawn,\" she said.\n\n\"Ah, Igraine!\"\n\n\"Go and sleep, Pelleas; I will talk to you on the morrow.\"\n\n\n\n\nX\n\n\nWith the girl's face lost behind the green eaves of the bower, Pelleas\nfell of a sudden into great darkness of soul. It was as though the moon\nhad passed behind a cloud, and left him agrope in the woods without\nlight and without guide. Igraine had bidden him to go and sleep. She\nmight as well have told the sea to be still in the lap of the wind.\n\nGoing aside towards the mouth of the glade so that he might not disturb\nthe girl, he began to tread the grass between brake and brake, while\nhe held parley with his turbulent and seething thoughts. What was\nIgraine to be to him on the morrow? She had broken the back of his\ndetermination, and beaten down his strength in those grand moments of\nsudden passion. The rich June of her beauty was still on his sight. Her\ngrace, her infinite tenderness, the purity of her, were all set about\nhis soul like angels round a dreamer's bed. She was light and darkness,\nsound and silence; she had the round world in her red heart, and the\nstars seemed to go about her in companies of gold. Never had Pelleas\nthought idolatry so smooth and swift a sin. He had never believed that\nlove in so brief a space could make such wrack of madness in a hale and\nhealthy body.\n\nAs he walked under the giant limbs of the great trees he tried to\ngrapple the thing with reason, to untangle this knot by natural logic.\nThese were the bleak facts, and they stood up like white headstones in\nthe night. He loved Igraine, and Igraine he knew loved him in turn;\nbut Igraine was a nun despite her womanliness, and there lay the core\nof the whole matter. If he obeyed love he must disgrace the girl\nwith broken vows, for like a staunchly taught Christian of somewhat\nstern and primitive mould he stood in honest awe of things spiritual\nand ecclesiastic. His very love for the girl made him fearful of in\nany way dishonouring her. If he held to the trite observations of a\nprompted conscience, then he must forswear love, and leave Igraine to\nthe miserable celibacy of the Church, that chrysalid state that never\nburgeons into the fuller, fairer life of perfect womanhood. These were\nthe two forces that held him shaken in the balance.\n\nLong while he went east and west under the trees with the old gloom\nflooding back like thunder. His whole thought seemed warped into\nbitterness; the blatant mockery of it all grinned and screamed like a\nharpy. Again with clarion cry and rosy flush of banners love stormed in\nand held law at death's door for a season. Again came the inevitable\nrepulse, the moaning lapse of desire, while the black banner of the\nChurch flapped once more over him in dismal sanctity. Pelleas found\nno shred of peace wheresoever he looked. Who has not learnt that when\nanarchy is in the heart, the whole world seems out of gear?\n\nAs the night passed, love seemed to faint and wax pale before an\never-darkening visage that declared despair. A sense of inevitable\ngloom seemed to weigh down desire, and to drown hope in misery. Pelleas\ngrew calmer at heart, though his thoughts were no less woeful. Love's\nvoice, stifled and wistful, came like an elfin voice through woods,\nwhile the cry of conscience was like the thundering surge of the wind\nthrough trees. He grew less restless, more apathetic. Coming to a halt\nhe leant against an oak's bossy trunk, and stood motionless as in a\nstupor for an hour or more. The blight of soul-sickness was on him, and\nhe was like one dazed by a great fever.\n\nPresently he went back slowly to Igraine's shelter of boughs, and stood\nnear it--thinking. Then he dropped on his hands and knees, crept up\nclose, and parting the leaves looked in on her as she slept, wrapped in\nhis red cloak. He could see her face indistinctly white in a wealth of\nshadows; he could hear her breathing. Then he crept away again like a\nwounded thing, and lay for a time with his face in his arms, grieving\nwithout a sound.\n\nAgain, a second time, he crept to the bower, and listened there on his\nknees. Turning his face to the night he tried to pray, vainly indeed,\nfor his heart seemed dumb. A corner of Igraine's gown lay near his\nhands at the entry; he went down on hands and knees and kissed it. Then\nhe took the little gold cross from his bosom, the cross Morgan had\nheld, and laid it on the grass at Igraine's feet. He also put a purse\nwith a few gold coins in it beside the cross. When he had done this he\ncrept away mutely, and began to arm in silence.\n\nOnce, as he was buckling on his casque, he thought he heard Igraine\nstirring. He kept very still, with a sudden, wild wish in his heart\nthat she would wake and save him, but the sound proved nothing. He\nfinished buckling on his harness, girded his sword, and hung his shield\nabout his neck. Then he went to the little pool, and, kneeling down,\ndashed water in his face, and drank from his palms. He felt faint and\nbruised after the night's battle.\n\nOnce more he went and stood by the hazel shelter as though for a last\nleave-taking before the strong wrench came. The little pavilion of\nleaves seemed to hold all hope and human joy in its narrow compass.\nPelleas stood and took long leave of the girl in his heart. He wished\nher all the fair fortune he could think of, prayed for her as well as\nhe could in a broken, wounded way, and then with a great sob he turned\nand left her sleeping. His black horse was tethered not far away. As\nhe went he staggered, and seemed blind for a moment. He soon had the\ngirths tightened, and was in the saddle, riding away dry-eyed and\nbroken-souled into the night.\n\nPresently the dawn came, redly, gloriously, like a marriage pageant.\nIgraine, reft from dreams, woke with a little shiver of joy in her\npavilion of green boughs. She lay still awhile, and let her thoughts\ndance like the motes in the shimmer of sunlight that stole in between\nthe branches. The day seemed warm and glorious, for that morning was\nshe not to tell Pelleas of the secret she had kept from him so many\ndays, the words she had hoarded in her heart like love? It would be a\nfitting end, she thought, to the rare novitiate each had passed in the\nheart of the other.\n\nHearing no stir about her shelter, she thought Pelleas asleep, and\npeeped out presently between the boughs to bid him wake. Glade and pool\nlay peacefully in green and silver, but she saw no knight sleeping,\nno war-horse standing under the trees. Starting up, the gold cross\nglinting on the grass, with the purse beside it, appealed her with mute\ntragedy. She caught them up, trembling, and with sudden fear in her\nheart she went out into the glade and searched from brake to brake. It\nwas barren as her joy. Pelleas had gone.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK II\n\nGORLOIS\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nRadamanth the goldsmith was held in no little honour and esteem by the\ntownsfolk of Winchester. Even the market women and the tavern loungers\nstood aside for him in the street as he made his stately march in black\nrobe and chain of gold. He was a man possessed of those outward virtues\nso well suited to commend a character to the favour of the world. He\nwas venerable, rich, and much given to charity. His coffers were often\nopen to infirmary and church; his house near the market square was as\nrichly furnished as any noble's, and he gave good dinners. No man in\nWinchester had a finer aptitude for pleasing all classes. He was smooth\nand intelligent to the rich, bland and neighbourly to his equals, quite\na father to the poor, and moreover he had no wife. Every Sabbath he\nwent at the head of his household to the great basilica church in the\nchief square, worshipped and did alms as a rich merchant should.\n\nDisinterestedness is a somewhat unique virtue, and it must not be\nsupposed that Radamanth lived with his eye on eternity alone. It must\nbe confessed that self-interest was often the dial of his philanthropy,\nand expediency to him the touchstone of action. Nothing furthers\ncommerce better than a pious and merciful reputation, and Radamanth\nknew the inestimable value of a solid and goodly exterior. Wise in his\ngeneration, he nailed the Cross to his door, and plied his balances\nprosperously behind the counter.\n\nThus when the girl Igraine trudged sad-eyed into Winchester in her gown\nof grey, and appeared before him as a homeless child of the Church,\nhe took her in like the good uncle of the fairy tale, and proffered\nher his house for home. Possibly he pitied her for her plight after\nthe burning of Avangel, for she seemed much cast down in mind and very\ndeserving of a kinsman's proper comfort. Then she was of noble family,\na coincidence that no doubt weighed heavily in Radamanth's opinion.\nIt was good to have so much breeding in the house, to be able to say\nwith a smirk to his friends and neighbours, \"My niece, the daughter\nof Malgo, Lord of the Redlands, slain and plundered of the heathen in\nKent.\" Igraine brought quite a lustre into Radamanth's home. He beamed\non her with sleek pride and satisfaction, gave her rich stuffs for\ndress, a goodly chamber, and a little Silurian maid to wait. Moreover,\nhe gave his one child and daughter Lilith a grave lecture on sisterly\ncompanionship, advised her to study Igraine's gentle manners, and to\nprofit by her aristocratic and educated influence. Luckily Lilith was a\nquiet girl, not given to jealousy or much self-trust, and Igraine found\nas warm a welcome as her unhappy heart could wish.\n\nNo few days had passed since that dawn on the hill above Winchester\nwhen Igraine had started up from under the green boughs to find\nPelleas gone. They had been days of keen trouble to the girl. Often\nand often had she hated herself for her vain delay, her over-tender\nprocrastination, that had brought misery in place of joy. The past\nwas now a wounded dream to her, ripe and beautiful, yet fruited with\nsuch mute pain as only a woman's heart can feel. Igraine had conjured\nup love like some Eastern house of magic, only to see its domes faint\ngoldly into a gloom of night. She felt as much for Pelleas as for\nherself, and there was a blight upon her that seemed as though it could\nnever pass. She was not a woman given to tears. Her trouble seemed to\nlive in her eyes with pride, and to stiffen her stately throat into a\npillar of rebellious strength.\n\nNot a word, not a sign had come to her of Pelleas. Taken into\nRadamanth's house, served, petted, flattered, she went drearily\nthrough its daily round, sat at its board, talked with the guestfolk,\nwhile hope waited wide-eyed in her heart and kept her brave. Pelleas\nhad told her that he was for Winchester, and assuredly, she thought,\nshe might find him and confess all. She often kept watch hour by hour\nat her window overlooking the street. In her walks she had a glance\nfor almost every man who passed on foot or horseback, till she grew\nalmost ashamed of herself, and feared for her modesty. Her eyes always\nhungered for a red shield and harness, a black horse, a face grieving\nin dark reserve and silence. At night she was often quite a child in\nherself. She would take the little gold cross from her bosom and brood\nover it. She even found herself whispering to the man as she lay in\nbed, and stretching out her arms to him in the dark as in pain. For all\nher pride and courage she was often bowed down and broken when no one\nwas near to see.\n\nIt was not long before she found a confidant to befriend her in her\ndistress of heart. Lilith, the goldsmith's daughter, had great brown\neyes, soft and very gentle; her face was wistful and white under\nher straightly combed hair; she was a quiet girl, timid, but very\nthoughtful for others. The two appealed each other by contrast. Lilith\nhad soon read trouble in Igraine's eyes, and had nestled to her in\nsoul, ready with many little kindnesses that were like dew in a dry\nseason. Igraine unbent to her, and suffered herself to be enfolded by\nthe other's sympathy.\n\nOne day she told her the whole distressful tale. It was in the garden\nbehind the house, a green and pleasant place opening on the river, and\nflanked with stone. The two were in an arbour framed of laurels, its\nfloor mosaicked with quaint tiles. Igraine sat on the bench with Lilith\non a stool at her feet. They were both sad, for Lilith was a girl whose\nheart answered strongly to any tale of unhappy mood. Igraine had made\nmere truth of the matter, neither justifying nor embellishing. Her\nclear bleak words were the more pathetic for their very simpleness.\nLilith had been crying softly to herself. Her brown eyes were very\nmisty when she turned her white face to Igraine's with a grievous\nlittle sigh.\n\n\"What can I say to you?\" she said.\n\n\"Nothing,\" said Igraine, taking her hands and smiling through misery.\n\n\"I have never the words I wish for, and when I feel most I can say\nlittle.\"\n\n\"You understand; that is enough for me.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Lilith, with a fine blush and a shy look, \"I think I can\nfeel for you, Igraine, almost to the full, though I seem such an Agnes.\nI am woman enough to have learnt something that means all to a girl. I\nam very sad for your sake.\"\n\n\"Child.\"\n\n\"I will try to comfort you.\"\n\nIgraine's eyes burned. She kissed Lilith on the lips and was mute.\nFor a while they sat with their arms about each other, not daring to\nlook into each other's eyes. Then the girl kissed Igraine's cheek, and\ntouched her hair with her slim fingers.\n\n\"Perhaps I can help you,\" she said.\n\n\"Help me?\"\n\nLilith flushed, and spoke very quickly.\n\n\"Yes--to find Pelleas. I tell you what I will do. I will send a friend\nof mine to question all the guards at the gates whether they have seen\nsuch a one as you have described ride in.\"\n\nIgraine hugged the girl.\n\n\"And then you say this Pelleas was in the King's service. I have never\nheard of a knight so named; but there are so many, and I hear only\ngossip. I know a girl in the King's household. I will go and ask her\nwhether she knows of a tall, dark knight whose colour is red, who rides\na black horse, and is named Pelleas. You do not know how much I may not\nlearn from her. I feel wise already.\"\n\nIgraine plucked up heart and spirit. She felt sorry that she had\nnot spoken of her trouble to Lilith before, for she had lost many\ndays trusting to her own eyes and her little knowledge of the town.\nShe kissed the girl again, and almost laughed. Then in a flash she\nremembered a speech of Pelleas's which she had forgotten till that\nmoment.\n\n\"Fool that I am,\" she said; \"the very chain he wore he had it from your\nfather, and here in my bosom I have the little cross that nigh lost him\nhis life. Surely this may help us in some measure.\"\n\nLilith looked at the cross that Igraine had taken from under her tunic,\nwhere it hung by a little chain about her neck.\n\n\"We will show it to my father,\" said the girl, \"and ask him thereof. He\nmay have record of such a chain, and to whom it was sold. Who knows?\nCome, Igraine, we will show it him after supper if you wish.\"\n\nAnd again Igraine kissed her.\n\nIt was Radamanth's custom, after the business of the day had been\ncapped by an honest supper, to sit in his parlour and drink wine with\ncertain of his friends. He had a particular gossip, an old fellow named\nEudol, who had been a merchant in his time, and had retired with some\nwealth. These two would spend many an evening together over their wine,\ntaking enough to make their tongues wag, but never exceeding the decent\nwarmth of moderation. Eudol was a lean old gentleman with a white beard\nand a most patriarchal manner. He was much of a woman's creature, and\nloved a pretty face and a plump figure, and he would father any wench\nwho came in his way with a benignity that often made him odious. He had\na soft voice, and a sleek, silken way with him that made folk think him\nthe most tender-souled creature imaginable.\n\nThese two were at their wine together when Lilith and Igraine went in\nto them that evening. Radamanth since his spouse's death had grown\nas much a father as trade and the getting of gold permitted. In his\nselfish, matter-of-fact way he was fond of this timid, brown-eyed\ncreature he called daughter. His affections boasted more of science\nthan of sentiment. Lilith, unusually bold, went and sat on the arm of\nhis chair, and patted his face in a half-shy, half-mischievous fashion.\nEudol laughed, and shook his head with a critical look at Igraine.\n\n\"More begging,\" quoth he. \"So, cousin Igraine, you look fresh as a\nyellow rose in the sun.\"\n\nIgraine laughed, and sat down to talk to him, while Lilith questioned\nher father. The goldsmith bore his daughter's caresses with a sublime\nand patient resignation. She began to tell him about the chain, keeping\nIgraine and her tale wholly in the background. When she had said enough\nfor the sake of explanation, she showed her father the cross, and\nwaited his words.\n\nRadamanth fingered it, turned it this way and that, and found his own\nmark thereon.\n\n\"I wrought and sold three such chains as you describe,\" he said; \"but\nwhat is such a chain to you, child, and whence came this cross?\"\n\nLilith flushed, hesitated, and glanced at Igraine.\n\n\"The cross is mine,\" quoth the latter.\n\nRadamanth eyed her as though he were not a little desirous of\nquestioning her further, but there was a very palpable coldness on his\nniece's face that forbade any such curiosity. He had a most hearty\nrespect for the girl's pride, and never dreamt of any degree of tyranny\nthat might seem vulgarly plebeian to her more noble notions. The\nremembrance of her parentage and estate had always a most emollient\neffect upon his mind.\n\n\"Well, well,\" he said, \"I'll meddle discreetly, and go no further than\nI am asked.\"\n\nEudol winked at the company at large.\n\n\"Never ask a lady an uncomfortable question,\" quoth he.\n\nLilith beamed at him shyly.\n\n\"You are very wise,\" she said.\n\nRadamanth rose from his chair, and going to a great press took a book\nfrom it. He set the book on the table, and after much turning of pages,\ndiscovered the record that he sought. Following the scrawling lines\nwith his finger, he read aloud from the ledger:\n\n\"Gold chain of special weight, large links, two gold crosses pendant\nover either breast. Of such three were wrought and sold.\n\n\"The first to Bedivere, knight of the King's guard.\n\n\"_Nota bene_--unpaid for.\"\n\nEudol set up a sudden brisk cackle.\n\n\"The man, the very man, I'll swear.\"\n\nIgraine gave him a look that made his mouth close like a trap and his\nbody stiffen in his chair. Radamanth continued his reading.\n\n\"The second chain was sold to John of Glastonbury. The third to the\nmost noble Uther, Prince of Britain.\"\n\nRadamanth closed the book, and returned it to the press--orderly even\nin trifles. Lilith and Igraine had exchanged a mute look that meant\neverything. Slipping away without a word to either man, they went to\nIgraine's bedroom, a great chamber hung with heavy red hangings and\nrichly garnished. A carved bed stood in the centre. The two girls sat\non it and stared into each other's eyes. Igraine was breathing fast,\nand her face was pale.\n\n\"Know you Bedivere?\" she said.\n\nLilith shook her head.\n\n\"Or John of Glastonbury?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Or Uther?\"\n\nLilith's brown eyes brightened.\n\n\"Noble Uther I have often seen,\" she said, \"riding through Winchester\non a black horse. A dark man, and sad-looking. He would be much like\nyour Pelleas.\"\n\nIgraine was very white. There seemed a race of thoughts in her as she\nplayed the statue with her eyes at gaze, and her lips drawn into a line\nof red. Her hands hung limply over the edge of the bed, and she seemed\nstiffened into musings. Lilith sidled close to her, and put her warm\narms round her neck, her soft cheek to Igraine's.\n\n\"We may learn yet,\" she said.\n\n\"Uther,\" said Igraine as in a dream.\n\n\"Can it be?\"\n\nIgraine drew a long breath and sighed like one waking.\n\n\"I must see him,\" was all she said.\n\nLilith kissed her.\n\n\"I will go to the King's house to-morrow,\" she said; \"the girl may tell\nus something of use. I have heard it said that Uther has not been in\nWinchester for many a week. Ah, Igraine, if it should be he.\"\n\nThey looked deep in each other's eyes, and smiled as only women can\nsmile when their hearts are fast in sympathy. Then they went to bed in\nIgraine's bed, and slept the night through in each other's arms.\n\nEarly next day they went together to the King's house that stood by\nthe gardens and the river. At the kitchen quarters Lilith inquired for\nthe girl who served as a maid in the household. Being constrained by a\nmost polite lackey, she went in to see the woman, while Igraine kept\nher pride and herself in the porch, and watched the people go by in\nthe street. Presently Lilith came out again with a frown on her mild\nface, and her brown eyes troubled. She took Igraine aside into the\ngardens that lined the great highway skirting the palace, and led her\nto where a fountain played in the sun, and stone seats ringed a quiet\npool. White pigeons were there, coquetting and sweeping the ground with\ntheir spread tails, their low cooing mingling with the musical plashing\nof the water. An old beggar woman sat hunched in a corner, and three\nor four children were feeding the fish in the pool. All about them the\ngardens were thickly shadowed with great trees and glistening lusty\nlaurels.\n\nIgraine looked into Lilith's face.\n\n\"I see no news in your eyes,\" she said.\n\nLilith brooded at the pool and the children, and seemed disquieted,\neven angry.\n\n\"I have learnt little, Igraine,\" she said, \"and am disappointed. I\nwill tell you how it was. The old wretch who oversees the women found\nme talking with the girl Gwenith, read me a sermon on interfering with\nhousehold work, scolded me for a young gossip, and had me packed off\nlike a beggar.\"\n\n\"What a harridan!\"\n\n\"I have learnt a little.\"\n\n\"Quick!--I thirst.\"\n\nLilith hurried on for sympathy.\n\n\"The girl has never heard of a knight named Pelleas,\" she said, \"and\nthere are so many dark men about Court that your description was little\nguide. As for Uther, no one knows where he is at present. Folk are\nnot disquieted, for he seems to be ever riding away into the woods on\nadventure. So much gossip could read me.\"\n\nIgraine's face clouded.\n\n\"Did you ask of Bedivere?\" she said.\n\n\"Oh, yes; a silly, vain fellow, with a red beard and sandy hair.\"\n\n\"And John of Glastonbury?\"\n\n\"Gwenith could tell me nothing of that man. Dame Martha caught us\ntalking, and it was then she scolded--the ugly, red-faced old hen. She\nsaid\"--and Lilith blushed--\"that I was an idle, silly hussy to gad and\ngossip after Court gentlemen. Now that wasn't fair, was it, Igraine?\"\n\n\"No, dear. I should like to have a talk with Dame Martha.\"\n\nLilith rose to the notion.\n\n\"She would never scold you, Igraine. You look far too stately.\"\n\n\"Simpleton! a scold would spatter Gabriel.\"\n\n\"Well, if I were Gabriel I know what I should do to Dame Martha.\"\n\n\"You quiet-faced thing--why, you are quite a vixen after all!\"\n\n\"Ah, Igraine, was there ever a woman without a temper?\"\n\n\"No, dear, and I wouldn't give a button for her either.\"\n\nSuddenly, as they sat and talked, the beggar woman lifted up her head\nto listen, and the children turned from feeding the fish in querulous,\nchildish wonder. There was something strange on the wind. Igraine and\nLilith heard a gradual sound rising afar off over the city--a noise as\nof men shouting, a noise that waxed and waned like the roar of surges\non a beach. It grew--rushed nearer like a storm through trees,--deep,\nsonorous, triumphant. The girls sat mute a moment, and looked at each\nother in conjecture.\n\n\"What can it be?\"\n\n\"God knows!\"\n\n\"The heathen?\"\n\n\"Not that shout.\"\n\n\"Then--Uther.\"\n\nIgraine caught a deep breath.\n\n\"Listen! it comes nearer. Come away, I must see.\"\n\nPassing through the gardens they came again to the highway skirting\nthe palace. Men, women, brats, monks, all Christendom, seemed swarming\nup from the city, and there was already a great throng in the street.\nThe breeze of shouting came nearer each moment. Igraine climbed the\npediment of a statue that rose above the balustrading of the gardens;\nthe ledge gave room to both Lilith and herself. Together they stood and\nlooked down on the crowd that began to swarm at their feet--soldiers,\nnobles, dirty craftsmen, courtezans, fat housewives, churchmen--their\nsmall prides lost in one common curiousness. The street seemed\nmosaicked with colour. The broken words and cries of the crowd were\nflung up to Igraine like so much foam.\n\n\"Gorlois, say you?\"\n\n\"Noble Gorlois.\"\n\n\"A thousand heathen.\"\n\n\"What--all slain!\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"Under the walls of Anderida.\"\n\n\"Come to my house and I will give you red wine, and play to you on the\ncithern.\"\n\n\"Thank the Virgin.\"\n\n\"Great Gorlois.\"\n\n\"If it is true I'll burn twenty candles.\"\n\n\"Give over trampling me.\"\n\n\"A thousand heathen.\"\n\n\"Ho! there--some rogue's thieved my purse.\"\n\n\"They are coming.\"\n\n\"Let's shout for him.\"\n\n\"Great Gorlois.\"\n\nUp between the stone fronts of the palace and the dwindling houses and\nthe rolling green of the gardens came a blaze of gold and purple, of\nwhite, green, blue, and scarlet, a gross glare of steel thundered on\nwith the tramp of men and the cry of many voices. A river of armour\nseemed to flow with a brazen magnificence between the innumerable heads\nof the crowd. Clarions were braying, banneroles adance. The sun flashed\non helmet and shield, and made a brave blaze on the flanks of the great\nserpent of war as it swayed through the thundering street, arrogant,\ntriumphant, glorious.\n\nWell in the van rode a knight on a great white horse. His armour was\nall of gold, his trappings white with gold borders, and stars of gold\nscattered thereon. His baldric was set with jasper, his sword and\nscabbard marvellous with beryl and sardonyx. A coronet gemmed with one\ngreat ruby circled his casque, and shot red gleams at the archer sun.\n\nBehind him came a veritable grove of spears,--lusty knights, their\nsaddles weighed down with the spoil of battle, with torque, bracelet,\nsword, and axe. Further yet came pikemen, mass on mass, bearing each on\nhis spear-point a heathen head,--pageant of leers, frowns, scowls of\nred wrath, wild eyes, blood, and blood-tangled hair.\n\nThe great knight on the white horse rode with a certain splendid\narrogance, and his eyes were full of fire under the arch of his casque.\nIt was easy to see that the noise and pomp were like wine to him, and\nthat his pride blazed like a beacon in a wind.\n\n\"Gorlois, great Gorlois!\" thundered the crowd.\n\nBy the palace there was such a press that the white horse came to a\nhalt, hemmed in by a sea of vociferous faces. Igraine, in a gown of\nviolet, was leaning from her statue, and looking at Gorlois. Her glance\nseemed to magnetise him, for he turned and stared full at the girl as\nshe stood slightly above him in the glory of her beauty and her pride.\n\nLong looked Gorlois, like a man smitten with a sudden charm. Then he\nwrenched the coronet from his casque, and spurring his horse through\nthe crowd, rode close to the statue whose knees were clasped by\nIgraine's arm. It was the statue of Fame crowned by Love with a wreath\nof laurels. So, Gorlois, with head bowed, held up the coronet on the\ncross of his sword, and gave Igraine his glory.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nSplendid in arms, magnificent in fortune, Gorlois of Cornwall held high\nplace in the war lore and romances of the green isle of Britain. Ask\nany pikeman or gallowglass whose crest he would have advance in the van\nin the tough tussle of a charge home, and he would tell you of Gorlois\nor of Uther. Question any merchant as to the most prolific purse in the\nkingdom, and he would beam seraphically and talk to you of Gorlois. So\nmuch for the man's reputation.\n\nPhysically he was tall, big-chested, lean-limbed, with a square jaw and\neyes that shone ever alert, as though watching a knife in an enemy's\nhand. You could read the swift, soaring, masterful spirit of him in\nthe bleak lines of his handsome face, and the soldierly carriage of his\nhead. He was quick as a hawk, supple and springy as a willow, keen and\neager in his action as a born fighter should be. When you saw him move,\nthe lean hard fibre of him seemed as tense and tough as the string of a\nfive-foot bow. Though he might seem to the eye all impulse, there was a\nleopard reason in him that made him the more formidable. He was no mere\nfighting machine--rather a man of brain and sinew whose cunning went\nfar to back his strength.\n\nMeliograunt ruled in Cornwall in those days, Meliograunt who was to\nrear young Tristram for the plaguing of Mark, and the love of the fair\nIsoult. Gorlois was Meliograunt's nephew, holding many castles, woods,\nand wild coastlands towards Lyonesse, lording it also over other lands\nin Britain, houses in London and Winchester, and some mountainous\nregions in Gore, where Urience held sway. Mordaunt had been his father,\na great knight who had done many brave deeds in his day. His grandsire,\nGravaine, famed for his wisdom, had fought abroad and died in battle.\nGorlois had ancestry enough to breed worship in him, and after\nAmbrosius and black Uther he held undoubted precedence of all knights\nin Britain.\n\nUnblemished fortune is not always the nurse best suited to the dandling\nof a man's mind. It had been so with Gorlois. He was one of those\nbeings whose life seemed to promise nothing but triumphal processions\nand perpetual bays of victory. Selfishness is such a glittering garment\nthat it needs a great light to reveal its true texture to the wearer.\nFlattered, praised, obeyed, bent to, it became as natural for Gorlois\nto expect the homage of circumstance as to look for the obedience of\nhis cook. There was much that was Greek about him in the worst sense, a\ncertain sensuous brilliancy that aimed at making life a surfeit of rare\nsensations, with an infinite indifference for the hearts of others.\nGorlois liked to see life swinging round him like a dance while he\nstood pedestalled in the centre, an earthly Jove.\n\nThe man had given Igraine his coronet on the cross of his great sword.\nThat meant much for Gorlois. He was not a gentleman who had need to\ntrouble his wits about women, for there were many enough ready to ogle\ntheir eyes out in his service. Yet in his keen way he had conceived a\nstrong liking for the girl's face. A species of sudden admiration had\nleapt out on him, and brought him in some wonder to a realisation of\nthe power of a pair of eyes. Igraine was such a one as would attract\nthe man. In the first place she was very fair to look upon, a point\nof some importance. She was tall, big of body, and built for grace\nand strength, things pleasant to Gorlois's humour. Above all she was\nproud and implacable, no giggling franion hardly worth the kissing, and\nGorlois had grown past the first blush of experiences of heart. He was\nsage enough to know that a woman lightly won is often soon lost, or not\nworth the winning. Let a man's soul sweat in the taming of her, and\nthere is some chance of his making an honest bargain.\n\nMoreover, like many a man of restless, soaring spirit, Gorlois ever\nhungered for romance, and the mysterious discomforts and satisfactions\nthat hedge the way into a woman's bosom. Certain men are never happy\nunless they have the firebrand of love making red stir for them in\nheart and body. Of some such stuff was Gorlois. He had a soul that\ndoted on nights spent at a window under the moon. All the thousand\ndistractions, the infinite yet atomic cares, the logical sweats of\nreasoning were particularly pleasant to his fancy. He loved the colour,\nthe exultation, the heroism, the desperate tenderness of it all.\nBattle, effort, ambition, lost half their sting for Gorlois when there\nwas no woman in the coil.\n\nIgraine's home was soon known to him, thanks to the apt vigilance of\na certain page much in favour with Gorlois for mischief and cunning.\nThe boy had Igraine's habits to perfection in a week or two. By making\nlove to the girl who served her, he put himself into the way of getting\nalmost any tidings he required. Every morning he would slip out early,\nmeet Igraine's girl, Isolde, under the shadow of the garden-wall,\nand, under cover of a kiss, he would inquire what her mistress might\nbe doing that day, pretending, of course, that his interest on such a\nsubject merely arose from his desire to have Igraine out of the way,\nand her girl free. The lad quite enjoyed the game, Isolde being a\ngiggling, black-eyed wench, who loved mischief. Of course he ended by\nfalling in love with the reckless earnestness of a boy, but that kept\nhim well to business. Betimes he would run home and tell his master\nwhere Igraine would probably be seen that day.\n\nGorlois's proud face began to come into the girl's life at every turn.\nIgraine would see him often from her window as he rode by on his white\nhorse, looking up, and very eager to greet her. He would pass her in\nthe aisles of the great basilica in the market, walking in gold and\nscarlet, amid silks and cloths from the East, vases, armour, skins\nof the tiger and camelopard, flowers, fruit, wine, and all manner of\nmerchandise. On the river which ran by the end of Radamanth's garden\nhis barge often swept past with the noise of oars and music, and a\ngleam of gold over the hurrying water. In the orchards without the\nwalls his face would come suddenly upon her through a mist of green,\nand she would be conscious of his eyes and the nearness of his stride.\n\nOne Sunday morning she found him laving his hands in the labrum beside\nher before entering the long narthex porch of the church, and he was\nnear her all through the service, watching her furtively, noting the\ngraceful curves of her figure as she knelt, the profusion of her hair,\na thousand little things that are much to a man. When the sacrament\nwas given, he knelt close beside her, and touched the cup where her\nlips had been. Apparently Gorlois was content for a while with the\nrich delight of gazing. His bearing was courteous enough, and he never\nexposed her to any public rudeness that could warrant her in resenting\nhis persistent, though distant, homage.\n\nThe great baths of Winchester stood in a little hollow near the\nsouthern gate of the city, a white pile of stone set about with quiet\ngardens. They had fallen into some decay and disrepute, but still in\nthe summer-time girls and men of the richer classes went thither to\nbathe. On sunny mornings, in the great marble bath of the women, girls\nwould flash their white limbs, and sport like Naiads in the laughing\nwater. Afterwards they would have their hair dressed and perfumed, and\nthen go to sun themselves in the rose-walks like eastern odalisques.\nThe music of flute and cithern might often be heard in the grass-grown\nperistyles. The library attached to the place had once boasted many\nscrolls and tomes, but it had long ago been pillaged by the monks of\nthe great abbey.\n\nLilith had taken Igraine there more than once. One morning Igraine had\nbathed, tied her hair, and had passed out into the garden alone. The\nplace was of some size, boasting twenty acres or more, full of winding\npaths, grass glades, and knolls of bushy shrubs, where one might lose\none's self as soon as think. Children often played hide-and-seek there,\nand idling up some green walk you might catch a giggling girl, with\nhair flying, bursting out of some thicket with a lad in full chase. Or\nin some shady lawn you might come upon a company of children dancing as\nsolemnly as little elves to the sound of a pipe.\n\nNooks and grass walks were almost deserted at this hour, the gardens\nbeing most favoured towards evening, when the day was marked by a\ndeepening discretion. Igraine had no purpose in the place. She knew\nthat Lilith was somewhere within its bounds. She also knew that Lilith\nhad no particular need of her that morning, and as the day was hot and\nslothful, Igraine's only ambition was to waste her time as pleasantly\nas possible till noon.\n\nTurning round a holly hedge that hid a statue of Cupid, she came\nfull upon a woman seated on the stone bench that ringed the statue's\npedestal. The woman wore a light blue tunic, and a purple gown that ran\nall along the seat in curling masses. She was combing her fair hair\nas though she had only lately come from the bath. Her white glimmering\narms were bare to the elbow, and she was humming a song to the sway of\nher hair, while many rings laughed on her slim white fingers. She had\nnot heard Igraine's step upon the grass, but saw suddenly her shadow\nstealing along in the sun. Lifting her face, she stared, knew on the\ninstant, and went red and grey by turns. Her comb halted, tangled in a\nstrand of hair, and she was very quiet, and big about the eyes. Igraine\nremembered well enough where she had seen that would-be innocent stare,\nand that loose little mouth that seemed to bud for lawless kisses.\n\nMorgan, with her face as white as her bosom, drew the comb from\nher hair, and flourished it uneasily betwixt her fingers. She was\nfrightened as a mouse at the tall girl standing big and imperious so\nnear, and her eyes were furtive for chance of flight. Igraine in her\nheart was in no less quandary than was dead Madan's wife. She could\nprove nothing against the woman, for Pelleas was lost and away, and\neven the man's name might be a myth likely to involve further mystery.\nShe had as much to fear too from Morgan's tongue, as Morgan had from\nher knowledge of that night in the island manor.\n\nMorgan, too flurried for sudden measures, sat biting her lips, while\nher blue eyes were fixed on Igraine with a restless caution. Neither\nwoman said a word for fully a minute, but eyed each other like a couple\nof cats, each waiting for the other to move. The shrubs around were so\nstill that you might imagine they were listening, while Cupid, poised\non one foot, drew his bow very much at a venture.\n\n\"Good-morning, holy sister.\"\n\nIgraine said never a word.\n\n\"I am glad to see you so improved in dress, that olive-green gown looks\nso well on you.\"\n\nStill no retort.\n\n\"By the saints, sister, you are very silent. I hope you were not kept\nlong on that island?\"\n\nIgraine arched her eyebrows and gave the girl a stare. She knew what\na coward Morgan was, and guessed she was in a holy panic, despite her\ncool impudence and seeming ease of mind. Woman-like, she conceived a\nsudden strong desire to have Morgan whimpering and grovelling at her\nfeet, for there is some satisfaction in terrorising an enemy, even if\none can do no more.\n\n\"I presume, madame,\" she said, \"you thought me safely packed away in\nthat island, and likely to die of hunger, or be taken by heathen.\"\n\nMorgan forced a smile, and began to bind her hair for the sake of\nhaving something to do in the full glare of Igraine's great eyes.\n\n\"You did not think I could swim.\"\n\n\"Madame, I could think anything of you. Nuns are so clever.\"\n\n\"After all, I am not a nun.\"\n\n\"Of course not. You could not be bothered with vows in summer-time. I\nturned nun myself once for a month, it being convenient.\"\n\nIgraine began to fret and to lose patience.\n\n\"You are over venturesome, madame,\" she said, \"in coming to Winchester.\"\n\n\"So!\"\n\n\"I believe they hang folk here at times; they might even break your\nslim white neck.\"\n\nMorgan's lips twitched, but she did not blench from the argument.\n\n\"You speak of hanging,\" she said, \"and the inference is rather\npeculiar. Listen a moment, my good convent saint: your knight on the\nblack horse would most certainly have needed the rope, if my man had\nnot mended vengeance with that poniard.\"\n\n\"Pelleas and the gallows! You're a fool!\"\n\nMorgan smiled back at her very prettily.\n\n\"After all, your man did first murder,\" she said.\n\n\"On a traitor cur in Andredswold!\"\n\n\"Madame, my husband.\"\n\nThe woman's contention was not so illogical when Igraine came to\nconsider it in a less personal light. Morgan may have loved the man\nMadan for all she knew, and she could feel for her in such a matter.\nShe looked at her with less scorn for the moment, and less injustice of\nthought.\n\n\"Perhaps you have grieved much,\" she said.\n\nMorgan gave a blank stare.\n\n\"Grieved?\"\n\n\"You loved your husband?\"\n\n\"I did, while he lived.\"\n\n\"And no longer?\"\n\n\"What is the use of wasting one's youth on a corpse?\"\n\nIgraine retracted her late sympathy, and returned to enmity. Morgan had\nrisen, and was ruffling herself like a swan in her part of the great\nlady, and gathering her purple gown round her slim figure with infinite\naffectation.\n\n\"I cannot see that we have cause to quarrel further,\" she suggested.\n\n\"Indeed!\"\n\n\"Seemingly we are quits, good Sister Morality. I have lost my man, you\nyours.\"\n\n\"You are very logical,\" said Igraine.\n\n\"Why should we women grieve?\"\n\n\"Why indeed?\"\n\n\"There are many more men in the world.\"\n\n\"Madame, I do not understand you.\"\n\nMorgan gave a malicious little laugh that ended in a sneer. She\ntouched her hair with her jewelled fingers, blew a kiss to Cupid,\nand again laughed in her sly mischief-making way. In a moment words\nwere out of her lips that set Igraine's face ablaze, her heart at a\ncanter, and mulled all further parley. Morgan saw trouble, dodged,\nand ran round the statue. Igraine was too quick for her, and winding\nher fingers into the woman's hair, gave her a cuff that would have\nset a helmet ringing. Morgan tripped and fell, dragging Igraine with\nher, and for a moment there was a struggle, green and purple mixed.\nIgraine, the heavier and stronger, came aloft on the other soon. Then a\nknife flashed out. Morgan got two quick strokes in, one on the girl's\nshoulder, a second in her left forearm. Igraine lost her grip, and\nfell aside in a stagger of surprise and pain, while Morgan, taking her\nchance, squirmed away, slipped up, and ran like a rabbit. She was out\nof sight and sound before Igraine had got back her reason.\n\nHere was a pretty business. The girl's sleeve was already red and\nsoaked, and the slit cloth showed a long red streak in the plump white\nof her flesh. Blood was welling up, and dripping fast to the grass at\nher feet. Despite the smart of her wounds and her temper, she saw it\nwould be mere folly to chase Morgan. Following instinct, she ran for\nhome, holding her right hand pressed over the gash in her shoulder.\n\nIn the main avenue who should she meet but Gorlois, carried in a\nlitter, and looking out lazily from behind half-drawn curtains. His\nquick eyes caught sight of Igraine as she passed. He saw the blood and\nthe girl's white face, and he was out of the litter like a stag from\ncover, and at her side, with spirited concern. Igraine was white and\nhalf dazed, her green gown soaked and stained. Her eyes trembled up at\nGorlois as she showed him her gashed arm, with a smile and a little\nwhimper that made him storm.\n\n\"Who did this?\"\n\nHe had stripped his cloak off, and was tearing it into strips, while\nhis jaw stiffened.\n\n\"An old foe of mine.\"\n\n\"Describe him.\"\n\n\"A woman, my lord.\"\n\n\"The damned vixen. Her dress?\"\n\n\"Blue tunic, and gown of purple.\"\n\nGorlois turned to certain servants who stood round gaping at the girl\nin her blood-stained dress, and their lord tearing his cloak into\nbandages with characteristic furor.\n\n\"Search the gardens--a woman in blue and purple; have her caught. By my\nsword, I'll hang her.\"\n\nHe rent Igraine's sleeve to the shoulder, and wound the strips of his\ncloak about her arm with a strength that made her wince.\n\n\"Pardon,\" he said in his quick, fierce way; \"this will serve a season;\nstern heart, good surgeon.\"\n\nIgraine smiled, and made light of it, while he knotted the bandage.\nSome of his men had scattered among the shrubs and into the dark alleys\nof the place, for Igraine could hear them trampling and calling to each\nother. While she listened, and before she could hinder him, Gorlois had\nlifted her as though she had been but a sheaf of corn, and laid her in\nthe litter. He drew the curtains. The bearers were at the poles, and\nsetting off at a good stride they were soon in the town.\n\nBy the time they reached Radamanth's doorway Igraine, despite her\nspirit, was faint from loss of blood, and all atremble. Gorlois,\ntersely imperious, lifted her up as she lay half dazed and stupid,\ncarried her in his arms into the house, and taking guidance from a\nwhite-faced maid, bore Igraine above to her chamber, and laid her on\nher bed. Then he kissed her hand, and leaving her to the women, hurried\noff to send skilled succour.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nIt was not long before Gildas, the court physician, a dear old\nscoundrel with a white beard and a portentous face, came down in state\nto attend on Igraine. He was an old gentleman of most solemn soul. His\ndignity was so tremendous a thing, that you might have imagined him a\nsolitary Atlas holding the whole world's health upon his shoulders.\n\nHe soon dabbled his fingers in Igraine's wounds that morning, dropped\nin oil, and balmed them with myrrh and unguents under a dressing of\nclean cloth. He frowned all the time, as was his custom in the sick\nchamber, as though wisdom lay heavy on his soul, or at least as though\nhe wished folk to think so. The only time you saw Gildas smile was when\nyou payed him a fee or complimented him upon his knowledge. Tickle\nhis pocket or his vanity, and he beamed on you. That morning he told\nRadamanth that his niece's wounds were serious, but that he trusted\nthat they would heal innocently, treated as they had been by credited\nskill. Gildas always pulled a long face over a patient's possibilities;\nsuch discretion kept him from pitfalls, and enabled him to claim all\nthe credit when matters turned out happily.\n\nThe streaks of scarlet in the white waste of skin soon died cleanly\ninto mere bands of pink, and Igraine had little trouble from her\nwounds, thanks to the great Gildas. In fact, she was in bed but three\ndays, while Lilith played nurse, chatted and sang to her, or leant at\nthe open window to tell her of those who passed in the street. Master\nGildas came and went morning and evening with the prodigious regularity\nof the sun. The girls aped him behind his back, and Igraine, with some\ningratitude to science, made Lilith empty the ruby-coloured physic\nout of the window. It happened to spatter a lean booby of a man as\nhe passed, who, looking up, flattered himself that Lilith must have\nsprinkled him with scented water by way of showing her affection. So\nmuch for Gildas's rose-water and flowers of dill.\n\nThe man of physic marched each day like a god into Gorlois's house to\ntell how the Lady Igraine fared at his hands. Such patronage was worth\nmuch to Gildas, and knowing how the wind blew, he puffed religiously\nupon the new-kindled fire. The girl's glamour had caught up Gorlois in\na golden net. He had loved to look upon her and to dream, but now the\nperfume of her hair, the warm softness of her body, the very odour of\nher shed and scarlet blood were memories in him that would not fade.\n\nOne evening a posy of flowers came tumbling in at Igraine's window.\n\nLilith looked out, and saw Gorlois.\n\n\"For the Lady Igraine,\" were his words.\n\nLilith smiled down, and ventured to tell him that Igraine was much\nbeholden to his courtesy and succour, and would thank him with her own\nlips when well of her wounds. She took the flowers to Igraine, who was\nlistening in bed in the twilight.\n\n\"Shall I throw a flower back?\" asked the girl.\n\n\"It would be courteous.\"\n\nLilith did so. The bloom struck Gorlois on the mouth like a blown kiss.\nThe man put the thing in his bosom with a great smile, and went home to\nspend some hours like a star-gazer in his garden, while his musicians\ntuned their strings behind the bushes. At such a season Gorlois loved\nsound and colour. The voices, sweetly melancholic, thrilled up into the\nnight--\n\n    \"Her head is of brighter gold than the broom-flower,\n    Her breast like foam under her green tunic;\n    Like a summer sky at night are her glances;\n    Her fingers are as wood anemones in a daze of dew;\n    Of her lips,--who shall tell!\n    The gates of a sunset\n    Where love dies.\n    Her limbs are like May-blossoms\n    Bedded on a green couch:\n    The night sighs for her,\n    And for the touch of her hand.\"\n\nOf course Morgan had escaped capture. Gorlois's men had hunted an hour\nor more, and had caught nothing, not even a glimpse of the purple\ngown for which they searched. Radamanth, who had had the affair from\nGorlois's own lips, came and told Igraine, and began to ask her who\nthis woman foe of hers was. Igraine put him off with a fable. She had\nno thought of letting him have knowledge of her love for Pelleas, and\nshe was glad in measure that Morgan had escaped capture, and so left\nher secret in oblivion. The woman might have proved troublesome if\nbrought to bay, for she had as much right to claim the truth as had\nIgraine. Better let a snake go than take it by the tail.\n\nIn a week or so there was nothing left to mark the incident save the\nred lines in Igraine's white skin. Flowers and fruit came daily in from\nGorlois, and every evening there was music under the window, till she\nbegan to consider these perpetual courtesies. She was woman enough to\nknow whither they all tended. As for Radamanth, he was more kind to\nher than ever, seeing how the wind might blow favours into his ready\nlap. Gorlois was a great and noble gentleman, and the goldsmith had an\nintense respect for the nobility.\n\nThe very first day that Igraine walked abroad again after her\nseclusion, she fell in straight with Gorlois. By Gildas's advice, she\nhad gone, presumably for her health's sake, to the baths with Lilith;\nand Gorlois, warned by the leech himself, followed alone, and overtook\nthem near the porch. He was very gracious, very sympathetic, very\nsplendid. He begged a meeting with Igraine after she had bathed, and\nsince the girl had something in her heart that made her wish to speak\nwith him, she consented, and left him in the laconicum, proposing to\nmeet him in the rose-walk an hour later. Truth to tell, she intended\nquestioning him as to Pelleas, whether Gorlois had heard of a knight so\nnamed; and also as to Uther, whether he had yet been heard of in any\nregion of Britain. She knew Gorlois would take her consent as favour.\nStill, she imagined she could venture a little for her heart's sake\nwithout much prick of conscience.\n\nAn hour later, true to her word, she went alone into the rose-walk,\na grassy pathway banked with yews, and hemmed with a rich tangle of\nred blooms. Gorlois was there waiting as for a tryst. He was full of\nsmiles and staunch glances as he led her to a seat that was set back in\nan alcove, carved from the dense green of the yews, where they might\ntalk at leisure, and out of sight. Igraine's hair lay loosened over her\nshoulders to dry in the sun. It had been perfumed, and the scent of it\nswept over Gorlois like a violet mist. He sat watching her for a while\nin silence, as she plied her comb with the sun-shaken masses pouring\nover her face like ruddy smoke.\n\n\"Lady Igraine,\" he said at length.\n\nThe girl's eyes glimmered at him slantwise from behind her hair.\n\n\"I knew your father, Malgo, before his death.\"\n\nIgraine merely nodded.\n\n\"I am claiming to be the friend of his daughter, seeing that I have\nlearnt the very colour of her several girdles, the number and pattern\nof her gowns since I rode into Winchester.\"\n\nThe venture in flattery was perhaps more suggestive than Igraine could\nhave wished.\n\n\"You must waste much time, my lord.\"\n\n\"But little.\"\n\n\"I am sorry I have so poor a wardrobe, that you have fathomed the\nwhole of it in less than a month. To tell the truth, when I came into\nWinchester, I had only one gown, and that rather ragged.\"\n\n\"They did not give you green and gold at Avangel?\"\n\n\"No, the good women wore grey to typify the colour of their souls.\"\n\nGorlois laughed in his keen quiet fashion. The girl's eyes were\nwonderfully bright and subtle, and he had never seen such a splendour\nof hair. He longed to finger it, to let it run through his fingers like\namber wine. Leaning one elbow on the stone back of the seat, and his\nhead on his palm, he watched the silver comb rippling at its work, with\na kind of dreamy complacency.\n\nThe girl's voice broke out suddenly upon him.\n\n\"My lord?\"\n\nGorlois attended.\n\n\"You know many of the knights and gentlemen famed for arms in Britain?\"\n\n\"I may so boast myself.\"\n\n\"I was once befriended, a piece of passing courtesy, yet I have always\nbeen curious to learn the character and estate of the man who did me\nthis service. Have you heard of a knight named Pelleas?\"\n\nGorlois fingered his sharp-peaked black beard, and looked blankly\nirresponsive.\n\n\"I have never known such a knight,\" he said.\n\n\"Strange.\"\n\n\"Never so. We men of the woods and moors often ride under false\ncolours, sometimes to try our friends on the sly, sometimes to escape\ncognisance. The man who befriended you may have been Pelleas in your\ncompany.\"\n\nIgraine cut in with a laugh.\n\n\"And Ambrosius at home,\" she said; \"even Princes love masquerading in\nstrange arms. Meadow-flower that I am, I have never seen the stately\nfolk of the court--Ambrosius or Uther. I have heard Uther is an ugly\nman.\"\n\n\"If strength makes a man ugly, Uther may claim ugliness.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Picture a dark man with black hair, eyes packed away under heavy\nbrows, a straight mouth, and a great clean-shaven jaw that looks sullen\nas death.\"\n\n\"Not beautiful in words.\"\n\nGorlois stretched his shoulders, and half yawned behind his hand.\n\n\"Uther is a man with a conscience like a north wind,\" he said; \"always\nlashing him into tremendous effort for the sake of duty. He has the\nhead and neck of a lion, the grip of a bear. You have never known Uther\ntill you have seen him in battle. Then he is like a mountain thundering\ndown against a sea, a black flood plunging through a pine forest. A\nquaint, gentle, devilish, God-ridden madman; I can paint him no other\nway.\"\n\nIgraine laughed softly to herself.\n\n\"A man worth seeing,\" she said.\n\n\"I should judge so.\"\n\n\"Tell me, is it true that Uther has gone into the wilds, and been seen\nof no man many days?\"\n\n\"Uther left Winchester more than two months ago, and no word of him has\ncome to Ambrosius.\"\n\n\"Curious.\"\n\n\"Madame, nothing is curious in Uther. If I were to hear some day that\nhe had ridden down to Hades to fight a pitched battle with Satan, I\nshould say, 'Poor Satan, I warrant he has a sore head.'\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" quoth Igraine.\n\nShe shook her hair, tilted her chin, and looked at Gorlois out of the\ncorners of her eyes. She guessed her power, was young, and a woman. It\ntempted her to read this creature called \"man\" in his various forms and\nphases, and hold his heart in the hollow of her hand. Her interest in\nGorlois was no discourtesy to her love for Pelleas. She had seen few\nmen in her time; they seemed strange beings, strong yet weak, wise yet\nvery foolish, sometimes heroic, yet utter children.\n\nGorlois, who had the sun in his eyes, beheld her as in an unusual\nmist. He was warming to life, for his brain seemed full of the sound\nof harping, and his blood blithe with summer. Stretching out a hand he\ntouched Igraine's hair as it poured over her shoulders, for the red\ngold threads seemed magnetic to his fingers, and the glimmer of her\neyes made his tough flesh creep.\n\n\"You have wonderful hair,\" he said.\n\n\"I learnt that long ago,\" drawing the strand away.\n\n\"The dawn of knowledge.\"\n\n\"It reaches not so very far from my feet.\"\n\nIgraine hung out a flag, as it were, to try the man. She knew the look\nof Pelleas's eyes, and she wanted Gorlois for comparison. Standing\nup, she shook the glistening shroud about her while it seemed to drop\nperfumes and to spark out passion. The man's malady showed plainly\nenough on his face, but his eyes did not please Igraine. There was too\nmuch selfishness, not enough abasement. She knew Pelleas would have\nlooked at her as though she was a saint in a church, and he but a lad\nfrom the brown ploughland. Igraine thought that she loved mute devotion\nfar better than the bold impatient hunger on Gorlois's face.\n\nThe man leant back and tilted his beard at her, while his eyes were\nhalf shut for the sun.\n\n\"I have heard it told that women are ambitious. Is it truth?\"\n\nIgraine, all gravity again, with her tentative mischief banished,\nlooked at her knees, and said she could not tell. Gorlois waxed subtle.\n\n\"Are you ambitious, Igraine?\"\n\n\"Ambitious, my lord?\"\n\n\"Have you never wished to stand out like a bright peak above the world?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Or to have the glory of your beauty filling the gate of fame like a\nscarlet sky?\"\n\nIgraine forced a titter.\n\n\"I suppose you are a poet, sir.\"\n\n\"Only a fool, madame.\"\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\n\"All poets are fools.\"\n\n\"How do you contrive that?\"\n\n\"Because they are for ever praising women.\"\n\n\"And yet you are a poet, my lord!\"\n\n\"How could I be else, madame, since I am a man?\"\n\nGorlois took a deep breath, and smiled at the dark yews, sombre and\nmysterious behind their belt of glowing roses. Igraine was watching his\nface in some uneasiness. It gave the profile of a strong, stark man,\nwhose every feature spelt alert daring and great hardihood of mind.\nThere was a keen, half-cruel look about the tight lips and impatient\neyes. She was contrasting him with Pelleas in her heart, and the dark,\nbrooding face of lion-like mould that so haunted her left little glory\nfor Gorlois's lighter, leaner countenance.\n\nThey were both strong men, but she guessed instinctively which was the\nstronger.\n\nGorlois turned suavely again, with his courage strung like a steel bow.\n\n\"I am a queer fellow,\" he said.\n\nIgraine began to bind her hair.\n\n\"If I ever loved a woman--\"\n\n\"Well, my lord?\"\n\n\"She could be ambitious to her heart's content. The more her pride\nflamed, the better I should like her.\"\n\nIgraine frowned.\n\n\"She would be intolerable.\"\n\nGorlois arched his eyebrows, and covered his convictions with a laugh.\n\n\"Shall I tell how I should win her?\"\n\n\"It would be a quaint tale.\"\n\n\"In the beginning, I should half-kill any man who braved it out that\nshe was not the comeliest woman in Britain.\"\n\n\"Somewhat harsh, my lord, but emphatic.\"\n\n\"I should make her the envy of every lady, dame, and damoselle in the\nland.\"\n\n\"Not wise.\"\n\n\"Like a golden Helen should she rise in the east; blood should flow\nabout her feet like water; I would tear down kingdoms to pile her up a\nthrone. Such should be my wooing.\"\n\nIgraine looked at her lap, and said never a word for a minute or more.\nAll these heroics were rather hollow to her ear, though she did not\ndoubt the man's sincerity towards himself, and his earnest mind to\nplease her. Then she asked Gorlois a very simple question.\n\n\"Imagine, my lord, that the woman loved some other man?\"\n\nGorlois's answer came swift off his tongue.\n\n\"I should meet him in open field, sword to sword, and shield to shield,\nand kill him.\"\n\nIgraine started suddenly, grave and grey as any beadswoman. She did not\nthink Pelleas would have taught any such doctrine.\n\n\"To you, that is love?\" she asked.\n\n\"What else!\"\n\nIgraine thrust her silver bodkin into her hair with some vigour; there\nwas no mirth or patience in her.\n\n\"I name it murder.\"\n\n\"Madame!\"\n\n\"Stark, selfish murder.\"\n\nGorlois spread his hands and laughed.\n\n\"What is love?\" he asked.\n\n\"Should I know!\"\n\n\"Stark selfishness,--nothing more.\"\n\nIgraine thought of Pelleas, and the way he had left her for knowledge\nof her imagined vows. Something in her heart told her that that was\nlove indeed that had clasped thorns in the struggle to embrace truth.\nTherewith she wished Gorlois a very formal good-morning, refused his\nescort, and went straight home with the clear conviction that she\nhad learnt something to her credit. Her talk with Gorlois had set a\nbrighter halo about Pelleas's head.\n\nGorlois of Cornwall was nothing if not subtle. A selfish man of\ndiplomatic mind may reach the very zenith of unselfishness to work his\nends. Gorlois had so studied the expediencies and discretions of his\npurpose that even his love, headstrong though it may have been, was\nfor the time being harnessed to the chariot of circumspection, whence\nintellect drove with steady hand. He had discovered for himself that\nIgraine was of sterner, prouder stuff than the general mob of women,\nand that he could not count much upon her vanity. She was to be won\nby honour, stark, unflinching honour, and by such alone, and Gorlois,\nthanks to the no mean wit that was in him, had judged that to his\ncredit. He set about winning her at first with a consistency that was\nadmirable, and a wisdom that would have honoured Nestor.\n\nNaturally enough, Radamanth was amazed. Gorlois, one of the first\nmen in Britain, sitting in a goldsmith's parlour and soliciting his\npatronage and countenance with a modest manliness! Radamanth stroked\nhis beard, strove to appear at ease under so intense an obligation,\nstruggled to wed servility with a new-found sense of importance. The\nwhole business was most astonishing; not that Gorlois should love the\ndaughter of Malgo of the Redlands, but that he should come frankly to\na Winchester merchant and make such a Minos of him. Radamanth beamed,\nstuttered, excused himself, crept, condescended, in one breath. When\nGorlois had gone, the good man sat down to think in a sweat of wonder.\nProbably he would find himself feasting with the king before long, and\ncertainly it might prove excellent for trade.\n\nAfter a cup of wine and a biscuit to restore his faculties, he sent for\nIgraine, who was in the garden, and prepared to parade his news with a\nmost benevolent pleasure. He took a most solemn and serious mood, bowed\nher to a chair in magnificent fashion, and began in style.\n\n\"My dear niece, I have great honour to lay before you.\"\n\nIgraine, who had heard nothing of Gorlois's visit, merely waited for\nRadamanth to unfold, with a mild and silent curiosity. The old man was\nbig and benignant with the news he had, and when he began to speak he\nrolled his words with the sonorous satisfaction of a poet reading his\nverses to patrons in some Roman peristyle.\n\n\"Lady Igraine,\" he said, \"honour is pleasant to an old man, and\nreverence welcome as savoury pottage. Yet, honour to those he loves is\neven sweeter to him than honour to himself. In honouring a kinswoman of\nmine, a certain noble gentleman has poured oil of delicious flattery on\nmy grey head, and treated me to such an exhibition of grace, frankness,\nand courtesy, that my heart still warms to him. Perhaps, my dear niece,\nyou can guess to whom I refer.\"\n\nIgraine thrilled to a sudden thought--a thought of Pelleas. \"I cannot\ntell,\" she said.\n\nRadamanth could have winked, only in his present exalted frame of\nmind he remembered that such an expression was neither dignified nor\ncourtly. If he were to become the associate of noble folk, it behoved\nhim to raise up new ideals, and so he contented himself with a most\ningenuous smile.\n\n\"Hear, then,\" he said, \"that my noble visitor was the Count Gorlois.\"\n\n\"Gorlois!\"\n\n\"Exactly.\"\n\nRadamanth believed Igraine wholly overwhelmed. He waxed more and more\npatriarchal, till his very beard seemed to grow in dignity.\n\n\"Believe me, a most honourable man. Gentlemen of his position might\nwell fancy other methods--well, never mind that. Count Gorlois came to\nme, like a man, to frankly crave my sanction for a betrothal.\"\n\nIgraine stared, admired Gorlois's excellent plan for netting Faith,\nHope, and Charity at one swoop, but said nothing. Radamanth prosed on.\n\n\"Count Gorlois besought me in most courtly and flattering fashion to\ncountenance him in his claims. He would have everything done in the\nlight, he said, in honourable, manly, and open fashion--no secret\nloitering after dark, or sly kisses under hedges. Mark the gentleman,\ndear niece.\"\n\nThe goldsmith idled over the words as though they were fat morsels\nof flattery, and Igraine had never seen him look so eminently happy\nbefore. She understood quite well that Gorlois's move had inspired him\ninto complete and glowing partisanship, and that she was to have those\nsage words of advice that young folk love so much. Radamanth climbed\ndown, meanwhile, to material things, and began to knock off Gorlois's\npossessions in practical fashion on his fingers.\n\n\"A grand match,\" he said. \"There are the castles in Cornwall--Terabil\nand Tintagel; the lands in Gore and elsewhere; the palace in London;\nand the great house here by the river. In Logria he has lands, I have\nheard,--miles of fat pastures, woods, and many manors, lying towards\nthe great oaks of Brederwode. The man is as rich as any in Britain, and\nif death took Ambrosius or Uther--\"\n\nIgraine cut in upon his verbosity.\n\n\"What did you tell him, uncle?\"\n\nRadamanth stared at her, with his fingers still figuring.\n\n\"Tell him, child?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"What a thing to ask. Of course I promised to further his cause with\nyou in every way possible. I said we should soon need the priest.\"\n\nIgraine groaned in spirit.\n\n\"It is all useless,\" she said.\n\n\"What!\"\n\n\"I have no scrap of love for this man.\"\n\nNow Radamanth had never heard a word of Pelleas, for Igraine had\ncautioned Lilith never to speak to her father on the matter. Like many\nold people who have spent their lives in getting and possessing, he\nhad lost that subtle something that men call \"soul.\" Sentiment to him\nwas a foolish and troublesome thing when it interfered with material\nadvantage or profit, or barred out Mammon, with its rod twined with red\nroses. Consequently he was taken aback by Igraine's cool reception of\nso momentous a blessing. He sat bolt upright in his chair and stared at\nher.\n\n\"My dear niece.\"\n\nThere was such chagrin in his voice that Igraine, remembering his many\nkindnesses, hung her head and felt unhappy.\n\n\"Do not be angry,\" she said; \"I do not wish you to speak of this more.\"\n\n\"But, my dear child, the honour, the fame, the noise of it!\"\n\nIgraine almost smiled at his palpable dismay, for she knew that her\nwords must have flustered him not a little. Radamanth mopped his bald\nhead, for the season was sultry.\n\n\"I am astounded,\" he said.\n\n\"Uncle!\"\n\n\"Let me reason with you.\"\n\n\"Love is not reason.\"\n\n\"No, niece, it is prejudice. Yet I assure you Gorlois is a most noble\nsoul.\"\n\n\"If he were a seraph, uncle, I could not love him.\"\n\n\"You women are all fancy. Why, you have hardly seen the colour of him.\nCome, now!\"\n\n\"I do not need to see more of Gorlois.\"\n\n\"Why, bless my soul, my wife never loved me till we had been married a\nmonth, and she had learnt my fibre.\"\n\nIgraine thought a moment. Then she asked Radamanth a question.\n\n\"Do you love Lilith?\"\n\n\"Why, girl, what a question.\"\n\n\"Would you marry her to a man she did not love or trust, simply because\nit brought gold?\"\n\nRadamanth saw himself rounded in the argument like a rat in a corner.\nHe sat stroking his beard, and striving to look pleased.\n\n\"Think over it, my dear,\" he said presently.\n\n\"There is no need.\"\n\n\"Gorlois will woo you like a hero.\"\n\n\"Let him. He will accomplish nothing.\"\n\n\"It would be a grand match.\"\n\nIgraine jumped up, kissed him to show she bore no ill will, and ran\naway much troubled to find Lilith in the garden. She flung herself down\nbeside the girl in the bower of laurels, and told her all that passed\nthat morning in Radamanth's parlour. Lilith listened with her brown\neyes deep with thought, and a quiet wonder. When Igraine had finished,\nLilith took both her hands in hers, and, kneeling before her, looked up\ninto her face.\n\n\"What will you do, Igraine?\"\n\n\"Need you ask, dear?\"\n\n\"Forgive me.\"\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\n\"You love Pelleas.\"\n\nIgraine put her arms round Lilith's neck, and kissed her.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nRadamanth's words to the girl proved very true before many days\nhad gone; his prophetic belief in Gorlois's mood found abundant\njustification in the event. Gorlois had the warm imagination of his\nrace, an imagination that found extravagance and rich taste ready\nministers to work his purpose. Igraine, met by all manner of devices\non all possible occasions, began to realise the cares of those whom a\npurblind world insists on smothering with limitless favours.\n\nFlowers were poured in upon her, worked into posies, garlands, shields,\nharps, crosses,--all bearing with them some mute plea for mercy. It\nmight have been perpetual May-day in Radamanth's house, so flowered\nand scented was it. Flowers were followed by things more tangible,\na pearl-set cithern, a great white hound, a gold girdle, a pair of\ndoves in a cage of silver wire, a necklet of rich stones gotten from\nsome Byzant mart. Gorlois seemed ready to send her all the finery in\nWinchester despite her messages and her words to him,--\"My lord, I can\nsuffer none of these things from you.\" Servants and slaves came down to\nRadamanth's house as though they had been sent from Sheba, while one of\nRadamanth's men went back from Igraine like an echo, bearing back the\nunaccepted baubles. It was a patient game, and rather foolish.\n\nThese were but small flutters in Gorlois's sweep for the sun. Had not\nIgraine been stabbed in the public gardens! Gorlois put the incident\nto use. He formed a bodyguard of certain of the noble youths who were\nunder his patronage, and warned Igraine with all reverence that he\nhad acted for her sanctity, and that a dozen gentlemen would follow\nnear her when she walked abroad, or went to bath or church. Even her\nhumblest stroll in the street began to partake of the nature of a\ntriumphal progress. Children would gather to her in the gardens and\nthrow flowers and laurel branches at her feet, or she would be followed\nby music and some sweet love ditty to the harp. A hundred quaint\nflatterers seemed to dog her from door to door, till she hardly dared\nto stir out of Radamanth's garden.\n\nNaturally enough, her name was soon the one name in Winchester. The\ngood folk with their Celtic beauty-loving souls spoke of her with\nquaint extravagance; her skin was like the apple-bloom in spring, and\nher lips like rich red May; her feet moved soft and swift as sunlight\nthrough swaying branches; her hair was a cloud of gold plucked from\nthe sky at dawn. She was gaped at and pointed at in the street like a\nprodigy. When she went into church on Sunday half the folk turned to\nstare at her, and a clear circle was left about her where she sat in\nthe nave. She was for the season the city's cynosure, its poem, its\ngossip. Aphrodite might have stepped out of mythology and taken lodging\nat Radamanth's, to judge by the curiosity displayed by the people,\nand doubtless many a comfortable piece of business came to Radamanth\nthereby.\n\nMany women would have gloried for self's sake in such a pageant of\nflattery. It was not so with Igraine. She was a woman who mingled much\nwarmth of heart with strength of will, and fair measure of innate\nwisdom; her feelings were too staunch and vivid to be swayed or\nweakened by any fresh circumstance, however strange and magnificent it\nmight appear. Her love, once forged, could bend to no new craft. Her\nthoughts were all for Pelleas, and any glory her beauty received she\nkept it in her heart for him. Igraine was so eternally in love that\neven worldly prides seemed dead in her, and she had not vanity enough\nto be tempted by Gorlois's great homage.\n\nThe whole business troubled her not a little. There was a certain\nmockery in it that hurt her heart. It was as if she had panted in\nthirst for water, and some rude hand from heaven had thrown down\ngold. Gorlois had her in measure at his mercy. He seemed to take all\nher rebuffs with a sublime stoicism, and she had no one to whom she\ncould appeal. She wished to bide in Winchester, for the city seemed to\npromise her the best chance of seeing Pelleas or Uther, and of learning\nif these twain were one.\n\nOne night there was music under her window. Flute, harp, and cithern\nwith deep voices were pleading for Gorlois under the stars. Igraine\nlistened, lying quiet, and thinking only of Pelleas.\n\n    Take then my heart,\n    My soul, my shield, my sword,--\n\nsang the voices under the window. Igraine kissed the gold cross that\nhung at her bosom, and longed till her heart seemed fit to break for\nyearning. If only the song had come from Pelleas, how fair it would\nhave sounded in the night. As it was, the whole business made her feel\ndesperately weary.\n\nGorlois had begun by holding somewhat aloof. It was part of his purpose\nto work behind a glowing and fantastic screen, serving Igraine more at\na distance, in a spirit of melancholy that should web him round with a\nmystery that was more splendid than truth. He bore Igraine's passive\nantagonism for a while with a spirit of enforced fortitude, going\ncheerfully by the old and somewhat foolish saying that a woman's looks\nlie against her heart, and that persistence wins entry in the end. To\ndo credit to Gorlois's self-favour, he never considered the ultimate\nshipwreck of his enterprise as possible. He had fame, gold, bodily\nfavour on his side, and what woman, he thought, could gainsay such a\nchorus. There are some men who never fail in anticipating success, and\nGorlois possessed that quality of mind.\n\nAs the days went by, and the girl was still stone to him, he began\nto chafe and to look for stauncher measures. The gay gentlemen who\nserved him suggested various expedients; one, a more passionate appeal;\nanother, sly bribery of servants; a third, who was young in years,\nhinted at humble despair that might evoke pity. Gorlois laughed at them\nall, and swore he would win the girl, hook or by crook, in a month or\nless, or lose all the honour his sword had won. He was tired of mere\ncourtesies that ran contrary to his more stormy spirit. He had a liking\nfor insolent daring, for a snatch at love as at an enemy's banner in\nthe full swing of a gallop on some bloody field. Mere mild homage was\nall very well for a season. Gorlois loved mastery, and believed there\nwas no wine like success.\n\nAbout this time a horde of heathen ships came from the east, sailed\npast Vectis, and began to pour their wild men into the country 'twixt\nWinchester and the sea. Hamlets and manors were burnt, peasant folk\ndriven to the woods, the crops fired, the cattle slain. The noise of it\ncame into Winchester with a rabble of frightened fugitives who had fled\nto the city for refuge. Ambrosius the king was in Caerleon, and Uther\nerrant, so that the chance fell to Gorlois of driving the heathen into\nthe sea.\n\nNo man could have been more heartily glad of this innovation. Igraine\nshould see him swoop like a hawk in his strength; she should hear how\nhe led men, and how his sword drank blood. In making war on the heathen\nhe would boast himself before her eyes, and show her the merit of\nmanhood, and the glory of a strong arm. Winchester bustled like a camp.\nTroops poured in from Sarum, and the sound of war went merrily through\nthe streets. Folk boasted how Gorlois would harry the heathen. He rode\nout one night with picked men at his back, and held straight for the\ncoast, while Eldol of Gloucester, a veteran knight, marched southward\nbefore dawn with five thousand footmen. It was Gorlois's plan to cut\nthe heathen off from their ships, and crush them between his knights\nand the spearmen led by Eldol.\n\nIt was such a venture as Gorlois loved,--keen, shrill, and full of\nhazards. Riding straight over hill and dale they saw the glimmer of\nwaves as the sun rose, and knew they had touched the sea. Gorlois's\nscouts had located the main mass of the Jutes camped in a valley about\na nunnery they had taken, and the British knights coming up through\nthe woods saw smoke in the valley and men moving like ants about the\nreeking ruin of the holy house. Looking north they saw a beacon burning\non a hill,--Eldol's signal that he had closed the woods, north, east,\nand west, with his footmen, and that he waited only for Gorlois to\nsweep up and drive the heathen on to the hidden spears.\n\nNever was there a finer light in Gorlois's eyes than at such a season.\nHe loved the dance and noise of steel, the plunging hustle of horses at\nthe gallop, the grand rage of the shout that curled like the foam on an\nocean billow. His courage sang with the wind as his knights rode down\nover the green slopes in a great half-moon of steel, a moving barrier\nthat rolled the savage folk northwards, and rent them like a harrow of\niron. By the blackened walls of the nunnery Gorlois caught sight of\na line of mutilated bodies tied to posts,--dead nuns, stripped, and\nstill bleeding. The sight roused the wolf in him. \"Kill! kill!\" were\nhis words as they rode in upon the skin-clad horde. It was savage work,\nbloody and merciless. Eldol's men closed in on every quarter, and the\nheathen were cut down like corn in summer.\n\nVery few went back to their ships that day. Scores lay dead with their\nfair hair drabbled in the blood about the ruins, and on the quiet\nslopes of the dale. As they had measured out violence to the peasant\nfolk and women, so it was meted to them in turn,--vengeance, piled up,\ngreat measure, running over with blood. Some sixty maimed men were\ntaken alive, but mere death was too mild for Gorlois when he remembered\nthe slain nuns. He had certain of the captured burnt alive, others\nhacked limb from limb, the rest crucified near the river for the birds\nto feed upon. Then he buried the nuns, and made a great entry into\nWinchester, taking care to ride past Igraine's window with his white\nhorse bloody to the saddle, and his armour splashed as he had come\nfrom the field. She should see his manhood, if she would not have his\npresents.\n\nThis single slaughter, however, did not end matters on the southern\nshores. Bands of Saxons were forraying from Kent, where they had\nestablished themselves, and Gorlois rode out again and again to crush\nand kill. There would be battles in the woods, bloody tussles in the\ndeep shadows of Andredswold, wild flights over moor and waste, triumph\ncries at sunset. Three times Gorlois rode out at the head of his\nknights from Winchester; three times he came back victorious, hacked\nand war-stained, thundered in by the people, past Radamanth's house to\nthe church in the market-square. Igraine sat at her window and watched\nhim go by, lowering his spear to her with all his proud love ablaze on\nhis face. Had he not driven the barbarians into the very heel of Kent,\nand left many a tall man from over the seas rotting in sun and rain?\n\nIt was customary year by year in Winchester to hold a water pageant\non the river, depicting legendary and historic things that had passed\nwithin the shores of Britain. August was the pageant month, and in\nthis particular year the display was made more elaborate in order\nto celebrate the rout of the heathen by Gorlois, and to please the\ncommon folk who had made him their idol. The pageant was of no little\nsplendour. Great galleys, fittingly decorated, were rowed down the\nnarrow stream amid a horde of smaller craft, each great barge bearing\nfigures famed in British legend lore. The first barge portrayed Brute\nthe Trojan voyaging for Britain; others, Locrine's death by the river\nSevern, Rudhudibras, mythical founder of Winchester, the reunion of\nLeyr and Cordelia, Porrex the fratricide done to death by damsels.\nOne barge, draped in white and purple, moralised the reconciliation\nof Brennius and Belenus at the intercession of their mother. A great\ngalley in red and white bore Joseph of Aramathy and the Holy Grail, and\na choir of angels who sang of Christ's blood. Last of all came Alban\nthe protomartyr, pictured as he knelt to meet his death by the sword.\n\nThe day was blue and quiet, with hardly the shimmer of a cloud over the\nintense gaze of the sky, while banners of rich cloth were hung over the\nbalustrades of the river terraces, and the gardens themselves were full\nof gay folk who kept carnival, and watched the boats go by. The great\npageant galleys had hardly passed, and the small craft that had kept\nthe bank were swarming out into mid-stream, where a great barge with\ngilded bulwarks and a carved prow came sweeping down like a swan before\nthe wind. It was driven by the broad backs of twenty rowers clad in\nscarlet and gold. In the stern sat Gorlois, holding the tiller, with a\nsmile on his keen lips as a quavering clamour went up from the gardens\nand the boats that lined the shallows.\n\nBy Radamanth's house Gorlois held up a hand, and the blades foamed as\nthe men backed water. The great barge lost weigh and lay motionless on\nthe dappled silver of the stream. Slowly it was poled in to the steps\nthat ran from the water's edge to the terrace of Radamanth's garden. A\nlight gangway was thrown ashore, and a purple carpet spread upon the\nsteps, while the men lined the stairway with their oars held spearwise\nas Gorlois went up to greet Igraine.\n\nClad in white and gold, with a rose over her ear, she was sitting\nbetween Radamanth and Lilith on a bench at the head of the stairway.\nThere was an implacable irresponsive look on her face as Gorlois came\nup the steps and stood in front of her like a courtier before a queen's\nchair. Radamanth and the merchant folk present were on their feet, and\nuncovered; only Igraine kept her seat in the man's presence, and looked\nhim over as though he had been a beggar.\n\nThey were left alone together on the terrace, Radamanth shepherding\nhis merchant friends aside for the moment with the discreet desire\nto please the count. Gorlois stood by the stairhead and told Igraine\nthe reason of his coming, as though she had not guessed it from the\nmoment his barge had foamed up beside the steps. He told her frankly\nthat he wished to speak to her alone, and that his barge gave her an\nopportunity of hearing him without his having the advantage of her in\nsolitude, while the noise of oars would drown their words. Igraine\nlistened to him with a solemn face. She began to feel that she must\nface her destiny and give the man the truth for good. Procrastination\nwould avail nothing against such a man as Gorlois. Being so minded, she\ngave Gorlois her hand and hardened herself to satisfy him that day.\n\nAway went the great barge before the strong sweep of the long oars.\nIgraine watched the water slide by--foaming like a mill race as the\nblades cut white furrows in the tide. The river gleamed with colour as\ninnumerable galleys, skiffs, and coracles drifted in the shallows or\ndarted aside to give passage to Gorlois's barge. Fair stone houses,\ngardened round with green, slid back on either side. They passed the\nspectacular galleys one by one, and the wooden wharfs packed with the\nmean folk of the city, and foaming on under the great water-gate, drew\nsouthward into the open country and the fields.\n\nIgraine looked at Gorlois, and found his face impenetrable with\nthought. A fillet of gold bound his hair, and he was wearing his\ngreat sword, and an enamelled belt over his rich tunic. The cushions\nof the barge had been sprinkled with perfumes, and the floor covered\nankle deep with flowers. Igraine groaned in spirit, and read the old\nextravagance that had persecuted her so long, and made a mockery of her\nlove for Pelleas.\n\nGentle meads lapped greenly to the willows, giving place anon to woods\nthat seemed to stride down and snatch the river for a silver girdle.\nThe festival folk and their skiffs were out of sight and hearing, yet\nGorlois's barge ran on, to plunge into emerald shadows, tunnels whose\nfloors seemed of the blackest crystal webbed with nets of green and\nblue, whose vaultings were the dense groinings of the trees. Not a\nwind stirred. The great curving galleries in the woods were dark and\nmysterious, the water like glistening basalt, the trees dreaming over\ntheir own images in an ecstasy of silence. The foam from the oars was\nvery white, and the moist swish of the blades made the silence more\nsolemn by contrast, while the water seemed to catch a golden flicker\nfrom the flanks of the barge.\n\nIgraine knew well enough what was in the man's heart as he sat handling\nthe tiller, and watching her with his restless eyes. She was quite\ncold and undisturbed in spite of her being at his mercy, and the\nconsciousness that in her heart she did not trust him vastly. Gorlois\nhad spoken only of the town, and they were running on under dense\nfoliage into the forest solitudes that edged the river. Yet Igraine had\nfaith in her own wit, and believed herself a match for Gorlois, or any\nman, for that matter, save Pelleas. Gorlois passed the time by telling\nher of his battles in Andredswold, how he had driven the heathen into\nThanet, and freed Andred's town from leaguer. Igraine began to wonder\nhow long it would be before he would turn to matters nearer to his\nheart. She had marshalled up her courage for the argument, and this\nwaiting under arms for the bugle-call did not please her.\n\nThe day had already slipped into evening, for the water pageant was\nordered late, so that it might merge into a lantern frolic on the river\nafter dusk. Igraine, seeing how the light lapsed, told Gorlois to have\nthe barge turned for Winchester. She had hardly spoken when the boat\nran out from the trees into open water. In the west the sky was already\naflame, ridged tier above tier with burning clouds, while the blaze\nfainted zenithwards into gold and azure. A queer cry as from a man\nweary of torture came down from the west. On a low hill near the river,\nbleak against the sky, stood a black concourse of beams set upright in\nthe ground, looking like the charred pillars of a burnt house. They\nwere crosses, and the bodies of men crucified.\n\nGorlois pointed to them with the evening glow on his face, and taking\na horn that hung at his belt, blew a loud call thereon. At the sound a\nvulture rose from a crossbeam, and went flapping heavenwards--a black\nblot against the scarlet frieze of the west. Others followed, like evil\nthings driven from their food. Again the cry, the wail from one who had\nhung torn and wracked in the parching sun, came down from the darkening\nhill.\n\nIgraine shuddered and felt cold at the sound, and watched the figures\nagainst the sky with a kind of awe.\n\n\"Who are these?\" she said.\n\n\"Dogs from over the sea.\"\n\n\"Some are still alive.\"\n\n\"These pirates are hard; they die slowly, despite beak and claw. Such\nbe the death of all who burn holy houses and homes, and put women and\nchildren to the sword.\"\n\n\"Take them down, or let them be killed outright.\"\n\n\"Never.\"\n\n\"At my prayer.\"\n\n\"What I have done, I have done.\"\n\n\"Cruelly.\"\n\n\"Cruelly, madame! You should have seen twenty dead nuns tied to stakes\nas I have seen, and you would gloat and be glad as I am. By God, little\nmercy had this offal at my hands in the glades of Andredswold. I burnt,\nand crucified, and tore with horses. Mere steel is too good for such as\nthese.\"\n\n\"My lord!\"\n\n\"What is hate unless it is hate? I can never brook an enemy to Britain.\"\n\nIgraine had sudden insight into the core of Gorlois's nature. She\nunderstood, in a vague, swift way, what prim\u00e6val instincts were hid in\nhim ready at the beck of baser feelings such as jealousy or smitten\npride. Woman-like, she recoiled from a man whose strength was so\ninflexible that it owned no pity or leavening kindness where malice\nor anger was concerned. She loved strength, and the natural wrath of\na man, but she had no touch of the Semiramis about her, and her heart\ncould not echo Gorlois's wolf-like cry.\n\nThe rowers had turned the barge, and they were soon back again under\nthe shadows of the trees. It was dim and ghostly with the onrush of\nnight, while a faint fire flickered through the trees from the west\nand touched the sullen water with a reddish flame. Gorlois's face was\nin the shadow. He was leaning over the tiller towards Igraine, and\nhis eyes seemed to burn out upon her face and to make her heart beat\nfaster. She sat as much away from him as the gunwale suffered, and\nlooked ahead over the misty river, or up into the dense, black bosoms\nof the trees.\n\nThe foamy rush of the oars and the grind of the looms in the rowlocks\nhalf drowned Gorlois's words as he spoke to her.\n\n\"Igraine.\"\n\n\"My lord.\"\n\n\"You have read me to the heart.\"\n\nIgraine turned and looked him full in the face. Now that the brunt had\ncome, she was strong and ready to tell the man the truth, though it\nmight be bleak and bitter to his pride. Gorlois was very near her, and\nshe could see his white teeth between his lips, and the glint of his\neyes as he leant towards her in the shadows.\n\n\"Are you ambitious, Igraine?\"\n\n\"No, my lord.\"\n\n\"Not even a little?\"\n\n\"My lord, I have no more ambition in me than one of those dead men\nhanging athwart the sunset.\"\n\n\"You are a queer woman.\"\n\n\"Pardon, I have a conscience.\"\n\nGorlois bit his lip, stared in her face, and set a hand upon her wrist.\n\n\"You can never shirk me,\" he said.\n\n\"I never shirk the truth.\"\n\n\"Come now, give me the word.\"\n\n\"My lord, may I save you pain in the telling of it! You can never come\nnear my heart.\"\n\n\"Woman, never be so sure.\"\n\nGorlois drew back, and said never another word. Igraine watched him\nfurtively as his keen profile hung near her in the dusk clear as\nmarble. Now and again his eyes gleamed out upon her and made her fear\nthe moment, while the oars swung out over the smiling stream, and the\nblack woods started by like night.\n\nSoon the lights of Winchester showed up against the northern sky,\nand far ahead over a straight stretch of water they could see the\nlanterns and torches of the folk who kept festival. A golden mist and\nthe noise of music came down to them, as they surged under the great\nwater-gate and ran on through the city amid a glimmering web of lights\nand laughter. Soon the barge found the shallows under white walls, and\nIgraine was standing on the steps leading to Radamanth's garden, with a\nstarry sky sweeping like a wheel above the world.\n\nGorlois went slowly from her down the steps, with a face that was dark\nand brooding. Torchlight glimmered on the fillet of gold about his\nhair, on the splendid setting of his baldric, and the scabbard of his\nsword. At the water's edge he lifted up his face to her out of the\nnight.\n\n\"It shall be life or death,\" he said.\n\nThen he was swept away with a red flare of torches over the river, and\nIgraine went solemn-eyed to bed.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nNot a word of Uther yet, no sound of his name in Winchester, though\nIgraine lived on in Radamanth's house, and hoped for light in the dark.\n\nGorlois had had the truth, and she wondered what would come of it.\nLulled by an ingenuous reasoning into the belief that she would be\nfree of the man, she began to breathe again and to take liberty in her\nhand. She did not think Gorlois could plague her longer after the blunt\nanswer she had given him. His pride would drag him aside, make further\nhomage impossible, and there the matter would end.\n\nIf Igraine believed this, then she was in very gross error. Many men\nnever show their true fibre till they are given the blunt lie, and\nGorlois was never more himself than when baffled. There was much of the\nhawk about him, and Igraine had underrated his pride if she expected it\nto take league with her against its kinsman passion. Her measure only\nuncovered the darker side of the man's nature, and sounded the doom of\na lighter, gayer chivalry. Gorlois's pride and self-love never dragged\nin the wind, but held him taut to the storm, as though determined to\nweather all the perversities of which a woman's heart is capable.\nIn truth, Igraine had done the very thing least likely to free her\nfrom the man's thought; she had taunted his passion and thrown down a\nchallenge to his pride.\n\nGorlois kept his own counsel, and frowned down the mischievous\ncuriousness of his friends when they laughed at him and asked how the\ngirl framed for a wife. He struck Brastias his squire to the ground for\ndaring to jest sympathetically on the subject. Those who went about\nhis house and hunted and diced with him soon found that he was in no\ntemper for light raillery or the sly privileges of an intimate tongue.\nThe fabric of a mere nice romance had stiffened into sterner, darker\nproportions. There was the look of a dry desire in the man's eyes, a\nlean hungry silence about him that made his men whisper. Some of them\nhad seen Gorlois when he hunted down the heathen. They knew his temper,\nand the cast of his features when there was some lust of enterprise in\nhis heart.\n\nAbout that time a knight came from Wales thrusting a woman's beauty\nupon every man with the point of his spear. As had been his custom\nelsewhere, he set up a green pavilion outside the walls, and daily rode\nout armed to the sound of a trumpet to declare a certain Amoret of\nCaerleon the fairest gentlewoman in Christendom. He was a big man, red\nand burly, and had overthrown every like fanatic for love's sake on\nthis particular adventure. Gorlois heard of the fellow with no little\nsatisfaction. Every finger of him itched to spill blood, and he took\nthe deed on him, vowing it should be the last peace-offering to Igraine.\n\nArming one morning, he rode down and fought the Green Knight in his\nmeadow outside the walls. It took them an hour to settle the matter. At\nthe end thereof the errant from Wales was lying impotent and bloody in\nhis tent, and the name of Amoret aped the ineffectual moon. Afterwards\nGorlois rode into the town, war-stained as he was, found Igraine at her\nwindow, and presented her the Green Knight's token on the point of his\nspear.\n\nIt was a woman's sleeve in green silk, and edged with pearls. Igraine\nsaw a crowd of upturned faces about the man on the white horse.\nHis bright arms seemed to burn in upon her, and to light a sudden\nimpatience in her heart. She took the green sleeve from the spear, and\nlooking Gorlois full in the face, in reckless mood she threw the thing\ndown under his horse's hoofs.\n\nThere was a great hush all through the street at the deed, and Gorlois\nstarted red as a man struck across the face with a whip. His eyes\nseemed to grow large, like the eyes of an angry dog. Never had folk\nseen him look so black. He stared up a moment at Igraine, shook his\nspear, and trampling the green sleeve under the hoofs of his horse,\nrode away without a word through the glum and gaping crowd.\n\nIgraine had thrown down the glove with a vengeance. It was a mad enough\nmethod of beating off the pride of a man such as Gorlois, whose temper\ngrew with the blows given, and who knew no moderation in love or in\nhate. Gorlois had ridden home through the town that day to have his\nwounds dressed, and to spend half the night in a fury of cursing. Yet\nfor all his bitterness he had the power of level thought, and of taking\nground for the future. He would read this woman a lesson; that much he\nswore on the cross of his sword; and the early morning saw him again at\nRadamanth's, strenuous to speak his mind.\n\nThe goldsmith happened to know that Igraine was alone in the garden.\nWithout noise or ceremony he sent Gorlois in to her, locked the door\non them both, and went to watch from a narrow window on the stairs. He\nswore that Gorlois should have his own way, and not go balked for a\nwoman's whim.\n\nIgraine was sitting sewing in the arbour of laurels with the little\ngold cross hanging down over the bosom of her dress. A grass walk led\nto the arbour between beds of flowers. As she sat stitching she heard\nthe sound of feet in the grass, and saw a shadow slanting across the\nentry. She expected Lilith, but looking up, found Gorlois.\n\nHe was white from his wounds of yesterday and the blood he had lost\nby the Green Knight's sword. His left arm lay in a sling of red silk.\nIgraine noted in her sudden half-fear how his eyes were very bright,\nand that his beard looked coal-black below his bloodless cheeks. There\nwas something in his face too that made Igraine cautious.\n\nShe rose and folded her embroidery in the most unperturbed and quiet\nfashion, though she was thinking hard all the same. Gorlois watched\nher, and held back for her to speak, with a hollow fire creeping\ninto his eyes, for the girl's passionless mood chafed him. He had no\ngentleness towards her for the moment; such love as he knew had been\nblown into a red beacon by starved and covetous desire.\n\n\"A word with you,\" he said.\n\nThe speech was rough and pertinent, showing the trend of the man's\npurpose. He had abandoned superficialities. Igraine, gathering up her\nsilks, turned and faced him with the frankness of a full moon. Gorlois\nsaw her lips tighten, and there was a temper swimming in her eyes that\npromised abundant spirit and no shirking. If he had launched out to\nrouse her from passive antagonism, he could not have chosen a better\nmethod.\n\nIgraine made a step towards the house, but two strides put Gorlois in\nher path.\n\n\"Make way--\"\n\n\"Not a foot till you have the truth out of me.\"\n\n\"Have a care,--I will be stormed at by no man.\"\n\n\"Woman, look at me.\"\n\nIgraine was looking at him with all the temper she could summon. If\nGorlois thought to ride straight over her courage, he was enormously\nmistaken. She would match him for all his hectoring.\n\n\"If you are not a fool,\" she said, \"you will end this nonsense, and go.\"\n\n\"Am I a scullion?\"\n\n\"You should know, my lord.\"\n\n\"I have not bled for nothing.\"\n\n\"As you will.\"\n\n\"What have you to say to me?\"\n\nIgraine lost all patience, tossed her embroidery aside, and simply\nflashed out at him with all her soul.\n\n\"Say!\" she said; \"I have somewhat to say, and that bitter; listen if\nyou will. You, Gorlois of Cornwall, who bade you make my name a byword\nin Winchester? Listen to me,--hear the truth, and profit--you who\npestered me with mad tricks till I hated it all and held it insolence.\nWho asked you to make me gossip for a city, did I? Who took your\npresents? Who told you the truth? Who threw your token under the hoofs\nof your horse to shame you? I have mocked you enough, now leave me in\npeace, or rue it.\"\n\n\"By God, madame--\"\n\n\"Don't echo me. Go, get out of my sight; I hate you!\"\n\nGorlois flushed to the temples in this wind of passion. The girl looked\nsplendid to him in her great anger, her head thrown back and her eyes\nsteady on him as stars. The scorn of her beauty leapt over him like\ncrimson light, and he was more a sensation than a man. He had a great\nthirst in him to grip her with his hands, to bend her straight body\nas he would bend a bow, to strangle up the scorn in her throat with his\nown breath. He went near her, stooping and staring in her face.\n\n[Illustration: \"A SUDDEN MADNESS WHIRLED GORLOIS AWAY\"]\n\n\"Igraine.\"\n\n\"Mark my words.\"\n\n\"You golden shrew, you temptation of tempers--\"\n\n\"Hold off--\"\n\n\"By God! I'll tame you, don't doubt me.\"\n\nIgraine, very watchful, slipped past him suddenly like light, and\nwalked for the house with a sweeping air that bade him keep his\ndistance. Coming to the door of the house, she tried it but found the\nlock shot. The red badge of a new anger showed upon either cheek. She\nturned on Gorlois; her eyes blazed out at him.\n\n\"A pretty trick!\"\n\n\"What now, madame?\"\n\n\"You had this door locked.\"\n\n\"Never.\"\n\n\"You lie in your throat.\"\n\n\"Radamanth--\"\n\n\"Open it.\"\n\n\"I have no key.\"\n\nIgraine's figure seemed to dilate and grow taller, and her eyes shone\nwell-nigh as bright in colour as her hair.\n\n\"Obey me.\"\n\n\"Not if I had the key.\"\n\n\"Obey me.\"\n\n\"I will be master before the sun is at noon.\"\n\n\"You dog!\"\n\nA sudden madness whirled Gorlois away. He went red from the neck,\nclutched at Igraine's wrist and held it. For a moment they stood rigid.\nThe girl could not shake him off although he had but one hand to hold\nher. His breath was hot upon her face as he pressed her back against\nthe wall, and held her there till his lips touched her neck. Igraine,\nbreathing fast and straining from him with all her strength, set a\nhand on his face and thrust him away. She twisted her wrist free,\nand slipped from between him and the wall. Then the door opened, and\nRadamanth stood by them.\n\nIgraine slipped away with a white face, and running above to her\nchamber threw herself down on the bed, and cried for Pelleas. She heard\nGorlois stride through the house, heard the gate crash as he went out\ninto the street. Shame and loneliness were on her like despair, and\nshe was weak and shaken after her anger, and very hungry for love and\ncomfort. The world seemed a dull blank about her, cold, irresponsive,\nand grey as a November evening. Every hand seemed against her. Even\nRadamanth, the man of serious years, had turned the key upon her, more\nkind to Gorlois than herself. Her thoughts were very bitter as she lay\nand brooded over it all.\n\nPresently she heard some one coming up the stairs. Darting to the door,\nshe bolted it, and went back to the bed, while a hand rapped out a\nsomewhat diffident summons, and Radamanth's voice came in to her.\n\n\"My dear niece,\" it said.\n\nIgraine made no answer.\n\n\"My dear niece, let me have a word with you.\"\n\nStill no answer. Radamanth tried the door and found it fastened.\n\n\"Gorlois is gone,\" he said.\n\nIgraine remained obdurate, with face drawn and sullen-eyed. She heard\nhim shuffle down the stairs again, go into his parlour, and shut the\ndoor very gently, like a man who is ashamed. Then all was quiet save\nfor casual footsteps in the street, and the garrulous chatter of a\nstarling on the tiles.\n\nNoon had come and gone a long while, and still Igraine lay in her room\nand moped. She felt sore and grieved to the heart, all her sanguine\ncourage was at low ebb. Winchester seemed a prison-house where she was\nshut up with Gorlois. The man's greed and power of soul seemed to stare\nupon her till white honour folded its hands over its breast and turned\nto flee. Oh for Pelleas and the brave look of those honest eyes, the\nstaunch touch of those great hands. He seemed to stand up above the\nworld, above the selfishness, the lust, the violence, like a pine on\nsome lonely hill. She could trust, she could believe. To find him would\ngive her peace.\n\nAs she lay there that noontide a new purpose came to her, and lighted\nup hope. It was frail and flickering enough, but still, it burned. She\nwould leave Radamanth's house and go afoot into the world to find a\nshadow. Anything was better than lying cooped in the place for dread of\nGorlois. She had long contemplated such a measure, and that morning in\nRadamanth's garden gave her decision and made her strong.\n\nShe rose up from the bed and hunted out her old Avangel habit from a\ncupboard in the wall. Then she set to to doff the rich stuffs Radamanth\nhad given her, the embroidered tunic, the coloured leather shoes,\nthe goodly enamelled girdle. In their stead she stood again in the\nold grey gown, hood, and sandals, with a little thrill of delicious\nrecollection. It was like stepping back into the dream of an enchanted\npast.\n\nShe had hardly ended the transformation when there came a shy tap at\nher door, and a mild voice calling to her from the landing. It was the\ngirl Lilith. Igraine felt a sudden warmth at her heart as she let her\nin and barred the door again. Lilith stood and stared at her, her great\nbrown eyes wide with astonishment.\n\n\"Why this old dress, Igraine?\"\n\n\"I will tell you, dear.\"\n\n\"And you have been crying, for your eyes are red.\"\n\nIgraine took the soft-voiced little woman to the window-seat and told\nher sadly enough all the doings of the morning. Even Lilith looked\nashamed and showed her anger openly. Radamanth had confessed nothing of\nwhat had passed in the garden.\n\n\"I never loved my father less before,\" she said. \"I should never have\nthought this mean trick of him. I am ashamed, Igraine.\"\n\n\"Never trouble, dear, you are my joy in Winchester.\"\n\n\"And why this old nun's habit?\"\n\n\"I am going to leave you, child.\"\n\nLilith clutched at her with both hands, her face suddenly white and\nalmost piteous.\n\n\"Oh, no, no, Igraine!\"\n\n\"I must, dear.\"\n\n\"Forgive--\"\n\n\"It is not that alone. I cannot rest here longer. Gorlois and the city\nhave crushed the heart out of me.\"\n\nLilith lifted up her child's face to her, and then began to sob\nunrestrained on Igraine's bosom.\n\n\"It seems cruel,\" she whimpered.\n\n\"No, no, it is best for me after all.\"\n\n\"But where will you go, Igraine?\"\n\n\"Heaven knows, dear. I cannot rest here longer after this morning. I\nfeel as if I should stifle.\"\n\n\"Don't go, Igraine.\"\n\n\"Hush, dear, don't weaken me. I am hard put as it is.\"\n\nThey were both weeping now. Lilith's slim body shook as she lifted up\nher face to Igraine's, and looked at her through her tears. She had\nlearnt to love Igraine, and jealousy of her tall and splendid kinswoman\nhad had no place in her heart. Lilith possessed to perfection the power\nof sympathy, and being a simple little soul who lived wholly for the\npresent, she perhaps felt the more for that very reason. She could not\nsay evil enough of Gorlois, nor put too much kindness into her kisses\nas she sat with her head on Igraine's shoulder.\n\n\"You cannot go out alone in the world,\" she said presently.\n\nIgraine was silent.\n\n\"I know father would never forgive himself.\"\n\n\"There are convents, child. They would guard and give me harbour for a\ntime.\"\n\n\"A convent--but you hate the life.\"\n\n\"If I could only hear of Uther, I would--\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, I know. But will you go, Igraine?\"\n\n\"My mind is made up; nothing can change it.\"\n\n\"Then let me come with you.\"\n\nIgraine kissed her, but shook her head at the suggestion.\n\n\"I love you for the wish, dear, but I could never drag you into my own\ntroubles, and it would be very wrong to Radamanth.\"\n\nThat afternoon they had many words together in Igraine's room, and\ndusk caught them still talking. Igraine had made Lilith promise that\nRadamanth should know nothing of her flight till the following morning.\nLilith proved a little obstinate at first, but yielded in the end\nfor fear of grieving Igraine. With the dusk she crept downstairs and\nbrought up food. Igraine made a meal, while Lilith, with her tears\nstill falling, put up food and a few trifles into a bundle, slipping in\nall the little store of money she had. Then she ran softly downstairs\nto see if the way were clear. Radamanth had gone to supper with a\nmerchant friend, and the house seemed quiet and very lonely. In the\npassage-way the two girls took leave of each other, Lilith clinging to\nIgraine for a moment with all her heart. With sad eyes Igraine left\nher, and went out into the night.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nIgraine found lodging that night in the great abbey of St. Helena that\nPelleas had spoken of on their ride from the island manor. Posing\nto the portress as one who had wandered long after her escape from\nAvangel, she was taken to the refectory, where supper was being spread\nby the juniors. The women of the place gathered round her, and Igraine\ninquired with some qualms for any chance news of Malt, Claudia, and\nthe rest, but getting nothing she felt more confident. She told them\nher name was Melib\u0153a, and she recounted at length the burning of\nAvangel and her subsequent wanderings, carefully purging the tale of\nall that might seem strange to their virgin ears, or set their tongues\na-clacking. The women were very kind to her, partly for her own sake,\nand partly for the interesting gossip she had brought them.\n\nAt supper she sat next a young and merry nun who shared her misericords\nwith her. The good women of the place were suffered to talk between\nvespers and complines, and Igraine, sly at heart, edged the talk to a\ntone for which she thirsted, and began to speak to her neighbours of\nGratia, Abbess of Avangel.\n\n\"Did any of you know her?\" she asked.\n\n\"Only by fame,\" said a fat nun opposite Igraine.\n\n\"I have heard she was near of kin to the King,\" said another, who\ndrooped her lids in very modest fashion.\n\nIgraine started in thought.\n\n\"Aurelius?\" she said.\n\nThe nun nodded.\n\n\"How were they related?\"\n\n\"I have heard Gratia was his aunt.\"\n\n\"And aunt to Uther also?\"\n\n\"Of course, seeing they are brothers.\"\n\nIgraine looked at her wooden platter, and pressed the little gold cross\nto her bosom with her hand. And now a strange thing happened. The old\nnun opposite Igraine, who was the Mistress of the Novices, brought out\nnews that she had heard in the Abbess's parlour that very morning.\n\n\"Uther has been seen again,\" she said.\n\n\"Uther?\"\n\nThe word snapped out like a bolt from a bow, and brought the nuns' eyes\non Igraine across the table.\n\n\"The man comes and goes like a shadow. He is ever riding alone to do\nsome great deed against the beasts, or against the heathen. A great\nsoul is Uther.\"\n\nHere were tidings dropped like dew out of heaven at the very hour she\nstood in need of them. Igraine felt the mist lighten appreciably in her\nbrain. She popped an olive into her mouth and spoke almost carelessly.\n\n\"Where is Uther?\"\n\n\"At Sarum town. He rode, they say, to the great camp there looking like\na ghost, or as though he had been playing Simeon on a pillar.\"\n\nIgraine merely nodded.\n\n\"Uther always looks a serious soul. Have you ever seen him, sister?\"\n\n\"Never. A dark man?\"\n\n\"With a face like a sun and a thunder-cloud rolled into one.\"\n\n\"A good man!\"\n\n\"So they say; he has a clean look.\"\n\nA little bell began to sound to call them away to complines. Igraine\nwent with the rest into the solemn chapel, and let the chant sweep into\nher soul, and the prayers take her heart to heaven. Incense floated\ndown, colours shone and glimmered on the walls, the dim lamps shivered\nlike stars under the roof. Igraine felt her hollow heart warm as a rose\nin the full blaze of a golden noon. She said her prayers very fervently\nthat night, for love was awake in her and glad of her new-blossomed\nhope. She would go to the great camp at Sarum and see this Uther for\nherself.\n\nShe had little comradeship with sleep in the great dormitory that\nnight. When the matins bell rang she was up and ready for her flight\nlike a young lark in the day. After chapel she begged a pittance from\nthe cellaress and stowed it with her bundle in the little wallet Lilith\nhad given her, excusing her early going on the plea that she had far to\nwalk that day. She set out briskly from the grey shadows of the abbey.\nThe place lay quite close by the western gate, so that she was soon\nbeyond the walls and in the fields and orchards where all was goldly\nquiet at that early hour.\n\nWinchester stood like a prison-house, void and fooled, in the east.\nIgraine turned and looked down at it awhile huddled in its great girdle\nof stone, a medley of towers, roofs, and mist-wrapped trees. She shook\nher fist at it with a noiseless little laugh when she thought of\nGorlois. Further yet to the east she could see the blue pine-smirched\nridge where Pelleas had built her that little bower on the night he\nhad left her sleeping. Her eyes grew deep with desire as she thought\nof it all, even as she had thought of it a thousand times since then.\nPelleas's dark face was garlanded with green in her memory, and\ntrouble, as it ever does, had made love take deeper root in her bosom.\n\nCheeriness comes with action. Igraine, fettered no longer, footed it\nalong the road with snatches of song on her lips, and her eyes full of\nsummer. A quiet wind came up from the west, and the clear morning air\nsuited her courage. All the wide world seemed singing; the trees had\nan epithalamium on their whispering tongues, and the sky seemed strewn\nwith white garlands. The tall corn in its occasional cohorts bowed down\nto her with murmuring acclaim as though it guessed her secret.\n\nWhen she had gone a league or so she sat down under a tree and made a\nmeal from the stuff in her wallet. Country folk went by on the road,\nfor it was market-day in Winchester. One apple-cheeked lad seeing a nun\nsitting there came devoutly with his palms full of fruit taken from his\nass's pannier, and made his offering with a shy smile and a bend of the\nknee. Igraine, touched, blessed him most piously, and gave him a kiss\nto cap it. The lad blushed and went away thinking he had never seen\nsuch a pretty nun before, and wondering if there were many like her in\nthe great abbey. Igraine watched him towards Winchester, and wished\nsome country girl joy of a good husband.\n\nPresently she held on again in great spirits, nor had she gone very far\nwhen a tinkling of bells came up behind her with a merry clatter of\nhoofs. Turning aside to give passage, she looked back and saw an old\ngentleman riding comfortably on a white mule with two servants jogging\nalong behind him on cobs. The old man's bridle was fringed with\nlittle silver bells that made a thin jingle as he rode; he was solidly\ngowned in plum-coloured cloth turned over with sable, and seemed of\ncomfortable degree, judging by his trappings. Igraine looked up in his\nface as he passed by, while the old gentleman stared down to see what\nsort of womanhood lurked under a nun's hood. The man on the mule was\nEudol, Radamanth's bosom gossip.\n\n\"Hey now, on my soul,\" said the little merchant, reining in with\na will; \"what have we here, my dear, gadding about nunwise on a\nhigh-road? My faith, I must hold a catechism.\"\n\nIgraine, knowing the old man's vulnerability, answered with a smile.\n\n\"Ah, Master Eudol, you are a very lady's man, a gem of discretion.\"\n\n\"So, and truth,\" said the merchant, with a chuckle.\n\nIgraine went close to him and patted the white mule's neck, while the\nserving men held at a wise distance.\n\n\"I am running away from Winchester,\" she said.\n\n\"Strange sport, my dear.\"\n\n\"Now you must not tell a soul, on your honour.\"\n\n\"Not a living soul, on my honour.\"\n\nIgraine let her eyes flit a laughing look up at him.\n\n\"Why then, Master Eudol,\" she said, \"if you will order one of your men\nto walk, I will get up and ride along with you for a league or two.\nThere is trust for you.\"\n\nEudol appeared entranced with the suggestion. He ordered one of his\nfellows to dismount, to spread a cloak over the saddle, to shorten a\nstirrup leather and give Igraine his knee. The girl was soon mounted,\nseated side fashion with one sandalled foot in the stirrup and one hand\non the pommel to steady her. She flanked Eudol's white mule, and they\nrode on side by side at a level tramp, with the henchmen some twenty\npaces in the rear.\n\nEudol soon waxed fatherly, as was his custom. He twitted Igraine on the\ntemerity of her venture with the senile and pedantic jocosity of an\nold man. He said things that would have been impertinent on the tongue\nof a youngster, and exerted to the full that eccentric fad of age, the\nsupposition that youth needs pleasant patronage and nothing more. Old\nmen, holding young folk to be fools, reserve to their rusty brains the\nprivilege of seeming wise. They are content to straddle the crawling,\nleather-jointed circumspection that they call knowledge. The bird\nflutters to his mate, sings, soars, and is taken before night by the\nfowler. The snail creeps his rheumy round covered with the slime and\nslobber of prudence, to rot in the end under a tree-stump, unless some\ngood throstle cracks him prematurely on a stone. Eudol had something of\nthe snail about him, but he assayed none the less to ape the soaring\nof youth with a very ragged pair of wings. That morning he flew with a\nsenile eagerness for Igraine's favour, and thought himself a match for\nany young man in the matter of light chivalry.\n\n\"Come now, my dear,\" he said, \"let us have a good look at you.\"\n\n\"Well, sir?\"\n\n\"My word, you make a gorgeous nun. Who ever saw such eyes under a hood\nbefore! My dear, you are quite foolhardy to go pilgrimaging alone; men\nare such rogues, and you have such a pretty face.\"\n\nThere was a cringing tone about the old sinner that made Igraine\nthoroughly despise him. He seemed to combine elderly bravado with\nsmooth servility, qualities peculiarly obnoxious to the girl's spirit.\nShe had never liked or trusted Eudol overmuch in the past, but she\nwas at pains to be civil to him now, seeing that he might serve her\nin sundry ways. She took his speeches with outward graciousness, and\nlaughed at him hugely in her heart.\n\nHe began to lecture her in rather egotistical fashion.\n\n\"You must remember, my dear,\" he said, \"that I am a man of the world,\nand one whose experience may be relied upon. I may tell you that my\njudgment is much valued by your good uncle Radamanth, a man of much\nsagacity, but yet one who lacks just that subtle insight into events\nthat I may say has always been my special characteristic. I am so\nexperienced that I may deserve the infinite honour of advising you if\nyou care to tell me where you are going. I have had so much to do with\nthe world, that I can tell you the best tavern in any town this side\nof the Thames where clean and honest lodging may be had. I can inform\nyou as to tolls, prices, customs, bye-laws. Are you soon returning to\nWinchester?\"\n\nIgraine shook her head at him.\n\n\"Who have you been quarrelling with, my dear?\"\n\n\"Myself most.\"\n\n\"To think of it, syrup quarrelling with honey! What will your Lord\nGorlois do?\"\n\nIgraine stifled the question on the instant.\n\n\"Master Eudol, leave that name alone if you want more of my company.\"\n\n\"Pardon, my dear, pardon. I did not know it was so unpleasant a topic.\"\n\n\"I hate the very name of him.\"\n\n\"My dear, such a splendid fellow.\"\n\n\"Detestable boaster.\"\n\n\"Tut, tut,--a very popular nobleman; just the very man for you, and\nvastly rich. Now when I heard that he--that gentleman--\"\n\n\"For God's sake, Master Eudol, leave your chatter.\"\n\nThe old merchant for the moment looked a little taken aback. Then he\nsmiled, pulled his goat's beard, and grew epigrammatic.\n\n\"She who wears a gilded shoe,\" he said, \"will find it pinch in the\nwearing. Stick to your sandals, my dear, and let your pretty white feet\ngo brown in the sun. Better breathe in the open than freeze in a marble\nhouse. Just play the savage and let ambition go hang.\"\n\nIgraine thanked him as though she held his counsel to be of the most\ninestimable value to herself. She was wise enough to know that to\nplease an old man you must take his words in desperate earnest, and\nappear much caught by his supreme sagacity. Eudol smacked his lips and\nwas comfortably warm within himself. He went on to tell the girl that\nhe was riding to a little country manor that he owned some few leagues\nfrom Winchester. He informed her sentimentally that he was a very\nVirgil over his farm and garden. Igraine thought \"Virgil\" might well be\nGreek for \"fool,\" but she hid her ignorance under her hood. Eudol ran\non to dilate on the subtleties of husbandry, making a fine parade of\nexpert phraseology in the doing of it.\n\n\"I see you do not follow me,\" he said presently. \"Young folk are not\nfond of turning over the sods; they love grass for a scamper, not clay\nand dull loam. Shall we talk of petticoats or sarcenet that runs down a\npretty figure like water? Eh, my dear? You set the tune, I'll follow.\"\n\nIgraine contented herself with keeping him to his hobby.\n\n\"My father loved his violet beds,\" she said.\n\n\"Wise man--wise man. A garden makes thoughts sprout as though they\nwould keep time to the leaves. You shall see my garden. Let me see,\nwhat road are you for following?\"\n\n\"The road to fortune, Master Eudol.\"\n\n\"Truth, then, it must run near my doorway. The good woman who keeps\nhouse for me will make you most welcome. You must rest on your journey.\"\n\n\"You are very good.\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it, my dear. I shall call you St. Igraine--hee, hee!--and\nyou will ripen all the apples in my orchard by looking at 'em. Faith,\nam I not a wag?\"\n\n\"You ought to be at court, sir.\"\n\n\"Hee, hee!\"\n\n\"You would make all the young squires red with envy.\"\n\n\"My dear, my dear!\"\n\n\"Truth.\"\n\n\"To flatter an old man so--\"\n\n\"But you are really such a courtier.\"\n\nEudol squirmed and chuckled in the grotesquest fashion.\n\n\"Assuredly we make very good friends,\" he said.\n\nEudol's manor nearly halved the mileage between Sarum and the royal\ntown of Winchester, and Igraine found his suggestion quite a happy help\nto her plans. If needs be, she could bide the night there and make\nSarum next day with but trivial trouble. She was glad in a way that\nshe had fallen in with Eudol, for the ride had proved quite a charity\nto her, and his antique vanities had passed the time better than more\nmodest characteristics could have done. Her only fear was lest he\nshould cheat her, and send word to Radamanth. Accordingly she spoke to\nhim again about her flight, and made him promise on the Cross that he\nwould not betray her whereabouts. Eudol, silly soul, was ready enough\nby now to promise her almost anything.\n\nAbout noon they halted and made a meal, with a flat stone lying under\nthe shade of a tree for table. Eudol drank quite enough wine to quicken\nhis failings, and to lull what common sense he had to sleep. He became\nso maudlin, so supremely sentimental, that Igraine had much ado to\nthrottle her laughter. She quite feared for him when they had to get\nto horse again. His men had to hoist him into the saddle between them.\nOnce there he seemed quite arrogantly confident of his seat, and being\na hardy old gentleman at the pot he soon steadied down into comparative\ndocility, managing his mule as though there had been no such luxury as\ndinner. He was more garrulous and fatherly than ever; now and again he\nhad to quench a hiccough; otherwise he was only an exaggerated portrait\nof himself.\n\nAn hour's ride brought them to Eudol's own pastures. He pointed out his\nsheep to Igraine amid the clanking of their diverse bells, and told her\nthe profits of the last shearing. Soon the house edged into view, a\nhomely place set back an arrow's flight from the road, and ringed round\nwith a score or so old trees. It was a green and quiet spot, mellow\nwith the warm comfort of pastureland and wood. A pool twinkled in the\nmeadows, through which ran a small stream.\n\nThere was no bridge over the brook; the track crossed it by a shallow\nford where the water gurgled over pebbles. The banks were loose and\ncrumbling, and the trackway littered with stones. Eudol's mule went\nover sure-footed as a goat, but Igraine's horse, slipping on the slope,\nset a fore-hoof on a shifting stone, and rolled down with a crash. The\ngirl did not avoid in time, and the brute's body pinned her ankle. She\nfelt the sinews crack, and the stones bruise her flesh. For a moment\nshe was in danger of the animal's plunges to rise, but one of the men\ncame up and seized the bridle, while his fellow drew Igraine clear.\n\nEudol climbed down, splashed through the water, and came up puffing\nsympathy. Igraine tried to walk, but gave up with a wry face. The men\nhelped her to the grass bank, where she sat down, with Eudol fussing\nround her like an old woman. He sent the men on to the manor to bring\na bed; and seeing that Igraine had grown white from the wrench, he ran\nfor the wine-flask at his saddle-bow and urged her to drink. The girl\nhad more fear of a spoilt journey than a cracked bone, and feeling\nfaint for the moment, she suffered Eudol, and took the wine. The old\nman was on his knees by her stroking her hand, his thin beard wagging,\nand his glazed eyes vinously sympathetic. When the men came back with\nthe bed they laid Igraine thereon, and bore her through the meadows to\nthe house, Eudol following like a spaniel at their heels.\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n\nWhile Igraine slept in the abbey dormitory and dreamt of Pelleas, the\nman Gorlois burnt on the grid of his own passions, and found no peace\nfor his soul.\n\nThe night sky was not a whit more black than his spirit, and his\nsinister cogitations were chequered ever with palpitating points of\nfire. The restless fever of an unfed leopard seemed his, and he was\nin and out of his tumbled, sleepless bed ten times before dawn. Only\na boar-hound kept him company, a savage red-eyed brute whose temper\nsuited that of his master; the dog followed Gorlois as he wandered from\nbed-chamber to atrium, out from the peristyles to the garden, down\nwalks of yew and cypress, between the beds of helicryse and asphodel,\nover the smooth lawns clear in the eye of the moon. There was an evil\nthing in Gorlois's thought, a thing fit for beggarly disrelish, yet\nvery white and lovely to look upon. He stalked like a ghost in the\nnight, biting his lips, looking into the dark with red and eager eyes.\nHow often he reached out in naked thought and clasped only the air. He\ncursed himself and the woman, honoured and abused her in one breath,\ngrew hot and cold like a live coal played upon by a fickle wind.\n\nAs soon as dawn came he had a plunge and a swim in a pool in the\ngarden, and having suffered the ceremony of a state toilet, went out\nunattended into the town. It was the very hour when Igraine was shaking\nher fist at Winchester for thought of him, but Gorlois was spared the\nprick of self-knowledge and the frank truth of the girl's distaste. He\nthought her nothing more than a shrew, and the possessor of a splendid\ntemper. His long legs and the heat at his heart soon took him down\nthrough the quiet streets and the market square to Radamanth's house.\n\nEarly as was the hour, the goldsmith had escaped sloth and was busy at\nhis ledgers in his little counting-house behind the parlour. Gorlois\ncame in in great state, with the serving wench who announced him\nfeasting her curiosity on his face with a sheepish giggle. Radamanth,\nfetched from his figures, bowed very low, and made the gentleman a\nmost obsequious welcome. He was wondering what Gorlois's humour might\nbe after the repulse of yesterday. To tell the truth, Radamanth felt\nsomewhat ashamed of the trick he had served Igraine, and he was none\ntoo eager to meet his niece, seeing that she still seemed determined to\nhide her anger in her room. His doubts as to Gorlois's mood were set at\nrest by that gentleman's somewhat saturnine opening.\n\n\"Radamanth!\"\n\n\"Your honour's servant.\"\n\n\"I have come to make peace.\"\n\n\"Your lordship's magnanimity is phenomenal.\"\n\n\"Was I over hasty, goldsmith?\"\n\n\"A young man's way, my lord; no fault at all. Many's the time I had my\nface smacked as a youngster, and was none the worse in favour. Take no\nserious view, sir, but press her the harder. She'll give in--my faith,\nyes, being young and full of bone. You are troubled, my lord, with too\nmuch conscience.\"\n\n\"Have you seen the woman since?\"\n\nRadamanth raised his eyebrows and shrugged.\n\n\"Well, no,\" he said. \"I am afraid my niece has rather a hot\nspirit--breeding, my lord--proud blood in her.\"\n\n\"I know that part of her nobleness well enough.\"\n\nRadamanth refrained a moment from a sense of discretion.\n\n\"My lord would see her?\"\n\n\"I'll not budge till I have done so.\"\n\n\"You understand women?\"\n\nGorlois smiled a peculiar smile.\n\n\"I have wit enough,\" he said. \"I have my plan.\"\n\n\"If it please you, sir, to go into the garden, I will endeavour to send\nher to you.\"\n\n\"No more locking of doors, goldsmith.\"\n\n\"Sir, I contemn my late indiscretion in your service.\"\n\nGorlois passed out by a long passage into the gardens, with its green\nleaves shelving to the river, while Radamanth, half a coward at heart,\nwent towards the stair that led to Igraine's chamber. Halfway up he\nmet the girl Lilith coming down, very white and frightened looking, as\nthough she dreaded her father's face. Radamanth kissed her, and asked\nfor Igraine. Then her distraught look dawned on him in the twilight of\nthe stairway, and made him suddenly suspicious.\n\n\"Is Igraine awake?\"\n\nLilith hid her face in his sleeve.\n\n\"Speak, girl, what's amiss?\"\n\n\"The room is empty.\"\n\n\"What!\"\n\n\"Igraine has left us,\" said the girl with a stifled whimper.\n\nRadamanth, sage and solemn soul, lapsed into the sin of blasphemy.\n\n\"When did you learn this, girl?\"\n\n\"Father--\"\n\n\"Quick now, don't lie.\"\n\nHe shook her by the shoulder.\n\n\"Father, be gentle with me.\"\n\n\"Quick, hussy.\"\n\n\"I can't, I can't.\"\n\nRadamanth took her firmly by the wrist and brought her with no very\nconsiderate care into the parlour.\n\n\"Now,\" he said, thrusting her into a chair, \"you atom of ingratitude,\ntell me what you know.\"\n\nLilith began to sob. She hid her face behind her fingers and dared not\nlook at Radamanth. The goldsmith chafed and paced the room, hectoring\nher.\n\n\"Don't think to fool me,\" he said; \"you know more yet; you would have\nanswered before if there had been any truth in you.\"\n\nRadamanth's harshness seemed certainly to calm the girl, and to conjure\nup some passing antagonism in her heart.\n\n\"The blame is yours, father.\"\n\n\"Impertinent child.\"\n\n\"Igraine was angry with you.\"\n\n\"Well, have I not treated her like a daughter?\"\n\n\"She fled away last night.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"You do.\"\n\n\"I don't, father; 'tis truth.\"\n\nThe girl's brown eyes appealed to him tearfully; she was honest enough,\nand Radamanth knew it. He took her sincerity for granted and proceeded\nto question her further.\n\n\"How was she clothed, child?\"\n\nLilith looked at the floor and plucked at her gown with her fingers.\n\n\"Do you hear me?\"\n\n\"Yes, father.\"\n\n\"Then answer at once.\"\n\n\"I can't.\"\n\n\"Upon my soul--\"\n\n\"Igraine made me promise.\"\n\nRadamanth lost his temper again and began to bluster like a March wind.\nLilith's cheeks were wet with her tears; they ran down and dropped into\nher lap like little crystals. She shook and sobbed in her chair, but\nanswered not a word, a martyr to her promises. Then Radamanth, man of\nmoney-bags and craft, found something wherewith to loose her tongue.\n\n\"Listen,\" he said; \"a certain lad never enters this house again, and\nyou never again have speech with him, unless you answer me this at\nonce.\"\n\nThe mean measure triumphed. Lilith's tears never ceased, but she gave\nway at last, and hating herself, told Radamanth what he wanted. Then he\nleft her there to whimper by herself, and went into the garden to speak\nwith Gorlois.\n\nThe Count of Cornwall guessed from the merchant's face that matters had\nfallen out ill for him somewhere. He forestalled Radamanth's confession\nwith an impatient gust of words.\n\n\"She is still in a deuce of a temper?\"\n\n\"My lord, it is otherwise.\"\n\n\"Then why so glum--man, have I not uncovered ingots of gold for you if\nI wed?\"\n\nRadamanth held his hands up like a priest giving a blessing. Any one\nmight have thought him grieved to death by the ingratitude of his\nniece's desertion. The goldsmith dealt in coarser sentiment.\n\n\"My lord, the girl has forsaken my house and fled.\"\n\nGorlois had half expected some such news. He said nothing, but merely\nstared at Radamanth with dark masterful eyes, while his fingers played\nwith the tassels of his belt. His heart was already away over moor and\ndale chasing the gleam of a golden head of hair.\n\n\"When did you miss her, goldsmith?\"\n\n\"She crept away at dusk yesterday.\"\n\n\"Whither?\"\n\n\"Heaven knows, my lord.\"\n\n\"How dressed?\"\n\n\"As a grey nun.\"\n\n\"Has she gone back to the Church?\"\n\n\"She did not love such a life, my lord.\"\n\n\"By God, no.\"\n\nGorlois frowned a moment in thought. The scent of the girl's dress was\nstill in his nostrils, and her eyes haunted him. Then he turned past\nRadamanth to go, hitching up his sword belt, a significant habit he had\nlearnt long ago.\n\n\"I shall find her,\" he said.\n\n\"Good, my lord.\"\n\n\"I have your countenance.\"\n\n\"Be kind to the girl, sir.\"\n\n\"I could go to hell for her.\"\n\n\"My lord, why not try heaven?\"\n\n\"A good jest.\"\n\n\"Men always go to hell for things,\" said the goldsmith.\n\nThere was life and stir enough in Gorlois's great house when its master\ncame back that morning. Gorlois's orders were like a torch to tinder.\nMen went to every wind, some to the gates, some to the market, others\nto the religious houses and the inns, all bent on striking the trail of\na nun's grey gown. The men knew their master's mood, and the measure of\nhis pulse on such occasions. Gorlois bided quiet in his garden, more\nlike a leopard than a lover. He had made up his mind to catch Igraine,\nand to win mastery of her, hook or by crook, since she chose to play\nthe shrew and mar his wooing. It was not likely that one of the first\nmen in Britain should be baffled by the temper of a goldsmith's niece.\n\nAbout noon a certain slave who had gone out to net news came back with\nmuch elation and claimed his lord's ear. Brought in before Gorlois, he\ntold how he had talked with a boy selling fruit in the market-place,\nand how the boy, when questioned, had told him of a nun he had seen\nsitting under a tree by the road to Sarum that very morning. The lad\nhad described her as a very beautiful lady with large eyes, and a cloud\nof red-brown hair, and that she wore a grey nun's habit somewhat torn\nand travel-stained. Gorlois thought he recognised Igraine, and gave the\nslave fifty acres and his freedom on the instant. Waiting for further\nnews, word was brought him that a grey nun had been marked by the guard\ngoing out of the western gate not very long after dawn. Later still\nGorlois heard of such a nun, calling herself Melib\u0153a, having lodged the\nnight at the great abbey of St. Helena.\n\nGorlois held himself in leash no longer. He buckled on his richly gilt\narmour, and his great white horse was saddled and brought into the\ncourt. Not a knight would he have at his back, neither groom nor page.\nGetting to horse in the full welt of the afternoon sun, he rode out\nof Winchester alone by the western gate, watched of many people. Once\nclear of the town he pricked incontinently for Sarum, lusting much to\ncatch Igraine upon the way.\n\nAbout that very same hour Eudol was exerting himself in Igraine's\nservice in the manor farm in the meadows.\n\nThe men had carried her up from the ford and set her at her own seeking\nin a shady place in the garden where she might lie at peace. It was\na pleasant nook enough where they had set her bed, a patch of bright\ngreen grass with a bank of flowers on one hand and dense laurel hedge\nhiding it from the track to the house on the other. A vine trained upon\npoles raised a pleasant pavilion there. Autumn would soon be whispering\nin the woods, and already some few leaves were ribbed with gold and\nmaroon.\n\nEudol played the physician and made a very critical examination of her\nankle. He prided himself, among his other vanities, on having studied\nGalen, and since the healing craft is often a matter of phenomenal\nwords and wise nothings, Eudol might have outphysicked Gildas at his\nown game. The art of medicine is the art of hypocrisy, and the sage\napothecary is often a broken reed trembling in the wind of ignorance.\nEudol, having no reputation at stake, pronounced Igraine's hurt to be\na mere strain of the ankle-joint, and, as it happened, he was right.\nHe swathed her foot in wet linen and set it on a pillow, while the\nwoman who kept house for him, a red-cheeked piece of buxomness, brought\nwine and food-stuff on a tray. Seeing a nun's habit the good woman was\ncomforted, and indulged Igraine with many smiles and much motherly care.\n\nEudol came and sat beside her with a great book on his knee, Virgil's\nBucolics, as he told her, and writ most learnedly for the edification\nof the wise. Eudol read very little of the book that afternoon. The\nvolume abode with him for effect, but he preferred rather to dwell upon\nthe more Ovidian interest of the girl beside him, and to talk to her\nin his familiar and fatherly fashion. He made many sly attempts to get\nthe purpose of her pilgrimage from her, but Igraine had enough wit to\nkeep him discreetly mystified on the subject. She was wondering all the\nwhile how long her strained ankle would keep her to her bed.\n\nEudol smothered her with offers of hospitality.\n\n\"On my word you shall not be dull,\" he said, \"though there is only an\nold man to entertain you. One day you shall ride out in a litter to my\nvineyards, another you shall be carried out a-hunting. I have a little\nwench here who can harp and sing like a mermaid. By the poets, I can\nmake you quite a merry time.\"\n\nIgraine made the best smile she could, and thanked him.\n\n\"You must not put yourself out for me.\"\n\n\"Nonsense.\"\n\n\"You are very good.\"\n\nEudol shook his finger with most earnest expression.\n\n\"My dear lady, it is duty, duty,\" he said.\n\nThey had not been so very long in the garden when Igraine's quick\near caught the sharp and rhythmic smite of hoofs on the stony track\nacross the meadows. The sound disquieted her, for she was in the mood\nfor dreads and suspicions. Listening to make sure that the sound\napproached, she appealed to Eudol and asked him to look and see who\nrode for the manor. There was a little wicket-gate some way down the\nlaurel hedge carefully screened by shrubs. Eudol went to it, and\nscanned the meadows under his hand. He came back somewhat flustered to\nIgraine, and told her that a knight in gilded armour mounted on a white\nhorse was riding up the track to the house.\n\nIgraine started up on her bed with her eyes very big and suspicious.\n\n\"It is Gorlois,\" she said.\n\n\"Heavens, my dear!\"\n\n\"You have not been lying to me?\"\n\n\"On my soul--no.\"\n\nIgraine touched her forehead with her hand, and looked askance at the\nsun.\n\n\"Master Eudol, if you would serve me, go and fool the man--send him\naway.\"\n\n\"My dear child--\"\n\n\"He must not see the servants or have speech with them.\"\n\n\"But--\"\n\n\"I command you, go and speak to him; he is very near.\"\n\nEudol looked at her with his lower lip a-droop. His grey-green eyes met\nIgraine's, gleamed, and faltered. He bent over the bed.\n\n\"I will do my best. Give me a kiss, my dear. By Augustus, I will get\nrid of Gorlois if I can.\"\n\nHe went out quickly by the wicket-gate, and closing it after him,\nwaited for the knight to approach. There were no slaves about, and\nEudol remembered with confidence that his men were in the corn fields,\nwell away to the north. Gorlois came up with the splendid arrogance\nthat so suited him, his rich armour glowing above the white flanks of\nhis horse, his spear balanced on his thigh. Eudol went forward some\npaces to meet him, as though to learn his business. Igraine, listening\nbehind the laurel hedge, heard their words as plainly as though the two\nmen were but three paces away.\n\n\"Greeting, sir,\" said Eudol's thin voice.\n\nThen she heard Gorlois's clear sharp tenor questioning him. She heard\nhim ask whether a grey nun had called for food, or whether Eudol had\nseen or heard of such a person. She heard the old man's meandering\nnegative, and Gorlois's retort that a grey nun had been seen riding\nbeside a merchant on a white mule. Igraine's heart seemed to race and\nthunder. Eudol, rising to the event, suggested that the merchant might\nbe a certain fabulous person from Aqu\u00e6 Sulis; a man of means, he said,\nwho often came by Sarum to Winchester in the fur trade. He hinted that\nthe knight might overtake them on the road, or discover them at Sarum\nthat evening. Gorlois fell to the suggestion. Igraine heard him inquire\nfurther of Eudol, speak to his horse, and ride away with a ringing\nclatter. She sat on her couch behind her laurel rampart and laughed.\n\nEudol came back to her, pleased as possible.\n\n\"How was that done,--sweeting?\"\n\n\"Nobly,\" laughed Igraine.\n\n\"The Virgin pardon me; what perjury for a pair of lips.\"\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\n\nNothing is more chafing to the patience than to lie abed crippled,\nknowing the while that coveted hours are slipping through one's fingers\nlike grains of gold. To Igraine, her maimed ankle was a very thorn\nin the flesh. Her thoughts were tugging to be at Sarum, and she was\nin continual fear lest Radamanth or Gorlois should track her to her\ntemporary refuge, and attempt to mar her freedom. She was not a woman\nwho could take hindrance with perfect philosophy, comforting herself\nwith the reflection that care never yet salved unrest. She chafed at\ndelay, and even blamed Eudol with great unreason because he had obliged\nher with a horse not proof against stumbling.\n\nThe knowledge that Gorlois rode in search of her did not tend to the\neasing of her mind. She began to understand Gorlois to the full. He had\nbetrayed so much of himself in Radamanth's garden that her dread grew\nnearly as great as her disrelish.\n\nEudol had made her comfortable enough in his manor, she had no need to\nfind fault with his hospitality. She had her own room, a little girl to\nwait and sing to her, fruit and food of the best. She spent the greater\npart of each day in the garden, her bed being set under the vine\nleaves; two of Eudol's slaves would carry her down in the morning and\nbear her back again at night, so that she should not be too venturesome\nin trying her ankle. The old merchant kept his folk close on the farm\nand suffered none to go to Winchester or Salisbury, for fear lest the\nknowledge of Igraine's whereabouts should leak into interested channels.\n\nThe more the girl saw of Eudol the less she relished him in her heart.\nThe lean look of him, his little green eyes, his thin goat-like beard,\nreminded her much of the picture of some old Satyr she had seen in\nthe frescoes on the walls of the triclinium at Winchester. He grew\nmore fatherly and kind to her, would smile like some old saint as he\nsat and read moralities to her from the lives of some of the Fathers.\nHe was very fond of holding her hand and stroking it while he purred\nsentiment, and made her colour to hear his nonsense. He was quite\nwickedly delighted when he had fetched a blush to her face. He would\nsit and chuckle and hug himself, while his little eyes glistened and\nhis beard shook. Igraine, though her cheeks often tingled, did her\nbest to suffer him, knowing well enough that she was greatly dependent\nfor her peace of mind upon his good-will. She would laugh, turn his\nsenile flatteries into jest, and assume his humour as the most vapoury\nand fanciful piece of fun possible. She often hinted that Eudol must\nbe neglecting his farm for her sake, though her suggestions were\nabsolutely to no purpose, seeing that Eudol had forgotten all about\nsuch mundane matters as harvesting or the pressing of cider.\n\nOne afternoon they had a shrewd fright, and the incident led in its\nfinal development to Igraine's leaving the manor in the meadows. She\nwas in the garden with Eudol when two horsemen wearing Gorlois's livery\nrode up to the gate and demanded entertainment with much froth and\nbombast. They were sturdy hot-tongued rogues, quick at liquor, quicker\nstill at blasphemy. Eudol, much flustered, had them brought into the\nhouse and set loose upon a wine flask while he smuggled Igraine out of\nthe garden. There was a barn standing on the other side of a little\nmeadow near the house, and the building was screened by a fringe of\npines and a thorn hedge. Eudol hurried Igraine to the barn, saw her\ncouched on a pile of hay, closed the door on her, and scampered back to\ntake great care of Gorlois's gentlemen.\n\nEudol proved a most obsequious and attentive host. He kept the men\nprimed with wine, watched them like a lynx, forbade his slaves and\nservants the room so that there should be no chance of gossip. The\nfellows thought themselves well harboured. Eudol, hardy old tipster,\nkept them going with a will, till they swore he was the best old\ngentleman at his cups they had met this side of the Thames. He\nout-drank, out-yarned, out-jested the pair of them. Grown very mellow\ntowards evening, they vowed by all the calendar that they loved him so\nmuch they would make a night of it, and not go to bed till they were\ncarried. Eudol could have denied himself their great esteem, but there\nwas nothing for it but to humour them.\n\nHe got rid of the fellows next morning, when they went away sadly, very\nglazed about the eyes, swearing they would pay him another visit at\ntheir very earliest opportunity. Eudol, when they were out of sight,\nwent out to the barn and found Igraine comfortably couched there on\na mass of hay. The little maid who served her had brought her supper\non the sly the night before, and she had fared well enough in her new\nquarters.\n\nAs a matter of fact Eudol had had a parting cup with the men that\nmorning, and had hardly outbreathed as yet the maudlin heritage gotten\nthe previous night. He kissed Igraine's hand, mumbled his usual\ncourtesies, excused his long absence with a warmth that nearly brought\nhim to tears. He was somewhat flushed over the cheek bones; his eyes\nwere bright, and his breath pregnant with the heavy scent of wine.\nIgraine wiped the hand he had kissed on her gown, looked at him with\nlittle love or gratitude, and told him that she had been trying to\nwalk, and that her ankle bore her passably.\n\nEudol, edging near, proceeded to narrate at preposterous length how\nhe had kept Gorlois's men employed, made them drunk as cobblers, and\npacked them off innocently to Winchester that morning. He was hugely\nsly over it all. He came and climbed up beside Igraine on the hay, and\npinched her arm with his lean fingers as he talked. There was a gaunt,\nred, eager look about his face. It was quite twilight in the great\nbarn, and a mingled smell of hay and pitch-pine filled the air, while\ndusty beams of light filtered through in steady streams.\n\nEudol's vinous and fatherly solicitude developed abruptly into an\nabsurd revelation of his inner self. He had hold of Igraine's arm with\none hand. Leaving go suddenly, he reached for her waist, poked his grey\nbeard into her face, and made a clumsy dab at her cheek. In a moment\nthe girl's arm had swept him backwards like an impotent bag of bones.\nShe saw him overbalance and roll off the haycock on to the edge of a\nscythe. Without waiting for more, and with a glimpse of the old fool's\nslippers still in the air, she slipped down from the hay and out of the\nbarn, and shutting the door, pegged the catch with a piece of wood.\nThen she went laughing half resentfully towards the house, and told\nDame Ph\u0153be that her master had gone to the fields to oversee his slaves.\n\nThe woman had taken a remarkable dislike to Igraine, being sulky-eyed\nand dumb-saucy in her presence as far as she dared. The grey nun told\nher that she was ending her sojourn at the farm that morning, and was\ngoing on foot for the west. The woman's face changed as suddenly as a\nspring sky. She was suave and smiling instanter, ready with queries\nas to Igraine's ankle, very eager to pack her wallet with stuff from\nEudol's larder. Igraine, with an inward flush, saw how the wind blew.\nShe was keen to be gone before Eudol should be loosed from the barn;\neven the woman's changed mood seemed a tacit insult in itself.\n\nShe was soon treading the meadows where the backs of Eudol's sheep\nstood out like white boulders on the solitary stretch of green. The\ncountry began to be as flat as a table, though there were still masses\nof woodland piled on either side the great white road. Igraine kept in\namong the trees with just a glimpse of the highway to keep her to her\nmark. Her grey gown passed almost unperceptibly among the mould-grown\ntrunks as she went in the chequered light like a grey mouse through\ngreen corn. Her ankle bore her better than she had prophesied, and\nshe made fair travelling at a modest pace. Later in the afternoon the\nstrain began to tell in measure, and her ankle ached and felt hot, as\nthough she had done enough. Sitting down on a fallen tree she watched\nthe road, and waited for some one to pass.\n\nA charcoal burner went by with a couple of asses panniered up with a\ncomfortable load. Then came two soldiers and a couple of light wenches\nwho haunted camp and castle and lived to the minute. Next, a great wain\nhalf ladened up with faggots came lumbering along, drawn by a pair of\nsleepy horses, and driven by a peasant in a green smock and leather\nbreeches. Igraine took her choice, and going down from the trees, stood\nby the roadside, and begged of the man a lift.\n\nSeeing a nun looking up at him the man reined in, climbed down cap in\nhand, and louted low to her. There was some clean straw spread over\nthe boards at the bottom of the cart. The man helped her up on to the\ntail-board and raked the straw into a heap to make her a seat. Then\nthey lumbered on again towards Sarum.\n\nIn due course she began to talk to the man as he sat on a couple of\nfaggots and held the ropes. He was an honest, ignorant fellow, with a\nmuch whiskered face that wore a perpetual look of kindly stupidity.\nIgraine sought to know whether he was going as far as Sarum. The man\nshook his bushy head like an amiable ogre, and told her that he was for\nhis lord's manor some two leagues distant, where he served as woodman\nand ranger, or soldier when there was need of steel. He commended his\nlord's house to her for lodging, with a solid faith in the generosity\nof its board. Questioned as to other habitations, he told her of a\nhermit's cell set in a little dale in the woods, a cell where wandering\nfolk often found harbour for the night. Igraine made up her mind to\nchoose the ascetic's bread and water, having had enough of the world's\nwelcome. Possibly in some dim and distant way she began to realise the\nintense and engrained selfishness of the human heart.\n\nThe man of faggots, believing her a holy woman, soon began to relate\nhis domestic troubles to her with a most touching reverence. He told\nher how his wife had been abed two months from her last childbirth, and\nhow sad and dirty his little cabin was for lack of her hands. He asked\nIgraine to put the woman in her bede-role, a simple favour that she\ngranted readily enough. Then the fellow with some stolid pathos went\non to describe how his eldest lad, a boy of eight, had caught a fever\nthrough sleeping in the woods after rain, and how he had fallen sick.\n\n\"I went to a good monk,\" said the man, \"and bought holy water and a\npinch of dust from a saint's coffin. Pardy! but it cost me a year's\nsavings. The good father bade me pour the water on the boy's head and\nshake the dust over his body. Glad I was, holy sister; I ran five miles\nhome to cure the lad.\"\n\n\"And he is well?\"\n\nThe man gave a doleful whistle.\n\n\"The boy died,\" said he with pathetic candour, and a short catch in his\nvoice. \"I didn't sleep two whole nights. Then I kissed my woman, mopped\nher eyes, and went and told the priest.\"\n\nIgraine merely nodded.\n\n\"Ah, the dear father, he told me 'twas God's will, and that the blessed\ndust had drifted the lad straight to heaven, where he would be singing\nnext King David like any lord. So he came and buried the boy, and there\nwas an end on't.\"\n\nIgraine for the moment felt heavy about the eyes.\n\n\"I should like to see him there in his little white stole,\" she said.\n\"Do you know, goodman, why so many children die?\"\n\n\"Faith, madame, I have no learning,\" said the fellow with a dumb stare.\n\n\"Because the great God loves to have children laughing for love of him\nin heaven.\"\n\n\"Is't so?\"\n\n\"That is why he took your boy.\"\n\nThe man's face brightened with a new dignity.\n\n\"Little Rual was ever a gentle child,\" he said. \"I must tell my woman;\nit will just make her happy.\"\n\n\"I will pray for her health.\"\n\n\"God bless you, holy lady, you have a wise, kind heart.\"\n\nIgraine blushed, but said nothing.\n\nPresently the man stopped his horses, and pointed her to a little path\nthat led, he said, to the hermitage. He helped Igraine out of the cart,\nand knelt on the road for her to give him a blessing. Igraine had\na Latin phrase or two from Avangel, and the benediction was earnest\nenough in spirit, though it lacked genuine authority. Then she took\nthe path through trees, and left the man standing cap in hand by his\nwaggon. Her brief ride with him had done her heart good.\n\nA mile's walk through unkempt pastures and straggling thickets brought\nher to an open dale set beneath the shoulder of a wooded hill. On the\ngrass slope over against her she saw the hermitage--a grey cell of\nunfaced stone standing in a garden in a grove of ancient thorns. By the\nrivulet that ran half hid by undergrowth a figure in a brown cassock\nwas drawing water. Passing down over the water, Igraine overtook the\nrecluse halfway up the slope to the hermitage garden. She remarked\nhis bald head fringed with a mournful halo of hair, his stooping\nshoulders, his ungainly weak-kneed gait. Hearing her tread behind him\nhe turned a tanned face to her, a face that brought forth a smile of\nbrotherly greeting at sight of a nun. Igraine, by way of creating good\nfeeling, took his water pot and carried it for him, pleading youth in\nextenuation of the service.\n\nThere was a keen yet kindly sapience about the old man's big-nosed face\nthat caught her fancy. He was a bit of a cynic on the surface, but warm\nas good earth at heart. Igraine confessed her need of a lodging for the\nnight, and the man retorted bluntly with the remark that the hermitage\nwas not his house,--but only a refuge to bury strangers in. Pointing to\na great slab of stone that stood near the little cell, he told her that\nthe stone had been his bed, summer and winter, these fifteen years, and\nthat dew, rain, frost, and snow had worked their will upon his body\nand found it leather. The confession, pithily--almost humorously--put,\nwithout a trace of rodomontade, set the girl smiling. She looked at the\nman's brown buckram skin and congratulated him, embodying her flattery\nin a little jest that seemed to catch the ascetic fancy. He commended\nit with a patriarchal twinkle, and throwing open the door of his cell\nsurrendered her its shelter.\n\nIgraine soon fathomed the shallow compass of the hermitage. It held\ntwo pallet beds, some rude furniture and crockery, and such things as\nwere necessary to the old man's craft, namely a scourge, a calthrop set\non the end of an iron chain, a coat made of furze, a garland of thorn\ntwigs, and a pair of spiked sandals. Gardening tools were piled in a\ncorner. Over the doorway hung a rusty suit of harness and a red crusted\nsword. Here in this narrow place the war tools of world and church were\nmingled.\n\nIgraine turned back into the hermitage garden. It was a quiet spot,\nwebbed with the faery tracery of flowers and flowering shrubs, golden\nwith helichryse, full of the mist of unshorn grass, bright with the\nwater of its little fish-pool, where the ferns grew thick. A low wattle\nfence, climbed about by late-seasoned roses of red, shut the whole\nwithin its rustic pale. Some of the herb beds were cut into symbols of\nholy things, and a bay tree had been laboriously pruned into the rude\nimage of a cross. A number of doves peopled the place, flocking about\nthe hermit as he worked, often lighting on his hands or shoulders,\nwhile an old hound dozed in the sun, or followed at his heels. Peace\nseemed over the little refuge like a tranquil sky.\n\nThe hermit handed Igraine a hoe, as a matter of custom, and set her\nto work on the weeds in a neglected corner, while he busied his hands\nwith pruning some of his rose trees, and removing the clay and linen\nfrom his grafts. He was by no means the solemn, dismal soul or the\nkindly simpleton Igraine might have expected. He had a keen, world-wise\nair about him that made him seem a sort of Christian Diogenes, and it\nwas plain that he had lived much among men. The mingled austerity and\nhappiness of his habits, when set beside his inwardly sympathetic yet\nsomewhat cynic humour, gave a strong interest to his personality that\nquite commanded Igraine's liking. Despite the vast responsibilities of\nman, as he himself put it, he was not above having a jest at life in\ngeneral. \"For,\" said he, as he pruned his rose bushes, \"he who knows\nand obeys the truth can of all men afford to be merry.\"\n\nIgraine, smiling through the boughs, agreed with him from her heart.\n\n\"There are no sour faces in heaven,\" she said.\n\n\"Assuredly not,\" said the hermit almost fiercely.\n\n\"Then why such mortifications of the flesh, father?\"\n\nLooking up from his pruning, he beamed over the world.\n\n\"I am a very human rogue.\"\n\n\"Human!\"\n\n\"Well, you see, sister, _mea culpa_, I loved the world when I was in it\nlike my own life, and even now if I did not gnash upon myself I should\ngrow frivolous at times. When I have spent a night in the rain, or\nplied my scourge, it is marvellous how swiftly vain the fabrics of a\nvaunting pride become. 'I am dust, I am dust,' I cry, and am sound at\nheart again. I look upon bread and olives and a draught of river water\nas true godsends. Having endured exceeding discomfort of the flesh, I\nam as happy in the sun here among my flowers as a mortal could be.\"\n\nIgraine rested on her hoe, and put her head back, while the evening\nlight gave her hair a rare metallic lustre.\n\n\"You believe in a life of contrasts, father?\"\n\nThe old man became suddenly more serious.\n\n\"To tell you the truth,\" he said, \"I have found that by making myself\nfanatically uncomfortable so many hours a day, I can attain for the\nrest of it that simple, contented, and heaven-soaring mood that belongs\nto the honest Christian. Man's great peril is apathy, and my customs\nsave me from sleepy ease. There is such a thing as living to pander\nto the flesh; it is the creed of the majority. In order to enjoy a\ntruly spiritual end, I annihilate the appetites of the body, and _ecce\nhomo_,--merry, conscience whole, clean.\"\n\nIgraine resumed her harrowing of reprobate green-stuff.\n\n\"I suppose your doctrine is right for yourself,\" she said.\n\nAn answer came back to her leisurely over the rose bush.\n\n\"To the backbone, sister. Yet I am not one who would thrust my habits\ndown other men's throats simply because the said habits happen to suit\nmy soul. All religious methods are a matter of individual experiment.\nOne man may feel more Christian if he drinks wine instead of water;\nif so--by all the prophets--let him have his wine. I hold doctrinal\ntyranny to be the greatest curse in Christendom.\"\n\nIgraine agreed with him like a sister.\n\nSoon the sun went down with a flood of gold over the trees, the little\npool put off sheeny samite for black velvet, and the doves flew up to\nroost. The hermit in a genial mood went to his vesper meditations.\nIgraine saw him kneel down before the great stone with his scourge and\ncrucifix beside him. She was still carnal enough to prefer the thin\ncomfort of a pallet bed in the hermitage to stone or mother earth.\nWhen it had grown dark and very still she heard the swish of the steel\nscourge, and the man's mutterings mingled with the occasional baying\nof his dog. This phase of mind was, at her age, quite incomprehensible\nto her. She remembered to pray that night for the peasant's wife who\nhad been sick in bed so long, and for the little lad who lay under the\ngreen grass. Then she went to sleep thinking of Pelleas.\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\n\nRadamanth the goldsmith had not wasted the hours since his niece had\nfled Winchester and his house in the dark. He was a man who did not let\nan enterprise slip into the limbo of the past till he had attempted\nhonestly, and dishonestly, for that matter, to bring it to a successful\nissue. He had set his heart on getting Igraine married to one of the\nfirst lords in the island, and he also had skew ideas as to brimming up\nhis own coffers. Taking it for granted that Lilith and the girl had\nnot been close friends for weeks together without sharing secrets, and\nbeing also strongly of the opinion that Igraine's perversity arose out\nof some previous affair, he laid methodical siege to his daughter's\nconfidences, and cast a parental dyke about her that should compel her\nto open every gate and alley to his scrutiny.\n\nLilith, amiable, but weak as milk, was soon worn into surrender by her\nfather's methods. He had an unfailing lash wherewith to quicken her\napprehension, in that young Mark, the armourer's son, should be barred\nthe house unless she bent to the parental edicts. Lilith soon brought\nherself to believe that after all there could not be so much disloyalty\nin telling certain of Igraine's adventures to her father. Radamanth,\nbit by bit, had the whole tale of the way from Avangel to Winchester.\nSeeing how often Igraine--woman-wise--had pictured her man to Lilith,\nthe goldsmith won a clear perception of the strange knight's person,\nhow he rode a black horse, wore red armour, bore a red dragon on a\ngreen shield, and was called Pelleas. Radamanth made a careful note\nof all these things, and laid the knowledge of them before Gorlois.\nVarious subtleties resulted from these facts--subtleties carefully\nconsidered to catch Igraine.\n\nTo turn to Eudol. That lean old satyr had fallen gravely into error\nin the conviction that he had fooled Gorlois's men so cleverly over\nthe wine-pot. The deceit had been deeper on the other side, and more\neffectual, seeing that there had been a kirtled traitor in the manor\ncamp. If Eudol had been stirring just after daybreak on the morning\nafter the carouse, he might have caught one of Gorlois's men coming\ndown a little winding stair that led to a certain portion of the\nhouse. A little earlier still he would have found the fellow with his\narm round Dame Ph\u0153be's waist in a dark entry on the stairs. The woman\ndid not love Igraine, nor did she want her in the house; moreover,\nGorlois's man was young, and had fine eyes, and a most wicked tongue.\nEudol, like most diplomats, was far from being infallible when there\nwas a woman in the coil, and Dame Ph\u0153be was very much a woman.\n\nGorlois's fellows had no sooner cleared the meadows that morning than\nthey were away for Winchester at a dusty rattle. It was fast going over\nthe clean, straight road, and the grey walls were not long in coming\ninto view. The pair swung through the western gate, and went straight\nthrough the streets in a way that set the city folk staring and dodging\nfor the pathway. At the gate of Gorlois's house the porter had a\nvexatious damping for the spirits of these fiery gentlemen. Gorlois had\nridden out. The men swore, off-saddled, and made the best of the matter\nover a game of dice in the kitchen.\n\nThere was great bustle when Gorlois had heard the men's tale. They\nexcused their not having taken Igraine on the plea that Gorlois had\nforbidden any to approach her save himself. The man was in a smiting\nmood, and he swore Eudol should rue giving him the lie and sending him\na wild chase miles into the west. Getting to horse at once, and taking\nthe two men with some ten more spears, he rode out and held for Sarum.\n\nThere was a swirl of dust before Eudol's gate, and a sharp scattering\nof shingle as Gorlois and his troop rode up. A slave, who had seen them\nfrom the garden, and had taken them for robbers, was prevented from\nclosing the gate by a brisk youth wedging it with his foot. There was\na short scuffle at the tottering door. Then Gorlois and his men burst\nit in, and cut down those slaves on the threshold who had tried to\nclose the door. The women folk were herded screeching into the kitchen,\nand penned there like sheep. Out of a cupboard in an upper room they\ndragged the woman Ph\u0153be, limp with fright, and hurried the truth out of\nher that Igraine had gone that very morning, and that Eudol was still\nin the fields. Gorlois, believing her a liar, had the house searched,\nbeds overturned, cupboards torn open, every nook and cranny probed.\nThen they tried the garden and the stables, with like fortune. One of\nthe fellows catching sight of the barn across the meadows, half-hidden\nby pines, they made a circle round it, closed in, and forced the door.\nA blinking, red-eyed face came up out of the shadows, its beard and\nthin thatch of hair whisped with hay.\n\nEudol, collared with little kindness, began to wonder after his drunken\nsleep who these rough folk could be. A word as to Igraine brought him\nto his senses. He saw Gorlois, a dark-bearded, black-eyed man, with\na frown that he did not like the look of. He began to shake in his\nslippers, to excuse himself, and to deny all knowledge of the girl\nsince the morning. Matters were against Eudol. Gorlois thought that\nhe had plucked the old man from hiding, and that he was a liar to the\nbone; his shrift was short, measured out by the man's hard malice. They\nstruck him down at the door of his own barn, covering his grey head\nwith his hands, and screaming for mercy. His blood soaked the hay, and\nshot black streaks into the dusty floor. Then they cast back to the\nmanor, and half-throttled the woman Ph\u0153be, till Gorlois was satisfied\nthat he had got all the truth from her he could. In half an hour they\nwere at gallop again for Sarum.\n\nGorlois reined in cruelly more than once to fling hot questions at\nthe folk they passed upon the road. His horse was all sweat and foam,\nand its mouth bloody with the heavy hand that played on the bridle.\nWayfarer after wayfarer looked up half in awe at the iron-faced man\ntowering above them in the stirrups. Their blank, irresponsive faces\nchafed Gorlois's patience to the bone. Not a word did he win of Igraine\nand her grey gown. Waxing sullen as granite, and very silent, he looked\nneither to right nor left, but plodded on like a baffled sleuth-hound\nwith the rest of the pack trailing at his tail. The girl's hair seemed\ntossing over the edge of the world, like a golden hue from the west,\nand there was a passionate wind through the man's moody thought.\n\nIt was towards evening when Gorlois with his men--a bunch of\nspears--came upon the peasant in the green smock driving his wain-load\nof faggots slowly towards the setting sun. Gorlois drew up and hailed\nhim, and began his catechism anew. The fellow pulled in his team,\nand eyeing the horseman with some caution, acknowledged curtly that\nhe had carried in his cart a league or more such a woman as Gorlois\nhad pictured. To further quick queries he proved stubborn and boorish.\nGorlois had lost his temper long ago. \"Speak up, you devil's dog!\"\n\nThe man looked sullen. Gorlois's sword flashed out. He spurred close\nup, and held three feet of menacing steel over the peasant's head.\n\n\"Well, you be damned!\" he said.\n\n\"What want you with the woman, lording?\"\n\n\"Am I to argue with a clod of clay? The woman is marked for great\nhonour, and must be taken. Will you spoil her fortune?\"\n\nThe man fingered the reins, looking hard at Gorlois with his stupidly\nhonest face. He guessed he was some great lord, by his harness and his\nfollowing. It was not for him to gainsay such a gentleman, especially\nwhen he flourished a naked sword.\n\n\"I would do my best for the good nun, lording,\" he said.\n\n\"Then speak out.\"\n\n\"She promised to pray for my woman.\"\n\nGorlois gave a laugh, and scoffed at the notion.\n\n\"Let prayers be,\" he said; \"tell me where she went.\"\n\nThe man told Gorlois of the hermitage in the dale where Igraine had\ngone for a night's lodging. He described how the path could be found,\na mile or more nearer Winchester. Gorlois threw a gold piece into the\ncart, and let the man drive on. Then he sat still on his black horse\nwith his sword over his shoulder, and looked into the wood with dark,\nglooming eyes. For a minute he sat like a statue, staring on nothing in\nkeen thought. His men watched him, looking for some swift swoop from\nsuch a pinnacle of pondering; they knew his temper. His sword shot back\ninto its scabbard, and he was keen as a wolf.\n\n\"Galleas of Camelford.\"\n\nA man with a hooked nose and high cheek bones heeled his horse forward,\nand saluted.\n\n\"Ride hard, find the hermitage, be wary, watch at a distance for sight\nof the Lady Igraine. If she is at the hermitage, gallop back to Sarum\nbefore nightfall. I shall be in Sir Accolon's house. Attend me there.\"\n\nThe man saluted again, turned his horse instanter, and rode hard into\nthe east. Gorlois, with a half smile on his lips, rode on with his\ntroop for Sarum.\n\nIn Sarum town there was a queer house of stone, very dark and very\nsaturnine. It was hid away behind high walls, and hedged so blackly\nwith yews and hollies that it seemed to stand in the gloom of a\nperpetual twilight. After dark a sullen glow often hung above the\ntrees; casements would blaze blood-red light into boughs creaking and\nclutching in the wind; or there would be a moony glimmer on the glass,\nand belated folk passing near might hear voices or elvish music about\nthem as though dropped from the stars. It was the house of Merlin,--the\nman of dreams,--wrapped in the gloom of immemorial yews.\n\nThat night Gorlois sat in a room hung with black velvet, where a\nbrazier held a dying fire, and a bowl thereon steamed up perfumes in\na heavy vapour. A man with a face of marble and eyes like an eternal\nnight was chaired before him, with his long, lean, restless fingers\ncontinually touching the cloud of hair that fell blackly over his\nears. His fingers were packed with rings gemmed with all manner of\nstones--jasper, sardonyx, chrysolite, emerald, ruby, and the like. His\ngown was of black velvet, twined all about with serpent scrolls of\nwhite cloth. On his breast was brooched a great diamond that blazed and\nwavered back the glow from the fire.\n\nGorlois sat in his carved chair stiff as any image. His strenuous\nsoul seemed mewed up by the psychic influence of the man before him.\nHe spoke seldom, and then only at the other's motion--at a curious\ngesture of one of those long, lean hands. The room was as silent as the\nburial hall of a pyramid, and it had the air of being massed above by\nstupendous depths of stone.\n\nPresently the man in the black robe began to speak with deliberate\nintent, holding his voice deep in his throat so that it sounded much\nlike the voice of an oracle declaring itself in the noise of a wind.\n\n\"The woman is beautiful beyond other women.\"\n\n\"Like a golden May.\"\n\n\"And true.\"\n\n\"As a sapphire.\"\n\n\"Yet will not have you.\"\n\n\"Not a shred of me.\"\n\nThe man with the rings smiled out of his impenetrable eyes, and\nfingered the brooch on his breast.\n\n\"The woman has great destiny before her.\"\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\n\"I have seen her star in the night. You dare take her fate on you?\"\n\n\"Like ivy holds a tree.\"\n\n\"As a wife?\"\n\nGorlois laughed.\n\n\"How else?\"\n\n\"As a wife--by the church.\"\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\n\"Or no help of my hand.\"\n\nAgain there was silence. A coal fell in the brazier, and seemed like\na rock down a precipice. The black eyes that stared down Gorlois were\nfull of light, and strangely scintillant. Gorlois listened, with his\nlimbs asleep and his brain in thrall, while the man spoke like a\nvery Michael out of a cloud. The clear glittering plot given out of\nMerlin's lips came like a dream vivid to the thought of the dreamer.\nIf Gorlois obeyed he should have his desire, and catch Igraine to a\nwhite marriage-bed by law and her own willing. The fire died down in\nthe brazier, and the bowl ceased to smoke perfumes. Gorlois saw the\nman gather his black robe with his glittering fingers, and move like\na wraith round the room, to stand beckoning by the door. In another\nminute Gorlois was under the stars, with the house and its yews a black\nmound against the sky. Like a sleeper half wakened he took full breath\nof the night air, and stretched his arms up above his head. But it was\nnot to sleep that he passed back through the void streets to the house\nof the knight Accolon.\n\nTo return to Igraine housed for the night in the little hermitage. At\nthe first creep of dawn, when daffodils were thrown up against the\neastern sky, she left her pallet bed in the cell and went out into\nthe hermit's garden. The recluse was down at the brook drawing water,\nwhither the dog and the doves had followed him. Igraine passed through\nthe garden--spun over as it was with webs of dew. To her comfort she\nfound her ankle scarcely troubling her, for she had feared pain or\nstiffness after the walk of yesterday. Going down the dale, she patted\nthe old dog's head, and picked up the pitcher as the recluse gave her\ngood-morning.\n\n\"You are an early soul, sister. My dog and I come down to the brook\neach morning as the sun peeps over the hill.\"\n\n\"You are not lonely,\" said Igraine.\n\nThe old man tightened his girdle, looked over the solemn piers of the\nwoods, sniffed the air, and hailed an autumn savour.\n\n\"Not I,\" he said. \"I have my dog and my doves, and folk often lodge\nhere, and I have word of the world and how the Saxons vex us. The good\npeople near bring me alms and pittances, or come to ask prayers for\ntheir souls, and\"--with a twinkle--\"for their bodies, too.\"\n\nIgraine remembered the peasant's little son.\n\n\"Was it you,\" she said, \"who gave a peasant fellow near here a saint's\ndust to scatter over a sick child?\"\n\nThe old man shook his head and smiled enigmatically.\n\n\"I have no dealings in such marvels,\" he said.\n\n\"The boy died.\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"They will sell your dust some day.\"\n\nA keen look, cynical with beaming scorn, spread over the man's gaunt\nface.\n\n\"Much good may it do them,\" he said; \"death is monstrous flatterer of\nmere clay. I may feed a rose bush with my bones; a better fate than the\ncheating of superstitious women.\"\n\nHe made a sign with his hand, and the birds went wheeling in circles\nabove him. The dog crept up and thrust his snout into the old man's\npalm. The garden lay above them, ripe with an autumn mellowness; yet\nthere was no regret though winter would soon be piping, and the man's\nhair was grey.\n\n\"What think you of life?\" said Igraine.\n\n\"You should know, sister, as well as I.\"\n\n\"But you see, father, I am not a nun,--only a novice.\"\n\nHe stared at her a moment with a slight smile.\n\n\"Remain a novice,\" he said.\n\n\"You advise me so!\"\n\n\"Why subordinate your soul to chains forged of men.\"\n\n\"These seem strange words.\"\n\nHe patted his dog's head, and, half stooping, looked at her with keen\ngrey eyes.\n\n\"Have you ever loved a man?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, with a clear laugh and a slight colour.\n\n\"Is he worthy?\"\n\n\"I believe him a noble soul.\"\n\n\"Naturally.\"\n\n\"He ran away and left me because he thought I was a nun.\"\n\nThe hermit applauded.\n\n\"That sounds like honour,\" he said critically.\n\n\"I am seeking him to tell him the truth.\"\n\n\"And I will pray that you may soon meet,\" said the old man, \"for there\nis nothing like the love of a good man for a clean maid. If I had\nmarried a true woman, I should never have taken to the scourge or the\nstone bed. Marry wisely and you are halfway to Heaven.\"\n\nThey broke fast that morning in the garden, it being the man's custom\nto make his meals on the granite slab that served him as a bed. The\nlittle dale looked very green and gracious in the tranquil light, with\nits curling brook and dark barriers of trees. Igraine, as she sat on\nthe great stone and ate the hermit's bread, followed the brook with\nher thoughts, wondering whether it became the stream that ran through\nEudol's meadows. She was for Sarum that day, where she would throw off\nher grey habit and take some dress more likely to baffle Gorlois. She\nhad enough money in her purse. Worldling again, she could give herself\nto winning sight of this Uther, and to learning whether he was the\nPelleas she sought or no.\n\nAs she sat and fingered her bread, something she saw down the dale made\nher rigid and still as a priestess smitten with the vision of a god in\nsome heathen oratory. Her eyes were very wide, her lips open and very\nwhite, her whole air as of one watching in a sudden stupor of awe.\nAnother moment and she had broken from the mood like a torrent from a\ncavern. With eyes suddenly amber bright, she touched the hermit's hand\nand pointed down the dale, gave him a word or so, then left him and ran\ndown the hill.\n\nA man on a black horse had ridden out from the trees, and was pushing\nhis horse over the brook at a shallow spot not far away. His red armour\nglowed in the sun with a metallic lustre. Even at that distance Igraine\nhad seen the red dragon rampant on a shield of green. As she ran down\nthe grass slope she called the man by name, thinking to see him turn\nand come to her. Pushing on sullenly as though he had not heard the\ncry that went after him like winged love, he drew up the further slope\nwithout wavering, and sank like a red streak into the dense green of\nthe trees.\n\n\n\n\nX\n\n\nIgraine forded the brook and followed the man by the winding path that\ncurled away into the wood.\n\nShe was ever a sanguine soul, and the mere sinister influences that\nmight have discouraged her in her purpose that morning were impotent\nbefore the level convictions of her heart. She had seen Pelleas ride\nin amid the trees; she was sure as death as to his cognizance and his\narmour. Now Pelleas, she could vow, had not heard her call to him,\nand if he had heard he had not understood; if he had seen he had not\nrecognised. Doubts could have no place in the argument before such a\njustification by faith.\n\nIt was not long before she caught sight of the red glint of armour\ngoing through the trees. It came and went, grew and disappeared, as\nthe path folded it in its curves or thrust out a heavy screen of green\nto hide it like a heavy curtain. The man was going as he pleased, now\na walk, now a casual jog, now a short burst of a canter over an open\npatch. One moment Igraine would see him clearly, then not at all.\nSometimes she gained, sometimes lost ground, yet the knight of the red\nharness never seemed to come within lure of her voice.\n\nIn due course she reached the place where the path ended bluntly on the\nWinchester high-road, and where the way ran straight as a spear-shaft,\nso that she could see Pelleas riding for Winchester with a lead of a\nquarter of a mile. The distant ringing tramp of hoofs came up to her\nlike a mocking chuckle. Putting her hands to her mouth, she hallooed\nwith all the breath left her by her run through the wood; yet, as far\nas she might see, the man never so much as turned in the saddle, while\nthe smite of hoofs died down and down into a well of silence.\n\nAnother halloo and no echo.\n\n\"He's asleep, or deaf in his helmet.\"\n\nShe forgot the distance and the din of hoofs that might well have\ndrowned the thin cry that could have reached the rider. Maugre her heat\nand her flushed face Igraine had no more thought of giving in than she\nhad of marrying Gorlois. With Pelleas so near she had made her vow to\nfollow him, and follow him she would like a comet's tail. If needs be\nshe would wear her sandals to the flesh, but catch the man she must in\nthe end.\n\nA mile more on the high-road, with her feet and the hem of her gown\ndust-drenched, and she was still little nearer the man in the red\nharness for all her hurrying. She could have vowed more than once that\nhe turned in his saddle and looked back at her as though to see how\nnear she had come to him on the road. A mile from the hermitage path\nhe turned his horse southwards from the track into a grass valley\nheaded by a ruined tower and hedged densely on either hand by pine\nwoods. Igraine, seeing from a slight rise in the road this change of\ncourse, cut away crosswise with the notion of getting near the man or\nof intercepting him before he should win clear law again. After all,\nthe effort added only more vexation. She saw the black horse pressed to\na canter and cross the point where she might have cut him off, while a\ngreat stretch of furze that rolled away to the black palisading of the\npines came down and threw a promontory in her path. Pelleas was a mile\nto the good when she had skirted the furze and the bend of the wood,\nand taken a straight course southwards down the valley between the\npines.\n\nAll that morning the sport of hunter and hunted went on between the\nnovice in grey and the man on the black horse. For all her trouble\nIgraine won little upon him, lost little as the hours went by; while\nthe rider in turn seemed in no wise desirous of being rid of her for\ngood. They passed the pine woods with their midnight aisles, forded a\nstream, climbed up a heath, went over it amid the heather. From the\nlast ridge of the heath Igraine saw the country sloping away into\nundulating grasslands, piled here and there with domes of thicketed\ntrees. Far to the south a dense black mass rose like a rounded hill\nagainst the sky. The man in red was still about a mile in front of her,\nriding slowly, a red speck in a waste of green. Igraine, having him in\nview from her vantage point, lay down full length to rest and take some\nfood. She was tired enough, but dogged at heart as ever. She vowed that\nif the man was playing with her she would tell him her mind, love or no\nlove, when she came up with him in the end.\n\nAs the sun swam into the noontide arc she went on again downhill,\nand found in turn that the man had halted, for he had been hidden by\ntrees, and getting view of him suddenly she saw him sitting on a stone\nwith his horse tethered near. As soon as Igraine was within measurable\ndistance she took advantage of a hollow, dropped on her hands and\nknees, and began to crawl like a cat after a bird. Edging round a\nthicket she came quite near the man, but could not see his face. His\nspear stood in the ground by his horse, and he had his shield slung\nabout his neck, and a bare poniard in his hand. It was clear that he\nwas watching for Igraine, for despite her craft he caught sight of her\nface peering white under the hem of a bush, and climbed quickly into\nthe saddle. Igraine started up, made a dash across the open, calling\nto him as she ran. Perverse as hate his horse broke into a canter\nand left her far in the rear. The girl shook her fist at him with a\nsudden burst of temper. She was standing near the stone where the man\nhad been sitting. Looking at its flat face she saw the reason of the\nnaked poniard in his hand, for he had been carving out thin straggling\nletters in the stone.\n\n\"Sancta Igraine,\" she read--\n\n\"Ora pro nobis.\"\n\nThe screed dispelled the doubts in Igraine's mind on the instant.\nPalpably the man knew well enough who was following him, and was\navoiding her of set purpose; but for what reason Igraine racked her wit\nto discover. She ran through many things in her heart, the possible\ntesting of her devotion, a vacillating weakness on Pelleas's part\nthat would not let him leave her altogether, a freakish wish to give\nher penance. Then, she knew that he was superstitious, and the thought\nflashed to her that he might think her a wraith, or some evil spirit\nthat had taken her shape to have him in temptation. Maugre her vexation\nand her pride she held again on the trail, eating as she went some\ndried plums that she had in her wallet. The man had slackened down\nagain and was less than half a mile away, now limned against the sky,\nnow folded into a hollow or shut out by trees. Like a marsh-fire he\ntantalised her with a mystery of distance, holding steadily south at a\nlevel tramp, while Igraine plodded after him, her hair down and blowing\nout to the casual wind, her eyes at gaze on the red lure in the van.\n\nSo the mellower half of the day passed, and towards evening they neared\nthe mount of trees Igraine had seen from the last ridge of the heath\nat noon. The black horse was heading straight for the cloudy mass in a\nway that set Igraine thinking and casting about for Pelleas's motive.\nPerhaps he had some quest in the solitary place that needed his single\nhand. Would he take to the wood and let her follow as before, or had he\nany purpose in leading her thither? Drowned in conjecture she gave up\nprophecy with a vicious sense of mystification, and accepted inevitable\nignorance for the time being as to the man's moods and motives. She was\nno less obstinate to follow him to the death. If she only had a horse\nshe would come near the man, pride or no pride, and tell him the truth.\n\nPressing on, with her strained ankle beginning to limp, she topped\nthe round back of a grass rise and came full in view of the wood she\nhad long seen in the distance. It looked very solemn in the declining\nlight. The great trunks of giant beeches were packed pillar upon pillar\ninto an impenetrable gloom. The foliage above, densely green, billowy,\ntouched with red and gold, rolled upwards cloud on cloud as the ground\nascended to the south and east. A great bronze carpet of dead leaves\nswept away into the night of the trees. There was an eternal hush, a\ngross silence, over the glooming aisles that seemed to beckon to the\nsoul, to draw the heart into the night of foliage as into a cavern.\nOver all was the glowing \u00e6gis of the setting sun.\n\nIgraine saw the man on the forest's edge where an arch of gloom struck\ninto the inner shadows. He was facing the west, motionless as stone on\nhis black horse, with the slanting light plucking a dull red gleam from\nhis harness. There was a mystery about him that seemed to harmonise\nwith the stillness of the trees and the black yawn of the forest\ngalleries. Igraine imagined that he might be in a mood at last to speak\nwith her if he believed her human. At all events, if he took to the\ntrees, and she did not lose him, she would have the vantage of him and\nhis horse in such a barricaded place.\n\nIt began to grow dark very quickly as she passed down the gradual slope\ntowards the forest. The trees towered above her, a black mass rising\nagain towards the east. Keen to see the man's mood, she hurried on\nand found him still steadfast in the great arch, that seemed like the\ngate of the wilderness, ready to abide her. A hundred paces more and\nher heart began to beat the faster, and the moil of the day's march\ndwindled before the influx of a rosier idyl. Every step towards Pelleas\nseemed to take her higher up the turret stair of love till her lips\nshould meet those that bent at last from the gloom to hers. Pride and\nvexation lay fallen far below, dropped incontinently like a ragged\ncloak; a more generous passion shone out like cloth of gold; she was no\nlonger weary. Her eyes were very bright, her face full of a splendid\nwistfulness, as she neared the man under the trees, looking up to see\nhis face.\n\nTwilight lay deep violet under the wooelshawe, while horse and man were\ndim and impalpable, great shadows of themselves. Igraine could not see\nthe man's face for the mask over the mezail of his helmet, and he was\nsilent as death. She was quite close to him now and ready to speak his\nname, when he wheeled suddenly, looked back at her, and pointed into\nthe wood with his long spear. She ran forward and would have taken hold\nof his bridle, but he waved her back and slanted his spear at her in\nmute warning. Igraine, heart-hungry, could hold herself no longer.\n\n\"Man--man, are you stone?\"\n\nHe rode straight ahead into the night of the trees and said never a\nword. Igraine drew her breath.\n\n\"Pelleas.\"\n\n\"Ah, Igraine.\"\n\nThe voice that came to her was muffled like the voice of a mourner, yet\nthe girl thought she caught the old deep tone of it like the low cry of\nthe wind.\n\n\"Why do you vex me?\"\n\n\"Follow!\"\n\n\"Pelleas, Pelleas, I am no nun!\"\n\n\"Follow!\"\n\n\"I kept this truth from you too long.\"\n\n\"Follow!\"\n\n\"Pelleas, would you hurt my heart more?\"\n\n\"Follow; God shall make all plain and good.\"\n\nShe gave in with a half-sob, and bent quietly to the man's mood, though\nshe had no notion what he purposed in his heart, or what his desires\nwere in mystifying her thus. No doubt it would be well in the end if\nPelleas bade her follow like a penitent and promised ultimate peace. At\nleast he had not turned her away, and she trusted him to the death. He\nwas a strong, deep-sensed soul, she knew, and her deceiving may have\nmade him bitter in measure, and not easily appeased. In this queer\ntrial of endurance, this tempting of her temper, she thought she read a\npenance laid upon her by the man for the way she had used his love.\n\nThey were soon far into the wood, with the western sky dwindling\nbetween the innumerable pillars of the trees. It began to be dark and\nutterly silent save for the rustle of the dead leaves as they went, and\nthe shrilling chafe of bridle or scabbard, or the snort of the great\nhorse. Wherever the eye turned the forest piers stood straight and\nsolemn as the columns in a hypostyle hall in some Egyptian temple. The\nfretwork of boughs roofed them in with hardly a glimmering through of\nthe darkening sky above. There was a pungent autumn scent on the air\nthat seemed to rise like the incense of years that had fallen to decay\non the brown flooring of the place, and there was no breath or vestige\nof a wind.\n\nPresently as the day died the wood went black as the winter night,\nand Igraine kept close by the man, with his armour giving a dull\ngleam now and again to guide her. They were passing up what seemed to\nbe a great arcade cut through the very heart of the wood, as though\nleading to some shrine or altar, relic of Druid days, or times yet more\nantique. The tunnel ran a curved course, bending deeper and deeper as\nit went into the dense horde of trees. So dark was the wood that it\nwas possible to see but a few paces in advance, and Igraine wondered\nhow the man kept the track. She was close at his stirrup now, with the\ndark mass of him and his horse rising above her like a statue in black\nbasalt. Though he never spoke to her, and though she touched no part of\nhim, his horse, or his harness, she felt content with the queer sense\nof trust and proximity that pervaded her. There was magic in the mere\ncompanionship. As she had humbled her will to Pelleas's the night when\nhe had taken her from the beech tree in Andredswold, so now in like\nfashion she surrendered pride and liberty, and became a child.\n\nSuddenly the trackway straightened out into a great colonnade that\nran due south between trees of yet vaster girth. Igraine felt the man\nrein in and abide motionless beside her as she held to the stirrup\nand waited for what next should chance. Silence seemed like depths\nof black water over them, and they could hear each other take breath\nlike the faint flux and reflux of a sea. Igraine saw the man lift his\nspear, a dim streak less black than the vault above, and hold it as a\nsign for her to listen. Her blood began to tingle a very little. There\nwas something far away on the dead, stagnant air, a sort of swirl of\nsound, shrill and harmonious, like a wind playing through the strings\nof a harp. It was very gradual, very impalpable. As the volume of it\ngrew it seemed to rush nearer like a wind, to swell into a swaying\nplaintive song smitten through with the wounded cry of flutes. It gave\na notion of wood-fays dancing, of whirling wings and flitting gossamer\nmoonbright in the shadows. Igraine's blood seemed to spin the faster,\nand her hand left the stirrup and touched the man's thigh. He gave\nnever a word or sign in the dark. She spoke to him very softly, very\nmeekly.\n\n\"What place is this, Pelleas?\"\n\nShe saw him bend slightly in the saddle.\n\n\"It is called the Ghost Forest,\" he said.\n\n\"What are the sounds we hear?\"\n\n\"Who can tell!\"\n\nIgraine had hardly heard him, when a streak of phosphor light flickered\namong the trees, coming and going incessantly as the great trunks\nintervened. It neared them in gradual fashion, and then blazed out\nsudden into the open aisle, a man in armour riding on a great white\nhorse, his harness white as the moon, his face pale and wide-eyed, his\nhair like a mass of twisted silver wire. A misty glow haloed him round,\nand though he rode close there seemed no sound at all to mark his\npassing. As he had come, so he went, with streaks of flickering light\nthat waxed less and less frequent till they died in the dark, and left\nthe place empty as before. Igraine thought the air cold when he had\ngone.\n\nShe felt the black horse move beside her, and they went on as before\ninto the night of the trees. The noise of flute and harp that had\nceased awhile bubbled up again quite near, so that it was no longer\nthe ghost of a sound, but noise more definite, more discrete. It had a\nqueer way of dying to a sighing breath, and then gathering gradually\ninto an ascending burst of windy melody. Igraine could almost fancy\nthat she heard the sweep of wings, the soft thrill of silks trailing\nthrough the trees, yet the man on the horse said never a word as they\nwent on like a pair of mutes to a grave.\n\nThe colonnade opened out abruptly on a great circular clearing in the\nwood shut in by crowded trunks, its open vault above cut by a dense\nring of foliage. A grey light came down from the sky, showing great\nstones piled one upon another, others fallen and sunk deep in rank\ngrass and brambles. The man halted his horse in the very centre of the\nclearing, with Igraine beside him, watchful for what should happen, and\nfor the moment when Pelleas should unbend.\n\nHardly had she looked over the great cromlechs, black and sinister in\nthat solitary wilderness, than the whole wood about them seemed dusted\nsuddenly with points of fire. North, south, east, and west torches and\ncressets came jerking redly out of the night, flitting behind the trees\nin a wide circle, gathering nearer and nearer without a sound. They\nmight have been great fireflies playing through the aisles and ways,\nor goblin lamps carried by fairy folk. Igraine drew very close to the\nman's horse for comfort, and looked up to see his face, but found it\ndark and hidden. Her hand crept up past the horse's neck, rested on the\nmane a moment, and ventured yet further to meet the man's hand, where\nit gripped the bridle. For a minute they abode thus without a sound,\nwatching the weird torch-dance in the wood.\n\nWith a sudden gibber of laughter and a swirl of pipes the throng of\nlights seemed to seethe to the very margin of the clearing. Queer\nphantastic shapes showed amid the trees, and the great circle grew wide\nwith light, and the grey cromlechs surprised in sleep by the glare and\npiping. At that very moment Igraine had a thought of some one looking\ndeep into her eyes, of a will, a power, streaming in upon her like\nsunlight into a sleepy pool. Her desire went from the man on the black\nhorse into the square shadow of the great central cromlech, where an\nindefinite influence seemed to lurk. Looking long under the roofing\nstone, she grew aware of a tall something standing there, of a pair of\neyes like the eyes of a panther, of a lean white hand moving in the\nshadows.\n\nThe eyes under the cromlech seemed to follow Igraine like fire, and to\nburn in upon her a foreign influence. Rebellious and wondering, she\nstiffened herself against a spiritual combat that seemed moving upon\nher out of the dark. She could have smitten the eyes that stared her\ndown, and yet the magnetic stupor of them kindled up things in her\nheart that were strange and newly sensuous. She felt her strength sway\nas though her soul were being lifted from her, and she was warmed from\ntop to toe like one who has taken wine, and whose being swims into an\nidyllic glorification of the senses. Again her desire seemed turned to\nthe man in red harness, yet when she looked the saddle was empty, and\nthe horse held by an armed servant, who wore a wolfs head for covering.\nStill mute with fear, desire, and wonder, she saw a tall figure move\ninto the full glare of the torches, a figure in red harness with a\nshield of green, and a red dragon thereon, and with head unhelmed. The\narmour was like the armour of Pelleas, but the face was the face of the\nman Gorlois.\n\nAnd now the eyes under the shadow of the cromlech were full and strong\nupon Igraine. Breathing fast with a hand at her throat she stepped back\nfrom Gorlois--hesitated--stood still. She was very white, and her eyes\nwere big and sightless like the eyes of one walking in a dream. For all\nher strength, her scorn, and the tricking of her heart, she was being\nswept like a cloud into the embraces of the sun. Reason, power, love,\nsank away and became as nothing. A shudder passed over her. Presently\nher hands dropped limp as broken wings, and her body began to sway like\na tall lily in a breeze. A gradual stupor saw her cataleptic; she stood\nimpotent, played upon by the promptings of another soul.\n\nGorlois went near to her with hands outstretched, stooping to look into\nher face. A sudden light kindled in her eyes, her lips parted, and new\nlife flooded red into her cheeks as at the beck of love. She bent to\nGorlois full of a gracious eagerness, a wistful desire that made her\nface golden as dawn. Her hand sought his, while the shadowy shape under\nthe cromlech watched them with never-wavering eyes. Gorlois's arms were\nround her now all wreathed in her hair; her face was turned to his; her\nhands were clasped upon his neck. Another moment and he had touched her\nlips with his.\n\nA sound of flutes, the tinkling of a bell, and a solemn company\ncame threading from the trees, guests, acolytes, torch-bearers, in\nglittering cloth of gold, with a great crucifix to lead them. Gorlois\nand Igraine were hand in hand near the stone that hid the frame of\nMerlin. A priest in a gorgeous cape drew near, and began his patter.\nThe vows were taken, the pact sealed, with the noise of a chant and\nmusic. Thus under the benedictions of the great trees, and the spell of\nMerlin, Gorlois and Igraine were made man and wife.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK III\n\nTHE WAR IN WALES\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nAurelius Ambrosius the king was dead, taken off in Winchester by\nthe hand of a poisoner. He had been found stark and cold in his\ngreat carved bed, with an empty wine-cup beside him, and a tress of\nblack hair and a tress of yellow laid twined together upon his lips.\nThe signet-ring had gone from his finger, and by the bed had been\ndiscovered a woman's embroidered shoe dropped under the folds of the\npurple quilt. The truth, sinister enough in its bare suggestions, was\nglossed over by the court folk out of honour to Aurelius, and of love\nto Uther the king's brother. It was told to the country how an Irish\nmonk sent by Pascentius, dead Vortigern's son, had gained audience of\nthe king, and treacherously poisoned him as he drank wine at supper.\nThe tale went out to the world, and was believed of many with a sincere\nand honest faith. Yet a certain child-eyed woman, wandering on the\nshores of Wales for sight of Irish ships, could have spoken more of the\ntruth had she so dared.\n\nUther Pendragon had been hailed king at York before the bristling\nspears of a victorious host. But a week before he had marched against\nthe heathen on the Humber, and overthrown them with such slaughter as\nhad not been seen in Britain since the days when Boadicea smote the\nRomans. At the head of his men he had marched south in a snowstorm to\nbe thundered into Winchester as king and conqueror. Twelve maidens of\nnoble blood, clad in ermine and minever, had run before him with boughs\nof mistletoe and bay. Five hundred knights had walked bareheaded, with\nswords drawn, behind his horse. The city had glistened in a white web\nof frosted samite, sparkled over by the clear visage of a winter sun.\n\nThere were many great labours ready to the king's hand. Britain lay\nbruised by the onslaughts of the barbarians; her monks had been slain,\nher churches desecrated. The pirate ships swept the seas, and poured\ntorch and sword along the sunny shores of the south. Andredswold,\ndark, saturnine, mysterious, alone waved them back with the sepulchral\nthreatening of its trees. Yet, for all the burden of the kingdom upon\nhis broad shoulders, Uther gave his first care to the honouring of\nthe dead. Aurelius Ambrosius was buried with great pomp of churchmen\nand nobles at Stonehenge, and a royal mound raised above the tomb. At\nChristmastide, with snow upon the ground, a great gathering was made at\nSarum of all the petty kings, princes, and nobles of the land. Hither\ncame Meliograunt, king of Cornwall, and Urience of the land of Gore.\nFealty was sworn with solemn ordinance to Uther Pendragon the king, and\ncommon league bonded against the heathen and the whelps of the north.\n\nThere were other perils brewing for Britain over the sea. Pascentius,\ndead Vortigern's son, had been an outcast and a wanderer since the\ndays when the sons of Constantine had sailed from Armorica to save\nthe land from the blind lust and treason of his father. He had been a\ndrifting fire beyond the seas, an intriguer, a sower of sedition, a\nman dangerous alike to friend and foe. Beaten like a vulture from the\ncoasts of Britain, he had turned with treasonable hope to Ireland and\nits king, Gilomannius the Black, a strenuous potentate, boasting little\nlove for Ambrosius the king. Here, in Ireland, a kennel of sedition\nhad arisen. Pascentius, keen, hungry plotter, had toiled at the task\nof piling enmity against those who had destroyed his father amid the\nflames of Genorium. A great league arose, a banding of the barbarians\nwith the Irish princes, a union of the Saxons who ravaged Kent with the\nwild tribesmen over the northern border. Month by month a great host\ngathered on the Irish coast. Many ships came from the east and from the\nsouth. Mid-winter was past before Gilomannius embarked, and, setting\nsail with a fair wind, turned the beaks of his galleys for the shores\nof Wales.\n\nNoise of the gathering storm had been brought to Uther as he journed\nthrough the southern coasts, rebuilding the churches, recovering abbey\nand hermitage from their desolate ashes. His zeal was great for God,\nand his love of Britain well-nigh as noble. Warned thus in due season,\nhe marched for the west, calling the land to arms, assigning for the\ngathering of the host Caerleon upon Usk, that fair city bosomed in the\nfulness of its woods and pastures. Many a knight had answered to his\ncall; many a city had sent out her companies; the high-roads rang with\nthe cry of steel in the crisp winter weather.\n\nDuke Gorlois had come from Cornwall from his castle of Tintagel,\nbringing many knights and men-at-arms by sea, and the Lady Igraine\nhis wife, in a great galley whose bulwarks glistened with shields. In\nCaerleon Gorlois had a house built of white stone, set upon a little\nhill in the centre of the city. To Caerleon he brought this golden\nfalcon of a woman, this untamable thing that he had kept prisoned in\nthe high towers of Tintagel. He mewed her up like a nun in his house\nof white stone, so that no man should see the fairness of her face.\nShe was wild as an eyas from the woods, fierce and unapproachable,\nand sharp of claw. Robbed of her liberty, had she not sought to take\nher own life with a sword, and to throw herself from the battlements\nof Tintagel? Gorlois had won little love by Merlin's subtlety, and he\nfeared the woman's beauty and the spell of her large eyes.\n\nIt was the month of February and clear crisp weather. The white bellies\nof the Irish sails had shown up against the grey blue stretch of the\nsea, a white multitude of canvas that had sent the herdsmen hurrying\ntheir flocks to the mountains. Horsemen had galloped for Caerleon, and\nthe cry of war went up over wood and water. Flames licked the night\nsky. From Caerleon to St. Davids, from St. Davids to Eryri, the red\nblaze of beacon-fires told of the ships at sea.\n\nThe cry of the storm arose in Caerleon, and the tramp of armed men\nsounded all day in her streets. The great host lodged about the city\nbroke camp and streamed westwards along the high-road into Wales.\nBugles blew, banners flapped, masses of sullen steel rolled away into\npurple of the winter woods. Bristling spears and lines of skin-clad\nshields vanished into the west like the waves of a solemn sea. On the\nwalls of Caerleon stood many women and children watching the host march\nfor the west, watching Uther the king ride out with his great company\nof knights and nobles.\n\nAt the casement of an upper room in Gorlois's house stood a woman\nlooking out over Caerleon towards the sea. She was clad in a mantle of\nfurs, and in a tunic of purple linked up with cord of gold. A tippet\nof white fur clasped with a brooch of amethysts circled her throat.\nHer hair was bound up in a net of fine silk, and there was a girdle of\nblue silk about her loins, and an enamelled cross upon her bosom. She\nstood with her elbows resting on the stone sill, and her peevish face\nclasped between her hands. Her eyes looked very large and lustrous as\nshe stared out wistfully over the city.\n\nIn the great court below horses champed the bit and struck fire from\nthe ringing flags. Men in armour clanged to and fro; rough voices\ncried questions and counter-questions; bridles jingled; spear-shafts\nclattered on the stones. Now a clarion blared as a troop of horse\nthundered by up the street, their armour gleaming dully past the\ncourtyard gate. The growl of war hung heavy over Caerleon, a grim\nsullen sound that seemed in keeping with the restless chiding of the\nwind.\n\nIgraine's face was hard as stone as she watched the men moving in the\ncourtyard below. She looked older than of yore, whiter, thinner in\ncheek and neck, her great eyes staunch though sad under her netted\nhair. Her face showed melancholy mingled with a constant scorn that\nhad rarely found expression with her in the old days, save within the\nwalls of Avangel. She looked like one who had endured much, suffered\nmuch, yet lost no whit of pride in the trial. Though she may have been\nblemished like a Greek vase smitten by some barbaric sword, she was\nher self still, brave, headstrong, resolute as ever. The shame of the\nthings she had suffered had perhaps wiped out the gentler outlines of\nher character and left her more stern, more wary, less honest, more\ndeep in her endeavours. There was no passive humility or patience about\nher soul, and she was the falcon still, though caged and guarded beyond\nher liberty.\n\nAs she stood at the casement with the prophetic murmur of war in her\nears, it seemed to her as though life surged to her feet and mocked her\nbondage like laughing water. The desire of liberty abode ever with her\neven to the welcoming of stagnant death. She thirsted for her freedom,\nplotted for it, dreamt of it with a zeal that was almost ferocious. Her\nlife seemed a speculation, a perpetual aspiration after a state that\nstill eluded her. In the Avangel days she had been wild and petulant.\nThen Pelleas had come through the green gloom of early summer to\nsoften her soul and inspire all the best breath of the woman in her.\nAgain, thanks to Gorlois, she had fallen with the usual reaction of\ncircumstance upon evil times; the change had discovered the peevish\ndiscontent of the girl hardened into the strong wilfulness of the woman.\n\nShe hated Gorlois with a fanatical immensity of soul. When the man was\nnear her she felt full of the creeping nausea of a great loathing, and\nshe waxed faint with hate at the veriest touch of his hands. His breath\nseemed to her more unsavoury than the miasma of a gutter, and it needed\nbut the sound of his voice to bring all her baser passions braying and\nyelping against him. He had driven the religious instinct out of her\nheart, and she was in revolt against heaven and the marriage pact\nforged by the authority of the Church. She had often vowed in her heart\nthat she could do no sin against Gorlois, her husband. He had no claim\nupon her conscience. The bondage had been of his making; let God judge\nher if she scorned his honour.\n\nStanding by the window watching the knights saddling for their lord's\nsally, she heard heavy footsteps mounting up the stairs, and the ring\nof steel-tipped shoes along the gallery. The footsteps were deliberate,\nand none too fast, as though the man walked under a burden of thought.\nA shadow seemed to pass over Igraine's face. She slipped from the\nwindow, ran across the room, shot the bolt of the door, and stood\nlistening. A hand tried the latch. She knew well enough whose fist it\nwas that rattled on the oaken panels. Her face hardened to a kind of\ncold malevolence, and she laughed noiselessly in her sleeve.\n\nA terse summons came to her from the gallery.\n\n\"Wife, we ride at once.\"\n\nThe man could not have made a worse beginning. There was a suggestion\nof tyranny in a particular word that was hardly temperate. Igraine\nleant against the door; she was still smiling to herself, and her hands\nfingered the embroidered tassel of the latch.\n\n\"We are late on the road; I can make no tarrying.\"\n\nThe door quivered a moment as though shaken by a gusty wind. Everything\nwas quiet again, and Igraine could hear the man breathing. Putting her\nmouth to the crack between post and hinge-board she laughed stridently\nas though in scorn.\n\n\"Igraine!\"\n\nThe voice was half-imperative, half-appealing.\n\n\"My very dear lord!\"\n\n\"Are you abed?\"\n\n\"No, dear lord.\"\n\n\"Open to me; I would kiss your lips before I sally.\"\n\n\"You have never kissed me these many days.\"\n\n\"True, wife; is it fault of mine?\"\n\n\"Nor shall again, dear lord, if I have strength.\"\n\nShe heard the man muttering to himself a moment, but this time there\nwas no smiting of the door, no fume and tempest. His mood seemed more\ntemperate, less masterful, as though he were half heavy at heart.\n\n\"Igraine--\"\n\n\"Why do you whimper like a dog?\" she said; \"go, get you to war. What\nare you to me?\"\n\n\"When will you learn reason?\"\n\n\"When you are dead, sire.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I deserve all this.\"\n\n\"Are you so much a penitent?\"\n\nHer mockery seemed to lift Gorlois to a higher range of passion, and\nthere was great bitterness in his voice as he tossed back words to her\nwith a quick kindling of desire.\n\n\"Woman, I have been hard in the winning of you, but, God knows, you are\nsomething to me.\"\n\n\"God knows, Gorlois, I hate you.\"\n\nHis hand shook the door.\n\n\"Let me in, Igraine.\"\n\n\"Break down the door; you shall come at me no other way.\"\n\n\"Woman, woman, I am a fool; my heart smarts at leaving you.\"\n\n\"You sound almost saintly.\"\n\n\"I have left Brastias in charge of you.\"\n\n\"Thanks, lord, for a jailer.\"\n\nIgraine drew back from the door and stood at her full height with\nher hands crossed upon her bosom. She quivered as she stood with the\nintense effort of her hate. Gorlois still waited without the door,\nthough she could not hear him moving. The silence seemed like the deep\nhush that falls between the blustering stanzas of a storm.\n\n\"Igraine!\"\n\nIt was a hoarse cry, quick and querulous. Igraine had both her fists to\nher chin in an attitude of inward effort, as though she racked herself\nto give utterance to the implacable temper of her scorn. Her face\nhad a queer parched look. When she spoke, her voice was shrill like a\npiping wind.\n\n\"Gorlois.\"\n\n\"Wife.\"\n\n\"Would you have my blessing?\"\n\n\"Give it me, Igraine.\"\n\n\"Go then, and look not to me for comfort. When you are in battle, and\nthe swords cry on your shield, I shall pray on my knees that you may\nget your death.\"\n\nGorlois gave never a sound as he stood by the barred door with his\nhand over the mezail of his helmet. It seemed dark and gloomy in the\ngallery, and the staunch oak fronted him like fate. His eyes were full\nof a dull light as he turned and went clanging down the stairway with\nslow, heavy tread. His sounding footsteps died down into the din of\narms that came from the great court. Igraine ran to the window and\nwatched him and his men ride out, smiling a bleak smile as the last\nmailed figure gleamed out by the gate.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nWhen Gorlois and his knights had gone, Igraine unbarred the door, and\npassed down the narrow stair to the state chamber of the house, where\na fire was burning. It was a solemn room, shadowed with many arches,\nwith vaults inlaid with marble, its walls painted green and gold, its\nglimmering casements lozenged with fine glass. Furs were spread upon\nthe mosaic floor; painted urns held flowers that bloomed in the mock\nsummer of the room.\n\nIgraine stood and warmed herself before the fire. From an altar-like\npillar near she took storax and galbanum from brazen bowls, and\nscattered the resinous tears upon the flames. A pungent fragrance rose\nup into her nostrils. The flicker of the fire played upon her face, and\nset a lustre in her eyes. It was winter weather, and the warmth was\nwelcome.\n\nThe refrain of her talk with Gorlois still ran at fever heat like a\nwild song through her brain. She was stirred to the deeps of her strong\nsoul. For Gorlois she had no measure of pity. He was a rotten tree to\nher, a slab of granite, anything but quick flesh and blood capable of\naspiration and desire. She hated him more for his pleading than for his\ntyranny, fearing to be pleased by one she dreaded. He was strenuous and\nobstinate. She knew that it would be great joy to her if she saw his\nface no more, and if his body crumbled in the rain on some bleak coast\nin Wales.\n\nAs she stood by the fire and looked into it with pondering eyes she\nheard a curtain drawn and the sound of a footstep on the threshold.\nTurning briskly, like one accustomed to suspicions, she saw the man\nBrastias in the doorway looking at her half-furtively, as though none\ntoo proud of the office thrust upon him. He had great grey eyes and a\ncalm face. Bending stiffly to Igraine with his hand over his heart,\nhe turned aside to a cabinet by the wall, took therefrom an illumined\nscroll of legendary tales, and sat down on a bench to read, as though\nhe had no other business in the room.\n\nIgraine's long lip curled. She knew the meaning of the man's presence\nthere shrewdly enough. Going to a window she opened the casement frame\nand looked out on the winter scene. Usk winding silver to the sea, the\npurple roll of the bleak bare woods, the far sea itself dying a sullen\nstreak into a sullen sky. It was dreary enough, and yet it suited her;\nshe could have welcomed thunder and the rend of forked fire above the\nwoods. Thought was fierce in her with the wind crying about the house\nlike a wistful voice, the voice of days long dead.\n\nTo be free of Gorlois!\n\nTo cast off her present self like a rotten cloak!\n\nTo adventure liberty, though the peril were shrill as the wind through\nthe swaying pines on the hillside!\n\nTo deal with Brastias!\n\nNow Brastias was a grave-faced knight, neither young nor old, but\na very boy in the matter of the mock wisdom of the world. He was\npossessed of one of those generous natures that looks kindly on\nhumanity with a simple optimism born of a contented conscience. He\nwas a devout man, a soldier, and a gentleman. Moreover, he owned a\nholy reverence for women, a reverence that led him into a somewhat\nextravagant belief in the sincerity of their truth and virtue. He was\nblessed too in being nothing of a cynic in his conceptions of honour.\n\nGorlois knew the man to the heart, and trusted him, a fact well proven\nby the faith imposed upon him in his wardenship of the Lady Igraine.\nBrastias hated the task as much as he hated the telling of a lie. There\nare some men whose whole instinct is towards truth. They are golden\nsouls, often too easily deceived with a gross dross that makes an\noutward show of kindred colour.\n\nBrastias was no stranger to Igraine, for he had served her as one of\nthe knights of the guard in the great castle of Tintagel. He was a man\nwho could look into a woman's eyes and make her feel instinctively\nthe clear honour of his soul. There was nothing of the flesh about\nBrastias. And it was in this chivalrous faith of his that Igraine\ndiscovered a credulity that might make him prone to believe a certain\nprofession of faith that was taking sudden and subtle form within her\nmind. Months ago, she would have hesitated before the man's grey eyes.\nBut feeling herself sinned against, and stirred by the shame of the\npast, she found ample justification for herself in the lie Gorlois had\npractised for her undoing.\n\nShe left the window, and went and stood by the fire, with her back to\nthe man.\n\n\"Brastias,\" she said, quite softly.\n\nThe man looked up from the scroll, and seemed ill at ease.\n\n\"I trust your duty is pleasant to you?\"\n\nBrastias's eyelids flickered nervously, and he cleared his throat.\n\n\"May the Virgin witness,\" he said, \"I have no love of the task.\"\n\n\"My Lord Gorlois trusts you?\"\n\n\"He has said so, madame.\"\n\n\"And am I not his wife?\"\n\nBrastias put the scroll aside with a constrained deliberation. He felt\nhimself wholly in the wrong, as he always did before a woman, and his\nwit ran clumsily on such occasions. It had needed but the observation\nof a child to mark the gulf between Gorlois and his wife. Gorlois had\nspoken few words on the matter, had given commands and nothing more.\nBrastias was not the man to tamper officiously with the confidences of\nothers. He thought much, said little, and bided quiet for Igraine to\nspeak.\n\nShe stood half-turned towards the fire, with her face in profile, and\nher hands hanging limply at her side. Looking for all the world like a\npenitent, she spoke with a certain unconscious pathos, as though she\ntouched on a matter that was heavy upon her heart.\n\n\"Brastias, I may call you a friend?\"\n\n\"I trust so, madame.\"\n\n\"Then there is no reason for me to be backward in speaking of the\ntruth?\"\n\nThe man bowed and said nothing.\n\n\"Come then, Brastias, tell me honestly, have I seemed to you like a\nwoman who loved her husband?\"\n\nThe girl's blue eyes were staring hard into the man's grey ones. There\nwas little chance of prevarication before so blunt a question, and\nBrastias's courtesy, like Balaam's ass, refused to deny the scrutiny\nof truth. Igraine could read the man's face like a piece of blazened\nparchment.\n\n\"Never fear to be frank,\" she said; \"your belief hangs on your face\nlike an alphabet, and that shows me how much you know of a woman's\nheart.\"\n\n\"Pardon me, madame.\"\n\n\"Never blush, man, you would have said that I had as little love for\nGorlois as for the dirtiest beggar in Caerleon?\"\n\nBrastias frowned mildly and agreed with her, remembering as he did a\ncertain wild scene on the battlements of Tintagel.\n\n\"And doubtless you would say that it pained me not a whit to see\nGorlois my lord ride out from Caerleon into the wilds of Wales?\"\n\nThere was such reproach in her voice that Brastias fell into confusion\nbefore her eyes, reddened, and began to excuse himself.\n\n\"Your ladyship's behaviour,\" he said, with an ingenuous look and an\nintense striving after propitiation,--\"your ladyship's behaviour would\nhardly warrant me in believing that my Lord Gorlois was vastly dear\nto you. And, pardon me, a woman does not seek to run away from her\nhusband.\"\n\n\"You insinuate--\"\n\nBrastias felt himself in the mire, and groaned in spirit.\n\n\"Madame, I would say--\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, I understand you.\"\n\n\"Give me leave--\"\n\n\"Not another word.\"\n\nIgraine smiled softly to herself, turned her back on Brastias and\nstared long into the fire. The man stood by, watching her with a\nhumbled look, his fingers twisting restlessly at the broidery of his\nblack tunic. Igraine traced out the mosaic patterns on the floor with\nthe point of her shoe.\n\n\"I think you men are all fools,\" she said.\n\nBrastias's silence might have suggested contradiction.\n\n\"Have you ever loved a woman?\"\n\nThe man shifted, and went red under his straight fair hair. His eyes\ntook a dreamy look.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, as though half-ashamed.\n\nIgraine hung her head and sighed.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" she said, growing suddenly shy and out of countenance,\n\"perhaps you may have learnt the lesson of the froward heart, the\nheart that comes by love when it is in peril of great loss.\"\n\nBrastias drew a quick, deep breath.\n\n\"By the Virgin, that's true,\" he said.\n\nIgraine turned to the fire and hid her face from the man. There was a\npathetic droop about her shoulders, a listless curving of her neck,\nthat made Brastias picture her as burdened with some immoderate sorrow.\nHe was an impressionable man, not in any amorous sense, but in the\nmatter of sympathy towards his fellows. He thought he heard a catch in\nthe girl's breathing that boded tears. Her hair looked very soft and\nlustrous as it curved over her ears and neck.\n\n\"Madame Igraine.\"\n\nNo answer. Brastias went a step nearer.\n\n\"Listen to me.\"\n\nA slight turning of the head in response.\n\n\"What ails you, madame?\"\n\n\"Never trouble.\"\n\n\"I beseech you, tell me.\"\n\nThe man was quite afire; his face looked bright and eager, and his eyes\nshone.\n\n\"Gorlois has gone to the war.\"\n\nThe words were jerked out one by one.\n\n\"Madame!\"\n\n\"War--and death.\"\n\n\"Courage, madame, courage. On my soul, you are not going to say--\"\n\n\"Brastias, you understand.\"\n\n\"Then?\"\n\n\"Man, man, don't drag it out of me; don't you see? are you blind?\"\n\nBrastias invoked a certain saint by the name of Christopher, and\nstraightway emphasised his words by falling down on his knees beside\nIgraine. She had contrived to conjure up tears as she bent over the\nfire. Brastias found one of her hands and held it.\n\n\"This will be my lord's salvation.\"\n\n\"Think you so?\"\n\n\"On my soul, my dear lady, I thank our Lord Jesu from my heart. For I\nknow my Lord Gorlois, and the bitterness that weighed him down, though\nhe spoke little to me on this matter, being staunch to you, and to his\ncourtesy. And by our Lord's Passion, madame, I love peace in a house,\nand quiet looks, and words like laughing water, for there is never a\nhome where temper rules.\"\n\n\"Brastias, you shame me.\"\n\n\"God forbid, dear lady, there's no gospel vanity in my heart. I speak\nbut out.\"\n\nThe man's quaint outburst of gladness touched Igraine's honesty to the\ncore, but she had no thought of recantation, for all the pricking of\nher conscience. She passed back to the open window and leant against\nthe mullion, while Brastias rose from his knees and followed her.\n\n\"I am faint,\" she said, \"and the fresh wind comforts me.\"\n\n\"Courage, madame; Duke Gorlois fights for Britain and the Cross; what\nbetter blessing on his shield?\"\n\nIgraine was looking out toward the sea and the grey curtain of the\nsky cut in places by dark woods and the sweep of dull green hills.\nThere was a wistful droop about her figure that made Brastias molten\nwith intent to comfort, and dumb with words of sympathy that died\ninarticulate in his throat. He stood there, a man muzzled by his own\nsincerity, bankrupt of a syllable, though he commanded his wit to be\nnimble with stentorian cry of conscience. He felt hot in his skin and\nvastly stupid. By the time he had lumbered up some passable fancy,\nIgraine had turned from the window with a quick intelligence kindling\nin her eyes.\n\n\"Brastias.\"\n\n\"Madame.\"\n\n\"Listen to me, I have come by a plan.\"\n\nA sudden flood of sunlight streamed through a rent in the grey canopy\nof clouds. The landscape took a warmer tinge, the purple of the woods\ndeepened. Brastias saw the sudden gleam of light strike on Igraine's\nhair. Her head was thrown back upon her splendid neck, and her eyes\nseemed large with love.\n\n\"I will show Gorlois how I love him,\" she said.\n\nBrastias's face was still hazed in conjecture.\n\n\"I will wipe out the past.\"\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\n\"We will follow Gorlois to the war, you and I, Brastias, together. What\nsay you to that?\"\n\nThe man looked at her with clear grey eyes, and with a transient\nimmobility of feature that changed swiftly to a glow of understanding.\nThe words had gone home to him like a trumpet-cry; their courage warmed\nhim, and he was carried with the wind.\n\n\"A great hazard--and a noble,\" he said, with a flush of colour; \"the\nperil is on my neck, and yet--I'll bear it.\"\n\nIgraine's face blazed.\n\n\"Brastias, you will go with me?\"\n\n\"By my sword, to the death.\"\n\n\"Come hither, man; I must kiss your forehead.\"\n\nBrastias knelt to her again with crossed hands. She looked into his\ngrey eyes and touched his forehead with her lips.\n\n\"Thus I salute honour,\" she said.\n\n\"My lord's lady!\"\n\n\"You have trusted me.\"\n\n\"Else had I been ashamed.\"\n\nThe man went away to arm, warm at heart as any boy. Igraine stood a\nmoment looking into the fire with an enigmatic calm upon her face. For\nBrastias she felt a throttled pity, an impossible admiration that only\ntroubled her. Her lust for liberty bore her like a storm-wind, and her\nhate of Gorlois made her iron at heart. She could dare anything to\nfling off the moral bondage that cramped and bound her like a net.\n\nWhile Brastias was away arming and ordering horses, she went to a\nlittle armoury on the stairs and filched away a short hauberk and a\nsheathed poniard. She wore these under a gown of black velvet bound\nwith a silver girdle, and a cloak of sables hooded and lined with\nsky-blue cloth. She had a strange joy of the knife at her girdle as she\npassed down the stairway to the court.\n\nA few silent servants gaped at her as she passed from the house.\nBrastias came out to her in armour. In the court she heard the cry of\nsteel bridles, the sparking of hoofs on the stones. They were soon\nmounted and away under the great gate and free of Caerleon in the\ndecline of the day. The west had no colour, and a wind pined in the\ntrees as they swept into the twining shadows of the woods, and saw the\nboughs clutch each other against the sullen sky. Soon night came in\na black cowl, and with a winter wind that roamed the woods like the\nmoan of a prophecy. Igraine, riding with her bridle linked in that of\nBrastias, pressed on for the west with a mood that echoed the roar of\nthe trees.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nA man in black armour, a lady in a cloak of sables, a pine forest under\na winter sky.\n\nMyriad trunks interminably pillared, grey-black below, changing to\nred beneath the canopy of boughs; patches of grey-blue sky between;\na floor overgrown with whortleberry and heather, and streaked seldom\nby the sun. Through the tree-tops the veriest sighing of a wind, a\nsound that crept up the curling galleries like the softly-taken breath\nof a sleeping world. Away on every hand oblivious vistas black under\nmultitudinous green spires.\n\nThe woman's face seemed white under the sweep of her sable hood. Its\nexpression was very purposeful, its mouth firm and resolute, its air\nindicative of a deliberate will. Her eyes stared into the wood over\nher horse's head with a constant care, dropping now and again a quick\nside-glance at the man in black armour riding on her flank. She spoke\nseldom to him, and then with a certain assumption of authority that\nseemed to trouble his equanimity but little. Often she would lean\nforward in the saddle as though to listen, her eyes fixed, her mouth\ndecisive, her hand hollowed at her ear to concavitate some sound other\nthan the wind-song of the trees. It was evident that she was under the\nspell of some strong emotion, for she would smile and frown by turns as\nthough vexed by perpetual alternatives of feeling.\n\nThe man at her side watched with his grey eyes the path curling uphill\nbetween the trees. Having his own inward exposition of the woman's\nmood, he contented himself wisely with silence, keeping his reflections\nto himself. He was not a man who blurted commonplaces when lacking\nthe means of inspiration. And he was satisfied with the fancy that he\nunderstood completely the things that were passing through the woman's\nmind. He believed her troubled by those extreme anxieties of the heart\nthat come with war and the handiwork of the sword. Perhaps he was\nfortunate in being ignorant of the truth.\n\nThe interminable trees seemed to vex the woman's spirit as their trunks\ncrowded the winding track and shut the pair in as with a never-ending\nbarrier. But for an occasional patch of heathland or scrub, no lengthy\nvista opened up before them. Tree-boles stood everywhere to baulk their\nvision, silent and stiff like sullen sentinels. The horses plodded on.\nIgraine's impatience could be read upon her face, and discovered in\nher slighter gestures. It was the impatience of a mind at war within\nitself, a mind prone through the chafe of trouble to be vexed with\ntrifles; sore, sensitive, and hasty. Brastias watched her, pretending\nto be intent the while on the path that wandered away into the mazes of\nthe wood. He was a considerate creature, and he suffered her petulance\nwith a placid good-humour, and a certain benevolence that was the\noutcome of pity.\n\nIgraine jerked her bridle, and eyed the trees as though they were the\nmembers of a mob thrusting themselves between her and her purpose. She\nwas inclined to be unreasonable, as only a woman can be on occasions.\nBrastias, calm-faced and debonair, contented himself with sympathy, and\nrefrained from reason as from the handling of a whip.\n\n\"That peasant fellow was a liar,\" he said, by way of being\ncompanionable.\n\n\"Yes, the whelp.\"\n\n\"I'll swear we've ridden two leagues, not one.\"\n\n\"The fellow should have a stripe for every furlong.\"\n\n\"Rough justice, madame.\"\n\nIgraine laughed.\n\n\"If justice were done to liars,\" she said, \"the world would be\nhideless, scourged raw.\"\n\nBrastias edged his horse past an intruding tree and chuckled amiably.\n\n\"It would be a pity to spoil so much beauty.\"\n\n\"Eh!\"\n\n\"The women would come off worst.\"\n\nIgraine flashed a look at him.\n\n\"Balaam's ass spoke the truth,\" she said.\n\nThey had not gone another furlong when Brastias reined in suddenly and\nstood listening. He held up a hand to Igraine, looking at her with\nprophetic face, his black armour lustreless under the trees.\n\n\"Hark!\"\n\nIgraine stared into his eyes. Neither moved a muscle for fully a minute.\n\n\"A trumpet-cry!\"\n\nBrastias lowered his hand.\n\n\"From the host. And the 'advance,' by the sound on't.\"\n\n\"Then we shall be out of the woods soon.\"\n\n\"Go warily, madame; it would be poor wisdom to stumble on an Irish\nlegion.\"\n\n\"Brastias, I would not miss the day for a year in heaven.\"\n\nAs they pushed uphill through the solemn shadows of the forest, a sound\nlike the raging of a wind through a wood came down to them faintly from\nafar. It was a sullen sound, deep and mysterious as the hoarse babel\nof the sea, smitten through with the shrill scream of trumpets like\nthe cry of gulls above a storm. In the alleys of the pine forest it was\nstill as death, and calm beneath the beniscus of the tall trees.\n\nIgraine and Brastias looked meaningly at each other as they rode. The\nsound needed no words to christen it. The two under the trees knew that\nthey heard the roar of host breaking upon host, the cataractine thunder\nof a distant battle.\n\nPushing on as fast as the forest suffered, the din became more\ndefinite, more human, more sinister in detail. It stirred the blood,\nchallenged the courage, racked conjecture with the infinite chaos it\nportended. Victory and despair were trammelled up together in its\nsullen roar; life and death seemed to swell it with the wind-sound of\ntheir wings; it was stupendous, sonorous, chaotic, a tempest-cry of\nsteel and many voices merged into the grand underchant of war.\n\nIgraine's face kindled to the sound like the face of a girl who hears\nher lover's lute at night under her window. Blood fled to her brain\nwith the wild strength of the strain humming like a wind through the\ntrees. She was in the mood for war; the tragedy of it solemnised her\nspirit, and made her look for the innumerable flash of arms, the\nrolling march of a multitude. For the moment it was life, and the\nglorious strength of it; death and the dust were hid from sight.\n\nYet another furlong and the red trunks dwindled, and the sombre boughs\nfringed great tracts of blue, and to the north mountains rose up dim\nand purple under an umbrage of clouds. To the west the sea appeared\nsolemn and foamless, set with pine-spired aisles, and a great company\nof ships at anchor. Nigh the shore the grey pile of a walled town stood\nout upon green meadows. Igraine and the man pushed past the outlying\nthickets, and drew rein upon a slope that ran gradually down from them\nlike the great swell of a sea.\n\nTented by the dome of the sky lay a natural amphitheatre, shelving\ntowards the sea, but rising in the east by rolling slopes to a ridge\nthat joined the mountains with the forest. The valley was a medley of\nwaste land, scrub, gorse, and thicket, traversed by the white streak\nof a road, and closed on the west by the grey walls of the town rising\nup above the green. It was a wild spot enough. However still and\nsolitary it may have seemed in its native desertedness, however much\nthe haunt of the wolf and the boar, it seethed now like a cauldron with\nthe boiling stir of battle. Men swarmed through scrub and thicket;\nmasses of steel moved hither and thither, met, mingled, broke, and\nrallied. Wave rushed on wave. Bodies of horsemen smoked over the open\nwith flashing of many colours and the glittering pomp of mail, to roll\nwith clanging trumpets into some vortex of death. The whole scene was\none shifting mass of steel and strife, dust and disorder, galloping\nsquadrons, rolling spears, rank on rank of shields a-flicker in the\nsun. And from this whirlpool of humanity rose the dull grinding roar of\nwar, fierce, stupendous, clamorous, grand.\n\nTo the trained eye of the soldier the chaos took orderly and\nintelligent meaning, and Brastias stood in his stirrups and pointed out\nto Igraine the main ordering of the hosts. Uther Pendragon held the\neastern ridge with his knights and levies; Gilomannius and Pascentius\nthrust up at him from the sea; while the valley between held the wreck\nof the countercharges of either host, and formed debatable ground where\ntroop ran against troop, and man against man.\n\nThe masses of Uther's army swept away along the ridge, their arms\nglittering over the green slopes, their banners and surcoats colouring\nthe height into a terraced garden of war, the whole, a solemn streak\nof gold against the blue bosoms of the hills. To the north stood\nMeliograunt with his levies from Wales, and next him Duke Eldol and\nKing Nentres headed the men of Flavia C\u00e6sariensis. South of all the\ngreat banner of Tintagel showed where Gorlois and the southern levies\nreared up their spears like a larch-wood in winter. Brastias pointed\nthem all out to the girl in turn, keeping keen watch the while on the\nshifting mob of mail in the valley.\n\nIgraine, stirred by the scene, urged on from the forest, and the\nknight following her, they crossed some open scrubland, wound through\na thicket of pines, and stood at gaze under the boughs. Igraine's\neyes were all the while turned on the banner of Tintagel, and from\nthe common mob of mailed figures she could isolate a knight in gilded\nharness on a white horse, Gorlois, her husband. The mere sight of him\nset her hate blazing in her heart, and seemed to pageant out all the\nills she had suffered at his hands. Her feud against the man was a\nveritable insanity, a species of melancholia that wrapped all existence\nin the morbid twilight of self-centred bitterness. As she looked down\nupon the host there was a kind of overmastering madness of malice on\nher face, an emotion whose very intensity paled her to the lips, and\nmade her eyes hard and scintillant as crystal. She was discreet for all\nher violence of soul. Turning to Brastias, who was scanning the valley\nunder his hand, she pointed to the banner with a restless eagerness of\nmanner that might have hinted at her solicitude for Gorlois, her lord.\n\n\"See yonder,\" she said, \"is not that the Lord Gorlois on the white\nhorse by yonder standard?\"\n\nBrastias turned his glance thither, considered for a moment, and then\nagreed decisively.\n\n\"Love is quick of eye,\" he said with a smile.\n\n\"Let us ride down nearer.\"\n\n\"I care not for the hazard, madame.\"\n\n\"Who fears at such a season?\"\n\n\"By my sword, madame, not your servant; I am but careful of your\nsafety.\"\n\n\"Fear for me, Brastias, when I fear for myself.\"\n\n\"Methinks, madame, that would be never.\"\n\n\"Brastias, I believe you.\"\n\nIgraine's courage had risen to too high an imperiousness for the\nmoment to brook baffling or to endure restraint. She had been lifted\nout of herself, as it were, by the storm-cry of battle, and by the\nsplendour of the scene spread out before her eyes. A furlong or more\ndown the hillside a little hillock stood up amid a few wind-twisted\nthorns, proffering rare vantage for outlook over wood and dale. She was\naway like a flash, and several lengths ahead before Brastias had roused\nup, put spur to horse, and cantered after her. The man saw the glint of\nher horse's hinder hoofs spurning the sod, and though the wind whistled\nabout his ears, he was left well in the rear for all his spurring.\nIgraine, with her hair agleam under her tossed-back hood, and her\ncheeks ruddied by the wind, headed for the rising ground at a gallop,\ngained it, and drew rein on the very verge of a small cliff that\ndropped sheer to the flat below. The hillock was like a natural pulpit,\nits front face a perpendicular some twenty feet high, while its hinder\nslope tailed off to merge into the hillside. Gorlois's mailed masses\nstood but a hundred paces away, and Igraine could see him clearly in\nhis gilded harness under the banner of Tintagel.\n\nBrastias galloped up to her with a mild bluster of expostulation.\n\n\"You court danger, madame.\"\n\n\"What if I do, Brastias, to be near my lord.\"\n\n\"Your sanctity lies upon my conscience.\"\n\n\"I take all such care from you.\"\n\n\"Madame, that is impossible; duty is duty both night and day, in battle\nand in peace; duty bids me fear for my lord's wife.\"\n\nIgraine found certain logic invincible in the argument, and made good\nuse of it; she meant to rule Brastias for her own ends.\n\n\"Fear,\" she said; \"I forget fear when I am nigh Gorlois, my husband;\nand who can gainsay me the right of watching over him? I forget fear\nwhen I think of Britain, the king, and my lord, and had I a hundred\nlives I could cast them down to help to break the heathen, and serve\nmy country.\"\n\n\"Amen,\" said Brastias, signing the cross upon his breast.\n\nSterner interests quashed any further polite bickerings that might have\nrisen from Igraine's pride of purpose, for Brastias, with the instinct\nof a soldier, marked some large development in the struggle that had\nbeen passing in the valley below them. The scattered lines of horse\nand foot that had been thrown forward by Uther to try the strength and\nspirit of the Irish host, were falling back sullenly uphill before the\nmasses of attack poured up from the flats by Gilomannius the king. The\nwhole battle had shifted to the east. Bodies of horse were spurring\nuphill, driving in Uther's men, cutting down stragglers, harrowing\nthe slopes for the solid march of the black columns of foot that were\ncreeping up between the thickets, winding like giant dragons amid furze\nand scrub. It was a grand sight enough, the advance of a great host,\na rocking sea of spears pouring up in the lull that had fallen over\nthe valley as though the battle took breath and waited. Uther's men\nkept their ground upon the ridge, watching in silence the advance of\nGilomannius's chivalry. Only a brief wild cry of trumpets betokened the\ngathering of the waves of war.\n\nEven at this juncture Brastias racked his wit and courtesy to persuade\nGorlois's lady to fall back and watch from the shelter of the woods.\nHe pointed out her peril to Igraine, besought, argued, cajoled,\nthreatened. All he gained was a blunt but half-smiling declaration\nfrom the woman that she would hold to her post on the hillock till the\nbattle was over, or some mischance drove her from the place. Brastias\ncaught her bridle, spurred round, and tried to drag her back by main\nforce, but she was out of the saddle instanter, and obstinate as ever.\nIn the end the man capitulated, and gave his concern to the fortunes of\nwar.\n\nThe sudden uproar that sounded out along the hillside made mere\nindividual need dull and impossible for the moment. The shock of the\njoining of the hosts had come like the fall of snow from a mountain--a\nsound sweeping down the valley, echoing among the silent fastnesses of\nthe hills. Men had come pike to pike, shield to shield, upon the ridge.\nMass rushed upon mass, billow upon billow. From the mountains to the\nforest the sweat and thunder of strife rolled up from the long line\nof leaping steel, from the living barrier, steady as a cliff. It was\none of the many Marathons of the world where barbarism clawed at the\nantique fabric of the past.\n\nIgraine's glance was stayed on Gorlois and the southern levies about\nthe banner of Tintagel. Her hate surged up the green slope with the\nonrush of the Irish horde, and brandished on the charge in spirit\ntowards the tall figure in the harness of gold. She saw Gorlois in the\npress smiting right and left with the long sweep of his sword. In her\nthirst for his destruction she grudged him strength, harness, sword,\nthe very shield he bore. She was glad of his courage, for such would\nmilitate against him. Moment by moment her desire honoured him with\ndeath as she thought him doomed to fall beneath the surge of steel.\n\nA sudden shout from Brastias brought her stare from this chaos of\nswords. The man was standing in his stirrups, and pointing to the west\nwith his face dead white and his mouth agape.\n\n\"By God, look!\"\n\nTruth to tell, there was little need of the warning. A dull rumble of\nhoofs came up like thunder above the shriller din around. Igraine,\nlooking to the west, saw a black mass of horsemen at the gallop,\nswaying, surging, rocking uphill full for Gorlois's flank. The sight\nnumbed her reason for the moment. She was still as stone as the column\nswept past the very foot of the hillock--a flood of steel--and plunged\nheadlong upon Gorlois's lines, hewing and trampling to the very banner\nof Tintagel. An oath from Brastias made her turn and look at him. He\nhad his hand on his sword, and his face was twisted into a snarl of\nwrath and shame as he stood in his stirrups and watched the fight.\n\n\"My God!\" he cried, \"my God! they run.\"\n\nIt was palpable enough that the southern line was breaking and\ncrumbling ominously before the rush of Gilomannius's knights. Little\nbunches of men were breaking away from the main mass like smoke, and\nfalling back over the ridge. Igraine guessed at Brastias's pride and\nfury, saw her chance of liberty, and took it. She set up a shrill cry\nthat stirred his courage like a trumpet-cry.\n\n\"My Lord, my Lord Gorlois, Brastias, what of him?\"\n\nThe man's sword had flashed out.\n\n\"Send me to death, lady, only to strike a blow for Britain.\"\n\nIgraine spread her hands to him like a Madonna, and made the sign of\nthe cross in the air. Brastias lifted up his drawn sword, kissed it,\nand saluted her with the look of a hero. Then he wheeled his horse,\nplunged down from the hillock, and rode full gallop into the battle.\nIgraine soon lost sight of his black harness in the m\u00eal\u00e9e, and since he\nmet his death there, she saw Brastias alive no more.\n\nDespite the grim uproar of the overthrow, despite the taunts of a\npatriot pride, there was an under-current of gladness through her\nthought as she watched Gorlois's men giving ground upon the ridge.\nHer lord's shame was her gratification. To such a pitch of passion\nwas she tuned that she could find laughter for the occasion, and a\nshrill cry of joy that startled even her own ears when the banner\nof Tintagel quivered and went down into the dust. Men were falling\nlike leaves in autumn, and the southern wing of Uther's host seemed\nbut a rabble--trampled, overridden, herded, and smitten over the\nridge. Everywhere the swords and spears of Gilomannius's knights and\ngallowglasses spread rout and panic, while the wavering mass gave\nground, rallied, gave again, and streamed away in flight over the\nhillside. She could see no sign of Gorlois, and with a whimper of\nhate the strong doubt of his escaping the slaughter took hold on her\nheart, and found ready welcome there. She was rid of Brastias--good\nfellow that he was--and though she honoured him, she loved liberty\nbetter. Liberty enough! Gorlois her lord had been slain. Such were her\nreflections for the moment.\n\nPendragon's host seemed threatened with overthrow. The southern wing\nhad been driven off the field by a charge of horse; Gilomannius held\nthe southern portion of the ridge, and pressed hard on Meliograunt,\nboth flank and face. The imminent need of Britain was plain enough even\nto Igraine, yet a sense of calm and liberty had come upon her like the\nsong of birds or the gush of green in springtide. Even her patriotism\nseemed dim and unreal for the moment before the treasonable gratitude\nthat watched the overthrow of Gorlois's arms. She was alone at last,\nsolitary among thousands, able after the bitterness of past months to\npluck peace from the very carnage of battle. Trouble had so wrought\nupon her mind that it seemed a negation of all probable and natural\nsentiment, a contradiction of the ethical principles of sense.\n\nThe day was fast passing, and the grand fires of a winter sunset were\nrolling all the caverns of the west into a blaze of gold and scarlet.\nThe pine forest, black and inscrutable as night, stood with its spines\nlike ebony to the fringe of the west, while the slanting light lit\nthe glimmering masses of steel on hill and valley with a web of gold.\nTo the north the mountains towered in a mystery of purple, a gleam of\namber transient on their peaks.\n\nSudden and shrill came a cry of trumpets from the hills, a sinister\nsound that seemed to issue in the climax of the last phase of a\ntragedy. Igraine's eyes were turned northwards to the green slopes\nof the higher ground where the great banner of the Golden Dragon had\nflapped over Uther the King. Here a great company of knights, the\nflower of the host, had stood inactive throughout the day. With a\ncry of trumpets this splendid company had moved down to charge the\nmasses of Gilomannius's men, who now filled the shallow valley east\nof the ridge, and threatened King Meliograunt and the whole host with\noverthrow. Uther had ridden out to lead the charge with his own sword.\nIt was one of those perilous hours when some great deed was needed to\ngrapple victory from defeat.\n\nThe rest of the scene seemed blotted out as Igraine watched from her\nhillock the glittering mass rolling downhill with the evening sun\nstriking flame from its thousand points of steel. On over the green\nslopes, past the pavilions of the camp, it gathered like a wave lifting\nits crest against a rock, on towards the swarm of men squandered in\npursuit of Gorlois's broken line, on to where Gilomannius formed his\nknights for the charge. The green space dwindled and dwindled with\nthe rush and roar of the nearing gallop. Igraine saw the rabble of\nSaxons, light-armed kerns and Irish gallowglasses, split and crack\nlike a crumbling wall. For a short breath the black mass held, with\nUther's storm of mail cleaving cracks and wedges in it--streaks of\ntawny colour like lava through the vineyards and gardens of a village.\nThen as by magic the whole mass seemed to deliquesce, to melt, to\nbecome as mist. All visible was a thunderstorm of horsemen tearing like\nwind through a film of rain with scattering fringes of cloud scudding\nswiftly to the west. The knights had passed the valley and were riding\nup the slope, hewing, trampling, crushing, as they came. Gilomannius's\ncolumns that had pushed Gorlois's men into rout had become a rabble in\nturn--wrecked, scattered to the wind, trodden down in blood and dust.\nThey were streaming away in flight over the ridge, scampering for\nscrub and thicket, no lust in them save the lust of life. Igraine saw\nthem racing past on every quarter, a blood-specked, dust-covered herd,\ntheir hairy faces panting for the west and the ships on the beach. Not\na hundred paces away came the line of trampling hoofs and swinging\nswords, a demoniac whirlwind of iron wrath that hunted, slew, and gave\nno quarter.\n\nBeyond the summit of the ridge, and all about the hillock where Igraine\nstood, the glittering horde of knights came to a halt with a great\nshout of triumph. Right beneath Igraine and the straight face of the\nhillock a man in red armour on a black horse, with a golden dragon\non his helmet, stood out some paces before the ranks of the splendid\ncompany. A great cry rolled up, a forest of swords shook in the sun.\nThe knight on the black horse stood in his stirrups, and with sword and\nhelmet upstretched in either hand lifted his face to the red triumph\nfire of the west. Igraine knew him--Pelleas, Uther, the King.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nThe sun had rolled back between the pylons of the west. Night was\nin the sky, night in her winter austerity--keen, clear, aglitter\nwith stars as though her robe were spangled with cosmic frost. The\nmountains' rugged heads were dark to the heavens, and the sea lay a\nfaintly glimmering plain open to the beck of the moon.\n\nThe Irish host had broken and fled at sunset before Uther's charge and\nthe streaming spears of Eldol and King Nentres. The green meadows, the\nwild scrubland, had been chequered over with the black swarm of the\nflying soldiery; the whole valley had surged with swords and the sound\nof the slaughter. By the grey walls of the town it had beleaguered,\nthe driven host had turned and rallied in despair to stave off to\nthe last the implacable doom that poured down from the hills. It was\nthe vain effort of a desperate cause. Broken and scattered like dust\nalong a highway, there had been no hope left them but their ships.\nThe battle had ended in the very foam of the breaking waves. Crag and\ncliff, rock-citadel and yellow sand, had had their meed of blood and\nthe shrill sound of the sword. The great ships had saved but a remnant,\nand had put out to sea in the dusk, their white sails like huge ghosts\ntreading the swell of the twilight waters. Yet with night there had\ncome no ceasing of the carnage. Despair had turned to front victory;\nIrish gallowglass and heathen churl, forsaken by their ships and hemmed\nin by sea and sword, had fought on to the end, finding and knowing no\nmercy. Gilomannius the King and Pascentius were dead, and the blood of\ninvasion poured out like water.\n\nNow it was night, and in the clear passionless light of the moon a\nfigure in a cloak of sables moved towards the mound where Gorlois of\nCornwall had flown his banner early in the day's battle. Everywhere\nthe dead lay piled like sheaves in a cornfield, their harness glinting\nwith a ghastly lustre to the moon--piled in all attitudes and postures,\nstaring blankly with white faces to the sky, or prone with their lips\nin blood, contorted, twisted, clutching at throat and weapon, mouths\nagape or clenched into a grin, man piled on man, barbarian upon Briton.\nDark quags chequered the grass with the sickly odour of shed blood, and\nsword and spear, shield and helmet, flickered impotently among the dead.\n\nIgraine went among the bodies like a black monk seeking some still\nquick enough to be shriven before their souls took flight from the\nriven clay. Her cloak was gathered jealously about her as she threaded\nher way among the huddled figures, peering under helmets, scanning\nharness narrowly in her death-inspired quest. Casting hither and\nthither in the moonlight, she came to a tangled bank of furze, and\nbeyond it a low hillock that seemed piled and paved with the bodies\nof the slain. Here had stood the banner of Tintagel, and here the\nprowess of Gorlois's household knights had fallen before the charge\nof Gilomannius's chivalry. Igraine saw the medley of mail, the dead\nhorses, jumbled figures, wreck of shield and spear rising out above\nher in the moonlight, cloaked with a silence grim and irrefutable,\nas though Death himself sat sentinel on the pyramid of carnage. Half\nshuddering at the sight like an aspen, for all the intent that was in\nher heart, she drew near, determined and resolved to search the mound.\nCompelled to climb over the dead and to set her foot on the breasts\nand shoulders of the slain, her tread lighted more than once on a body\nthat squirmed like a dying snake. Strong to do the uttermost after that\nday of revelation she struggled on, loathing the task, her shoes clammy\nwith the blood-sweat of death. On the summit of the mound she came upon\nGorlois's white horse lying dead by the wreathing folds of the fallen\nbanner of his house.\n\nA whimper of joy came up into Igraine's heart. Sinister as the sign\nseemed, she was soon searching the mound with an alert desire in her\neyes that prophesied no vestige of pity for the thing for which she\nsought. Hunt as she would, and she was marvellously patient over the\ngruesome business, no glint of Gorlois's golden harness flattered her\nhate as she searched the mound. Many a good knight lay there, some that\nshe had known at Tintagel, and hated because they served her husband,\nbut of Gorlois she found no trace. As a last hope, she dragged aside\nthe great standard and found a dead man there sheeted in its folds, a\nman in black armour with his face to the sky--Brastias, who had ridden\nwith her from Caerleon.\n\nShe stood a moment looking down at him with a sudden feeling of awe\nsuch as had not come upon her through all that day. A white face lay\nturned to the sky,--a face that had looked kindly into hers with a\nlevel trust,--and smiled with a wealth of manly sympathy. It was a\nsimple thing enough, nothing but one death among many thousands, but it\ntouched Igraine to the core, and made her ashamed of the lies she had\ngiven him. She found herself wondering like a child whether Brastias\nwas in heaven, and whether he watched her and her thoughts with his\ncalm grey eyes. The notion disquieted her. She bent down, took his\nnaked sword from his hand, and shrouded him again in the gorgeous\nblazonry of the flag for which he had died, and so left him with a sigh.\n\nAs she climbed back again from the mound, a gashed and clotted face\nheaved up and stared at her from a heap of slain. It was the face of\na man who had struggled up on his hands to look at her with mouth\nagape, dazed after a sudden waking from the stupor of a swoon. For a\nmoment in the moonlight she thought it was Gorlois by certain likeness\nof feature, but discovered her error when the man spoke to her in\ngibberish she did not understand. He began to crawl towards her with a\ncertain air of menace that made her start back and rear up the sword\nshe had taken from dead Brastias. The threat of steel proved needless\nenough, for the man dropped again with a wet groan, and seemed dead\nwhen she went and bent over him with thoughts of succour.\n\nPassing back again to her hillock, she stood there brooding and looking\nout towards the west. A great bell in the town by the sea was pulsing\nheavily as though for the dead, and there were many cressets flaring\non the walls, and torches going to and fro in the meadows. The sound\nof a triumph hymn chanted by hundreds of deep voices floated up like a\nprayer from the western meadows.\n\nAt the sound Igraine's eyes were strangely full of tears. By some\nstrange echoing of the mind the idyls of past days woke like the song\nof birds after a storm of rain. Clear in the dusk she seemed to see\nthe red figure on the black horse, his face lit like a god's by the\nslanting light from the west as he stretched his sword to heaven. Again\nthe scene changed, and she saw him riding through the flowering meads\nof Andredswold, looking down on her with a grave and luminous pity. She\nwas glad of him, glad of his great glory, glad that he had kissed her\nlips, and bewrayed the love to her that was in his heart. The scene and\nthe occasion were strange enough for such broodings, yet her eyes were\nvery dim as she stood in a half-dream and let the picture drift across\nher mind.\n\nThe revelation had come upon her with such suddenness that she had been\nfor the moment like one dazed. She had watched Uther sweep on with his\nhorde of knights, and had stood mute and impotent as one smitten dumb\nwhile the red harness and the golden dragon of Britain vanished again\ninto the moil of war. Now her whole soul yearned out with a wistfulness\nborn of infinite regret. If he had only come to her alone; if he had\nonly come to her as Pelleas in some gloom of green, she could have\nfallen down before his horse's feet, kissed the scabbard of his sword,\nwept over his helmet, and burnished it with her hair. Sight of that\ndark sad face had made a beacon of her on the instant.\n\nAnd Gorlois! If she had hated him yesterday, she hated him with\na tenfold vigour since she had looked again upon Pelleas's face.\nCertainly her malice had grown with an Ant\u00e6an strength with each\nhumbling of her heart to the dust, and the very thought of Gorlois\nseemed blasphemy against her soul at such an hour.\n\nWith the memory of Gorlois a cloud dulled the clear mirror of her mind,\nand her mood of dreams melted into mist. The strong sense of bondage,\nof ineffectual treason, came back with a fuller force as though to\nmenace her with the fateful realism of her lot. A hand seemed to sweep\ndown and wave her back with a meaning so sinister that even her hate\nstood still a moment as in sudden fear; she had some such feeling as\nof standing on the brink of a mysterious sea whose waves sang to her a\nsong of peril, of misery and desire cooped up together in the dim green\ntwilight of some coral dungeon. The lure of the unknown beat upon her\neyes, while love and hate, like attendant spirits, beckoned her over\nthe yawn of an open grave.\n\nFor the moment the importunity of her immediate need drew her from\nmeditations alike bitter and divine. A battlefield after dark, with all\nits lust and pillage, was no pleasant place for a woman. The lights of\nthe town still showed up brightly in the west, but Igraine had little\ndesire of the teeming streets where victory would be matching blood\nwith wine, and where the revels of the soldiery would celebrate the day\nin primal fashion. She was content to be alone under the stars, and\neven the dead seemed more sympathetic than the living at such an hour.\n\nA wind had risen, and she heard the hoarse \"salv\u00e9\" of the forest in\nthe night. The thousand voices of the trees seemed to call to her\nwith a weird perpetual clamour. She saw their spectral hands jerking\nand clutching against the sky, and heard the creak and gibber of the\ncriss-cross boughs swaying in the wind. Leaving the hillock, and still\nbearing Brastias's sword, she held across the open, seeing as she went\nthe dark streaks that dotted the hillside--the bodies of men fallen in\nthe flight. She gained the trees, and was soon deep among the crowded\ntrunks, pondering on her lodging for the night.\n\nWandering hither and thither, looking for some more sheltered spot,\nher glance lighted on a dim swelling of the ground that proved to be\nan ancient mound or barrow. It had been opened in times past, probably\nin the search for buried treasure or for weapons. Brambles, weeds, and\nheather had roofed the shallow cutting into a little recess or cave\nthat gave fair shelter from the wind, and Igraine, braving the notion\nof barrow ghost or spirit, claimed the place as a God-send, and took\ncover therein.\n\nThe last crumbs in her wallet finished, she sat with her face between\nher palms, brooding, big-eyed, in the night, like any Druidess\nwreathing spells in her forest solitude. The wind was crying through\nthe trees, swaying them restlessly against the starry sky, making\nplaintive moan through all the myriad aisles. Igraine listened like\none huddled among her thoughts to keep out the cold. Miserable as was\nher lodging, her mind seemed packed with the day's battle; the whirl\nand thunder of it were still moving in her brain, a wild scene towered\nover by a man bare-headed on a black horse, holding his helmet to the\nsetting sun. Often and often she heard the roar of hoofs and saw the\nrush of the charge that had trampled the banner of Tintagel and hurled\nGorlois and his men in rout from the ridge. Had it been death or life\nwith the man? Was he with the King hearing holy mass and lifting up the\nwine cup to heaven under a flare of lights, or lying stiff and pinched\nunder the mild eyes of night? It was this thought, holding hope and\ndoubt in common yoke, that abode with her all the night in her refuge\nunder the trees.\n\nIt was bleak enough, with a silvering of frost over the land, when\ndarkness had rolled back over the western sea, uncovering the wreck of\ndeath that lay huddled on ridge and slope. Igraine was stirring early\nfrom the barrow. With the cold and her own thoughts she had slept but\nan hour, and at the first filtering of light through the branches she\nwas glad and ready for the day. She wandered through the forest towards\nthe open land that showed glimmering through the tree-boles, with no\ncertain purpose moving in her mind. The future as yet was a blank to\nher, lacking possibilities, jealous of its secrets, saturnine as death\nitself. There shone one light above her that seemed to burn through the\nunknown; it had long led her from distant hills, yet even her red lamp\nof love beckoned her over a sepulchre.\n\nComing to the forest margin, she came full upon the incontestable\nhandiwork of war. Under the sweep of a great pine lay the body of a\nknight in black harness, all blazoned with gold, while his grey horse\nwas still standing with infinite patience by his side, nosing him\ngently from time to time. The man's helmet, a visored casque, somewhat\ngladiatorial in type, had fallen off, and a young beardless face was\nturned placidly up to the blue, a white oval pillowed upon a tuft of\nheather. There was no blood or sign of violence visible save a blue\nbruise on his left temple; it seemed more than probable that he had\nbeen pitched from the saddle and found death in the fall.\n\nIgraine stood and looked at him in some pity while the horse snuffed at\nher, staring with great wistful eyes as though for help or sympathy.\nThe man was young, with a certain nobility of early manhood on his\nface, and it seemed to her very pitiful that he should be cut off thus\nin life's spring. As she looked at him she noted that he was slim of\nfigure, and not much above middle height. A sudden fancy took her on\nthe instant. She tethered the horse, and kneeling down by the man\nher fingers were soon busy at the buckles and joints of his armour.\nUngirding his sword, she drew it from the scabbard and set it upright\nat his head, sheathing Brastias's in its place. Having stripped off\nhis armour and long surcoat she covered him reverently with her cloak,\nslung the horse's bridle round her wrist, and gathering up his arms and\nhelmet went back to the barrow where she had passed the night.\n\nThe wood had received a woman in the dress of a woman; it gave in\nexchange a knight on a grey horse--a knight in black armour blazoned\nwith gold under a surcoat of violet cloth. The brazen helmet, visored\nand hooded with mail over nape of neck and throat, gleamed and flashed\nunder the green boughs. There were three lilies, snow-white, and a\ncloven heart upon the shield, and the horse trappings were bossed and\nenamelled gold and blue.\n\nIgraine rode out from the trees with the pomp of a Launcelot. The grey\nhorse's mane tossed in the wind, the furze rippled on the hillside, the\ncloud-ships sailed the blue with white sails spread. The girl was aglow\nwith new life under her guise of steel. The essence of manhood seemed\nto have created itself within her as from the soul of the dead knight,\nand she suffered the glory of arms with a pride that was almost boyish.\n\nHolding out from the trees at a solemn pace, she headed westward down\nthe valley along the grass slopes that slid between scrub and thicket\nto the sea. On the road below her a company of spears trailed eastward\nuphill in a snakelike column that glittered through the green. Pushing\non boldly across ground where the battle had raged hotly the night\nbefore, she reached the road as the head of the column swung up at a\ndull tramp on their march home for Caerleon. Gruffing her voice in\nher throat she hailed the knight who headed the troop for news of the\nbattle of yesterday, posing as one late on the scene, and sore at\nhaving struck no blow for Britain.\n\nThe knight drew aside, and letting his men tramp by, he gave tersely\nthe tale of the fight as he had seen it from King Nentres's lines.\n\n\"St. Jude be blessed,\" said Igraine at the end thereof. \"I am glad,\nfriend, of these tidings. As for the field, it looks to have been as\nbloody a one as ever I set eyes on.\"\n\n\"Bloody enough,\" quoth the man, giving his moustache a twirl; \"too\nbloody for Gilomannius and dead Vortigern's whelp.\"\n\n\"What of Uther?\"\n\n\"Scarce a scratch.\"\n\n\"King Meliograunt?\"\n\n\"Wounded, but drunk as the devil.\"\n\n\"And Gorlois of Cornwall?\"\n\nThe man laughed as at a jest.\n\n\"Bedded in an abbey,\" said he, \"with a split face; mere flesh, mere\nflesh, nothing deeper.\"\n\nIgraine thanked him with her helm adroop, and turning her horse, rode\nback towards the forest heavy of heart.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nThe King's house at Caerleon stood out above the Usk on a little hill\nwhose slopes were set with shrubberies and gardens, the white pillars\nand broad fa\u00e7ade glimmering above the filmy cloud of green that covered\nthe place as with a garment. A great stairway ran to the river from\nthe southern terrace that blazed in summer with flower-filled urns and\nstacks of roses that overspread the balustrade with crimson flame. It\nwas a place of dawns and sunsets; of lights rising amber in the east\nover purple hills and amethystine waters; of quiet glows at evening\nin the west, with cypresses and yews carven in ebony against primrose\nskies; while in the burgeoning of the year birds made the thickets deep\nwith melody; and all beyond, Caerleon's solemn towers, roofs, casements\nbowered in green, rested within the battlemented walls that touched\nthe domes and leaf-spires of the woods.\n\nIt was noontide in Caerleon, and down the great stairway, with its\nrows of cypresses, its banks of yew and myrtle, a fair company was\npassing to the river, where many barges clustered round the water-gate\nlike gilded beetles sunning their flanks in the shallows. Knights and\nchurchmen in groups moved down from the palace talking together as they\nwent. There had been a council of state in the King's hall, a great\nassembling of the noble folk and prelatry, to consider the need of\nBritain, the cry of the martyred and the homeless from Kentlands and\nthe east. Anderida, that great city of the southern shores, had fallen\nin a tempest of fire and sword; no single soul had escaped from its\nsmoking walls; the barbarian had entered in and made great silence over\nthe whole city. Now it was told that more galleys had come bearing the\nfair-haired churls from the sand-dunes and pinewoods, the rude hamlets\nof that Angle land over the sea. Vectis had been overrun, Porchester\nburnt to the ground, even the noble city of Winchester threatened\ndespite its walls. Beast and robber had sole rule in Andredswold;\nmuch of nether-Britain was a wilderness, a wistful land given over to\nsolitude and the wild creatures of the forest. Churches were crumbling;\ngillyflowers grew on the high altars, and ivy wrapped the tombs;\nsanctuary bells were silent, homes empty and still as death. Desolation\nthreatened the south, while the valleys of Armorica oversea gave refuge\nto many who fled before the Saxon sword.\n\nIn the great hall of the palace Uther still sat in his chair of ivory\nunder a gilded roof that mingled huge beams with banners, spears, and\nrust-rotted harness. The walls were frescoed with Homeric scenes--Helen\nmeeting Paris in the house of Menelaus, Achilles slaying Hector,\nUlysses and Calypso. Twelve painted pillars held the crossbeams of the\nhall, and from the fire on the great hearth a fragrant scent of burning\ncedar wood drifted upon the air. A long table covered with parchment,\ntablets, quills and inkhorns, and an array of empty benches testified\nto the number of noble folk who had assembled at the royal conclave.\nA single councillor remained before the King--Dubricius, Bishop of\nCaerleon, a tall spare man, whose white hair and sensitive ascetic face\nbore testimony to an inward delicacy of soul.\n\nUther was clad in a tunic of scarlet, with a dragon in gold thread\nblazoned upon his breast. No crown, coronet, or fillet was on his brow;\non his finger he wore the signet of Ambrosius, and his sword was girded\nto him with a girdle of embroidered leather. His look was much the same\nas when he rode as Pelleas in Andredswold and was nursed of his wound\nby Igraine in the island manor. Possibly there were more lines upon his\nface, a deeper dignity of sadness in his eyes. Circumstance had put\nupon him the cherishing of an imperilled kingdom, and with the charge\nhis natural stateliness of soul had risen into a heroism of benignant\nchivalry. No more kingly man could have taken a land under the strong\nsweep of his sword. With the grand simplicity of a great heart he had\ngrappled the task as a thing given of God, bending ever in prayer like\na child before the inscrutable wisdom of heaven.\n\nThere had been grave business on his mind that day, and his face was\ndark with a cloud of care as he talked with Dubricius on certain\nmatters that lay near his heart. Uther, like the men of old time, was\nsuperstitious and ever prone to regard all phenomena as possessing\ncertain testamentary authority from the Deity. In medi\u00e6val fashion he\nreferred all human riddles to religious instinct for their solving, and\nsearched in holy writ for guidance with a faith that was typical of his\ncharacter. Wholly a Christian in a superstitious sense, he gained from\nthe very fervour of his belief a strength that seemed to justify his\nvery bigotry.\n\nIt was a certain experience, that to his mystic-loving instinct omened\nhistory still dark in the womb of the future, and kept him closeted\nwith Dubricius that day after knight and churchman had filed out from\nthe conclave. In the twilight of the hall, with its painted frescoes\nand glimmering shields, Dubricius listened to the King as he spoke of\nportents and visions of the night. Uther, with his elbow resting on the\narm of his chair and his chin upon his palm, stared at the cedar wood\nburning pungently upon the hearth and catechised Dubricius on visionary\nbelief. The old man looked keenly at the King under his arched white\nbrows. He was as much a mystic in his creed as this son of Constantine,\na believer in miracles and in manifestations in the heavens. Certainly\nunusual powers had been given to the early Church, and it was not for\nthe atomic mind of man to deny their presence in any later age.\n\n\"My lord dreamed a dream,\" said Dubricius tentatively when he had heard\nthe tale to the end.\n\nUther quashed the suggestion with the calm confidence of a man sure of\nhis reason.\n\n\"Never a dream, Dubricius.\"\n\nThe old man's eyes were very bright, and his face seemed full of a\nluminous sanctity.\n\n\"A vision, then, my lord?\"\n\n\"I am no woman, Dubricius; I must believe the thing a vision, or damn\nmy senses.\"\n\n\"My lord, it is no mere woman's part to see visions; search holy writ\nwhere the chosen of God--the great ones--were miraculously blessed with\nportent and with dream.\"\n\nUther looked into the old man's face as though for succour.\n\n\"I am troubled to know what God would have me know,\" he said.\n\"Dubricius, you are aged in the service of the Church!\"\n\n\"My lord, I have no privilege from heaven in the rendering of dreams.\"\n\n\"Am I then a Pharaoh disappointed of mine own soothsayers?\"\n\n\"Sire, what of Merlin?\"\n\n\"Merlin--\"\n\n\"The man has the gift of prophecy and can speak with tongues. Send for\nhim, my lord; he is a child of the Church, though a mage.\"\n\nUther warmed himself before the fire of cedar wood, his face motionless\nin contemplative calm. Presently he turned, and looked deep into\nDubricius's vigil-hollowed eyes as though to read the thoughts therein.\n\n\"Merlin, the black-haired man who told Vortigern of the future!\"\n\n\"He spoke the truth, my lord.\"\n\n\"Sad truth for Vortigern.\"\n\n\"Yet who should fear the truth?\"\n\n\"Dubricius, to hear of death!\"\n\n\"Death, my lord?\"\n\n\"Remember Vortigern.\"\n\n\"My lord, he was a planet lurid with murder, and so damned to darkness.\nNeed the sun fear light?\"\n\nUther smiled sadly in the old man's face.\n\n\"You are too faithful a courtier, Dubricius.\"\n\n\"My lord, you are the pillar of a distraught land; God be merciful and\nspare you to us.\"\n\n\"I have done my duty.\"\n\n\"Amen, sire, to that.\"\n\nUther went and stood by the great window of the room with his arms\nfolded upon his breast. His hollow eyes looked out over the city, and\nthere was a gaunt grandeur of thought upon his face. He was not a man\nwho galloped down destiny like a huntsman on the trail of a stag;\ndeliberation entered into his motives, and he never foundered reason\nwith over-use of the spur. Dubricius stood and watched him with the\nsmile of a father, for he loved the man.\n\nPresently Uther turned back towards the fire. Dubricius saw by his face\nthat he had come by decision, and that his mind was steadfast.\n\n\"Merlin is at Sarum, my lord.\"\n\n\"I shall not play Saul at Endor.\"\n\n\"No, sire.\"\n\n\"The man shall come to me with no jugglery in dark corners.\"\n\n\"Wise forethought, my lord king.\"\n\n\"I remember me, Dubricius, that you have little leisure to hear of\ndreams. I have given you the names of the holy houses to be rebuilt and\nconsecrated in the name of God. We will save Britain by the help of the\ncross. God speed you.\"\n\nAlone in the half light of the hall Uther stood and stared into the\nfire, his eyes luminous in the glow, while the pungent scent of the\nburning wood swept up like a savour of eastern spices. There was\nintense feeling on his face, a kind of passionate calm, as he gazed\ninto the red bosom of the fire. Presently, as though turning in thought\nfrom some enchantment of the past, he sighed wearily, put his black\nhair from his forehead with both hands, and looked at his image in a\nmirror of steel that hung from a painted pillar. There was a wistful\nlook upon his strong face; he had a soul that remembered, a soul not\nnumbed by time into mere painless recollection of the past. As in some\nmysterious temple, love, with solemn sound of flute and dulcimer, kept\nfire unquenched night and day upon the altar of his heart.\n\nRising up out of his mood of gloom, an earthly Hyperion whose face\nshone anew over Britain, he passed out, and calling to the guards\nlounging on the terrace, descended the stairway that sloped through\ngardens to the river. His state barge was in waiting at the gate, and\nentering in he was borne downstream towards the town whose white walls\nrose up amid the emerald mist of spring. Over all Uther cast his eye\nwith a lustre look of love, a love that shone like the smile of a child\nat a mother's face. Caerleon was dear to him beyond all other cities;\nits white walls held his heart with the whispered conjure word of\n\"home.\"\n\nLanding at the great quay, where many ships and galleys lay moored,\nhe passed up towards the market square with the files of his guard,\nsmiling back on the reverences of the people, throwing here and there\na coin, happy in the honour that echoed to him from every face. Before\nthe walls of a pilastered house his guards halted with a fanfare of\ntrumpets, a sound that rolled the gates wide and brought a mob of\nservants to line the outer court. Knights came down from the house with\nheads uncovered. It was the King's first entry into Gorlois's atrium\nsince the disbanding of the host after the war in Wales.\n\nA face scarred with red across cheek and chin, with nose askew, one\nlower lid turned down, came out to Uther from the doorway of an inner\nroom. There was a drawn look upon the man's face, a sullen saturnine\nair about him as though he were vexed inwardly with the chafe of some\nperpetual pain. The pinched frown, the restless bloodshot eyes, the\nhunched shoulders, were all strange to Uther, who looked for Gorlois,\nthe man of arrogant and imperial pride, whose splendour of person,\ncarriage of head, and long lithe stride had marked him a stag royal\nfrom the herd of meaner men.\n\nUther, grave as a god, gripped the other's thin sinewy fingers, his\neyes searching Gorlois's face with a large-minded scrutiny inspired\nby the natural sympathies of his heart. Gorlois, for his part, half\ncrooked the knee, and drew a carved chair before the ill-tended fire.\nHe had an Asmodean pride, and the look in Uther's eyes was more\ntroublesome to him than a glare of hate. His face never lightened from\nthe murk of reserve that covered it like a mask, and it was the King\nwho spoke the first word over the flickering fire.\n\n\"What of your wounds?\" he said.\n\nGorlois's black beard was down on his breast, and he looked only at the\nfire. He seemed like a man furtive beneath the consciousness of some\ninward shame, mocking his honour.\n\n\"My wounds are well, sire.\"\n\n\"You look like a man newly risen from a sick bed.\"\n\n\"If I look sick, sire, blame my physician; he has tinctured me to the\nlevel of perdition. Bodily I never felt in better fettle. I could hew\ndown a horse, and thrust my spear through a pine trunk. A man's face is\na fallacy.\"\n\nUther saw the scars, the harsh smile, and caught the twinge in the\nseemingly careless voice. He could comprehend some humiliation in the\nmarring of personal comeliness, but not the humiliation that seemed\nto lurk deep beneath Gorlois's pride. There was more here than the\nscarring of a cheek.\n\n\"There is some care upon you, Gorlois,\" he said.\n\n\"Sire, you have much observation.\"\n\n\"Your men have spoken of the change to you.\"\n\n\"They are too discreet, God save their skins.\"\n\n\"Pride, pride.\"\n\n\"Sire, you are right; my pride suffers the inquisitiveness of kings,\nnot subjects. Eagle calls to eagle; men are mere magpies. Chatter\nmaddens me.\"\n\n\"I grip your hand in spirit.\"\n\nBoth men were silent for a while, the fire crackling sluggishly at\ntheir feet. Gorlois's eyes were on the window and the scrap of green\nwoodland in the distance; Uther's eyes were on Gorlois's face. The\nlatter, with the sore sensitiveness of a diseased spirit, felt the look\nand chafed at it. His petulance was plain enough to Uther as he sat and\nwatched him, and pondered the man's trouble in his heart.\n\n\"Gorlois.\"\n\n\"Sire.\"\n\n\"I am no gabbler.\"\n\n\"True, my lord.\"\n\n\"You are trouble ridden.\"\n\nGorlois's eyes flashed up to Uther's, faltered, and fell.\n\n\"What of that, sire?\" he said curtly.\n\n\"You have a deadly pride.\"\n\n\"I own it.\"\n\nUther leant forward in his chair, and looked earnestly into the other's\nface.\n\n\"I too am a proud man in my trouble,\" he said, \"buckling up\nunutterable things from the baseness of the world, jealous of my inward\nmiseries. Yet when I see a strong man and a friend chained with the\niron of a silent woe, I cannot keep my sympathy in leash, so tell him\nto unburden to a man whose pride feels for the pride of others.\"\n\nThe words seemed to stir Gorlois from his lethargy of reserve and\nsilence. Uther's very largeness of soul, his stately faith and\ncourtesy, were qualities that won largely upon the mind, lifting it\nabove factious things to the serene level of his own soul. Gorlois,\nimpulsive spirit, could not rebuff such a man as Uther. There was a\ncertain calm disinterestedness in the King's nature that made trust\nimperative and condemned secretiveness as churlish. Gorlois was an\nobstinate man in the extreme rendering of the epithet. He had spoken to\nno one of his trouble, leaving his thoughts to be inferred. Yet staunch\nsympathy like Gige's ring has power over most hidden things of the\nheart, and Gorlois was very human.\n\n\"It is a woman, sire.\"\n\n\"Mine was a woman, too.\"\n\nGorlois scattered the half-dead embers with his foot.\n\n\"I married a wife,\" he said.\n\n\"I had never heard it.\"\n\n\"Few have.\"\n\n\"The woman's name?\"\n\n\"Never ask it, sire; it will soon lie with her in the dust.\"\n\n\"These are grim words.\"\n\n\"Grim enough for the man of my own house,--my own familiar friend.\"\n\n\"Mother of Christ,--your friend!\"\n\n\"My brother in arms, sire.\"\n\n\"The shedding of such blood seems like justice. Had I suffered thus--\"\n\n\"Sire, you warm to my temper.\"\n\n\"It should be the sword.\"\n\n\"Mine yet waits white for blood.\"\n\nGorlois, implacable, grim as a werewolf, threw open the door of a\ncloset and led Uther within the narrow compass of its walls. It was a\nlittle oratory, dim and fantastic, with lamps hanging from the roof,\nand black curtains over the narrow casement. Two waxen candles burnt\nwith steady, windless flames upon the altar, and beneath their light\nglimmered a great sword, naked, and a cup half filled with purple wine.\nGorlois took up the sword and touched it with his lips.\n\n\"For the man,\" he said.\n\nThen he set the sword down beneath its candle and touched the goblet\nwith his fingers; his black eyes glittered.\n\n\"For the woman, sire.\"\n\n\"And the candles?\"\n\n\"I burn them till I have crushed the life out of two souls; then I can\npinch the wicks between my fingers, and snuff them out in smoke.\"\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nIt was spring at Caerleon, and a web of green had swept upon the\nempty purple of the woods and shut the naked casements to the sun.\nThe meadowlands were plains of emerald that glimmered gold; the gorge\nblazed with its myriad lamps lighting the dark gateways of the pine\nforests, and covering all the hillsides as with a garment of yellow. In\nthe woods the birds sang, and hyacinths and dog violets spread pools\nof blue beneath the infinite greenness of the boughs. In Caerleon's\norchards the fruit trees stood like mounts of snow flecked with\nethereal pink and a prophecy of green. Yew, cypress, cedar, reared\ntheir dark bosoms betwixt the gentler foliage, and many a bronze-leafed\noak made mimic autumn with a mist of leaves.\n\nIn a forest glade that opened upon the high-road some three leagues\neastward of Caerleon, an old man sat beside a shallow spring, whose\nwaters lay a pool of tarnished silver within the low stone wall that\ncompassed them. The old man by the pool was clad in a ragged cloak of\ncoarse brown cloth lined with rabbit skin; he had sandals on his feet,\na staff and wallet by his side, and under the shadow of his hood of\nfur a peaky white beard hung down like an icicle under the eaves of a\nhouse. His hands were thin and white, and he seemed decrepit as he sat\nhunched by the well with a crust of brown bread in his lap and a little\nbronze pannikin that served him as a cup.\n\nIt was late in the day, and the great oaks that reached out their arms\nover the well stood solemn and still in the evening calm, while the\ncloud masses bastioned overhead were radiant with the lustre of the\nhour. The road curled away right and left into the twilight of the\nwoods; no folk passed to and from Caerleon to throw alms to the beggar\nwho squatted there like any old goblin man out of a tomb. From time to\ntime he would turn and look long into the pool as into a mirror, as\nthough he watched the future glimmering dimly in a magic well. He had\nfinished his crust of bread, and his head nodded over his lap as though\nsleep tempted him after a day's journey. Rabbits were scampering and\nfeeding along the edge of the forest; a snake slid by in the grass like\na streak of silver; far down the glade a herd of fallow deer browsed as\nthough caring nothing for the huddled scrap of humanity by the well.\nThe beggar man might have been dead, for all the heed he gave to the\nforest life that teemed so near.\n\nYet it was soon evidenced that his faculties were keenly alive to all\nthat passed about him by a marvellous perception of sound, a perception\nthat made itself plain before the sun had drifted much further down the\nwest. The old man had heard something that had not stirred the fallow\ndeer browsing in the glade. A thin metallic sound shimmered on the air,\nthe clattering cadence of hoofs far away upon the high-road. The beggar\nby the pool had lifted his head, and was listening with his hooded face\nturned towards the west, his thin fingers picking unconsciously at his\nbeard.\n\nPresently the deer browsing in the glade reared up their heads to\nlisten, snuffed the air, and swept back at a trot into the forest.\nJays chattered away over the trees; rabbits stopped feeding and sat up\nwith their long ears red in the sunlight. The indifferent suggestion\nof a sound had grown into a ringing tramp that came through the trees\nlike a blunt challenge to the solitary spirit of the place. Through\nthe indefinite and mazy screens of green a glitter of harness and a\nstreaking of colour glimmered from the wizard amber glow of the west.\nThree horsemen were coming under the trees,--one in lurid arms before,\nand two abreast behind in black. The beggar by the pool pulled his cowl\ndown over his face, and stood by the roadside with his bronze pannikin\nheld in a shaky right hand to pray for alms.\n\nThe knights drew rein by the pool, and he in the red harness flung down\nmoney from his belt, and required tidings in return:\n\n\"The Lord Jesus have mercy on your soul in death,\" came the whine of\ngratitude; \"what would your lordship learn from an old man?\"\n\nUther considered him from the shadow of his casque. He had his\nsuspicions, and was half wise in his conjectures. He could see nothing\nof the old man's face, and so elected to be innocent for the moment.\n\n\"Grandfather, have you heard in your days of Merlin the prophet?\"\n\n\"Have I heard of the devil, lording!\"\n\n\"Were he to ride here, should you know his face?\"\n\n\"Sir, I have seen no man these three hours. Yet, in truth, I did but\nnow smell a savour as of hell; and there was a raven here, a black\nvillain of a bird that croaked 'Abracadabra to the letter.'\"\n\nUther smiled.\n\n\"Are you from Caerleon?\" he said.\n\n\"No, sire, it is Uther the King who comes from the City of Legions.\"\n\n\"Uther, say you? Put back that hood.\"\n\n\"My lord, lo! I bow myself; I have kept the tryst.\"\n\nThe cowl fell back, the cloak was unwrapped, the beard twitched\nfrom the smooth, strong chin. The bent figure, feeble and meagre,\nstraightened and dilated to a stature and bulk beyond mere common\nmould. A man with hair black as a raven's wing, and great glistening\neyes, stood with his moon-face turned up to Uther Pendragon. A smile\nplayed upon his lips. He was clad in a cloak of sombre purple, wreathed\nabout with strange devices, and a leopard's skin covered his shoulders;\nhis black hair was bound with a fillet of gold, and there were gold\nbracelets upon his wrists. It was Merlin who stood before Uther under\nthe arch of the great trees.\n\n\"The benisons of all natural powers be upon you; the God of the stars\nand the spirit fires of the heavens keep you. Great is your heart, O\nKing, and great your charity. Bid me but serve you, and the beggar's\npence shall win you a blessing.\"\n\nThe man bowed himself even to the ground. Uther left his horse tethered\nto a tree, and faced Merlin over the pool. Both men were solemn as\nnight in their looks.\n\n\"Merlin,\" said the King.\n\n\"Sire.\"\n\n\"I have a riddle from the stars.\"\n\n\"Speak it, O King.\"\n\n\"To your ear alone.\"\n\n\"Sire, pass with me into the forest.\"\n\n\"Blessed be thy head if thou canst read the testament of the heavens.\"\n\nIt was towards sunset, and the place was solemn and still as some vast\nchurch. In the white roadway the black knights stood motionless, with\nspear on thigh, their sable plumes sweeping like cloudlets under the\ndark vault of the foliage. Merlin, with the look of an eternity in his\neyes, bowed down once more before Uther, and pointed with his hand into\nthe dim cloister of the trees. Red and purple passed together from the\npool, and melted slowly into an oblivion of leaves.\n\nIn a little glade under a great oak, whose roots gripped the ground\nlike talons, Uther told to Merlin the vision that had come to him in\nthe watches of the night. He had stood late at his window, looking\nover Caerleon shimmering white under the moon, and had seen a star of\ntranscendent glory smite sudden through the blue vault of the heavens.\nA great ray had fallen from the star, and from the ray had risen a\nvapour, a golden mist that had shaped itself into a dragon of gold, and\nfrom the dragon's mouth had proceeded two smaller rays that had seemed\nto compass Britain between two streams of fire. Then, like smoke, both\nstar and dragon had melted out of the heavens, and only the moon had\nlooked down on Usk and the sleeping woods about Caerleon.\n\nWhen Uther had spoken his whole soul in this mystery of the night,\nMerlin withdrew himself a little and looked long into the sky, his\ntall figure and strong face clear as chiselled stone in a slant gleam\nof the sun. For fully the third part of an hour he stood thus like a\npillar of basalt, neither moving nor uttering a sound, while the sky\nfainted over the tree tops and flashed red fire from the armour of the\nKing. Suddenly, as though he had caught inspiration from the heavens,\nprophecy came upon him like a wind at sunset. He stretched his hands to\nthe sky. His body quivered; his eyes were as rubies in a mask of marble.\n\n\"I have seen, O King! I have looked into the palpitating web of the\nstars, into the glittering aisles of the infinite.\"\n\nUther strode out from the tree trunk where he had leant watching the\nman's cataleptic pose grow into the quick furor of prophecy.\n\n\"Say on,\" he said.\n\nMerlin swept a hand towards him with a magnificence of gesture.\n\n\"Thou art the star, the dragon is thy son. He shall compass Britain\nwith a band of steel, beat back the wolves of heathendom, and cast\nstupendous glory over Britain's realm. His name shall shine in history,\nsun-bright, magnificent, and pure; his name shall be Arthur. Thus, O\nKing! Uther of the Dragon, read I this vision of the night.\"\n\nUther, a gradual lustre in his eyes, looked long at the sun behind\nthe swart pillars of the forest. He seemed to gather vigour from the\nglow. Prophecy was in his thought, a prophecy that tempted the inmost\ndreamings of the heart, and linked up the past with promise of the\nfuture. To love, to be loved, to win the woman among women! To beget\na son, a warrior, a king; to harden his body like to an oak, temper\nhis heart like steel; to set the cross in his hands and send him forth\nagainst the beast and the barbarian like a god! Such, indeed, were the\nidyls of a King!\n\n\"Merlin, I have no wife, and you speak to me of a son,\" was his sole\nanswer.\n\nThe retort echoed from the man.\n\n\"The King must wed.\"\n\n\"This is no mere choosing of a horse.\"\n\n\"Sire, you can learn to love. It is not so difficult a thing, no more\nthan falling down upon a bed of roses.\"\n\nThe retort was in no wise suited to Uther's humour.\n\n\"I am no boy to be married on the moment to cap the reading of a\nvision.\"\n\n\"Sire!\"\n\n\"Bring me the woman I may love, if you are magical enough,--then bid me\nwed.\"\n\n\"My lord, you mock me with a dream.\"\n\n\"Not so.\"\n\n\"She is dead then?\"\n\n\"On my soul I know not.\"\n\n\"Then, sire--\"\n\n\"All women are dead to me save one. Conjure her into my being, and I\nwill give you the wiser half of myself, even my heart.\"\n\nFor an instant Merlin smiled--a smile like an afterglow in a winter\nsky,--clear, cold, and steely. He drew nearer Uther, his purple robe\nwith its fantastic scroll-work dim in the twilight, his black hair\nfalling down about his face. His words were like silken things purring\nfrom his lips.\n\n\"My lord, tell me more.\"\n\n\"You are a prophet. Read my past.\"\n\n\"Sire, my vision fails at such a depth.\"\n\n\"But not thy flattery.\"\n\n\"Her name, sire?\"\n\n\"I will read you a fable.\"\n\nUther, his eyes lit as with a lustre of recollection, turned from\nMerlin and the ken of his impenetrable face. He leant against a tree\ntrunk, and looked far away into the dwindling vistas of the woods. His\nvoice won emphasis from the absolute silence of the place, and he spoke\nwith the level deliberation of one reading aloud from some antique book.\n\n\"A woman befriended a knight who was smitten of a dread wound. It was\nsummer, and a sweet season full of the scent of flowers,--odours of\ngrass knee deep in dreamy meadows. The woman had red-gold hair, and\neyes like a summer night; her mouth was more wistful than an opening\nrose; her voice was like a flute over moonlit waters. And the knight\nlost his soul to the woman. But the woman was a nun, and so, to save\nhis vows, he battled down his love and left her.\"\n\nMerlin's eyes took a sudden glitter.\n\n\"A nun, sire?\"\n\n\"A nun.\"\n\n\"With hair of red gold and eyes of amethyst. Her convent, sire?\"\n\n\"Avangel. Burnt by the heathen on the southern shores.\"\n\n\"And the nun's name?\"\n\n\"Igraine, Igraine.\"\n\nMerlin gave a shrill, short cry; badges of colour had stolen into his\ncheeks, and he looked like a Bacchanal for the moment.\n\n\"Sire, sire, the woman is no nun.\"\n\nUther still leant against the tree, and looked into the distance\nwith his hand shadowing his eyes. It might have seemed that he had\nnot heard the words spoken by Merlin, or at least had not understood\ntheir meaning, so unmoved was his look, so motionless his figure.\nUnutterable thoughts were moving in his mind. There was a grandeur of\nself-suppression on his face as he turned and fronted Merlin with the\nquiet of a great strength.\n\n\"Man, what words are these?\"\n\nMerlin had recoiled suddenly within himself. He was silent again,\nsubtle as steel, and very debonair.\n\n\"My lord, I swear she is no nun.\"\n\n\"Give me fact, not assertion.\"\n\n\"The woman is but a novice. I had the whole tale from one who knew her\nwell at Radamanth's in Winchester, where she found a home. She had\ngrieved, sire, for Pelleas.\"\n\n\"Pelleas--Igraine! My heart is great in me, Merlin; where saw you her\nlast?\"\n\n\"Wandering in a wood by Winchester.\"\n\n\"Alone?\"\n\n\"Alone in heart.\"\n\n\"Where now?\"\n\n\"My lord--I know not.\"\n\n\"O God!--to see her face again.\"\n\nMerlin cast his leopard skin across his visage and stood like a statue,\neven his immense grandeur of reserve threatened for the moment with\nsummary overthrow. In the taking of twenty breaths he had calmed\nhimself again to stand with bare head and frank face before the King--a\npromise on his lips.\n\n\"My lord, give me a moon's season to stare into this mystery. On the\ncross I swear it--I will bring you good news at Caerleon.\"\n\n\"On the cross!\"\n\n\"On the cross of your sword.\"\n\n\"Merlin, if this thing should come to be, if life returns to one whose\nhopes were dead, you of all men in Britain shall be next my heart.\nBehold--on the cross--I swear it.\"\n\nA certain season of youth seemed to have come down upon Uther, and\nlighted up the solemn tenor of his mood. His face grew mellow with\nthe calm of a great content; he was reasonable as to the future, not\nmoved to any extravagant outburst of unrest; the constant overshadowing\nof the cross seemed to give his faith a tranquil greenness--a\nrain-refreshed calm that pervaded his being like moist quiet after a\nwind.\n\n\"Merlin, what of the night?\"\n\n\"Sire, I am well provided; I have a pavilion near a brook where a\ndamsel serves me.\"\n\n\"I go to Caerleon. You have conjured me back into the spring of life;\nmy heart is beholden to you. Take my hand--and remember.\"\n\n\"Sire, I am your servant.\"\n\nWhen Uther had passed, a streak of scarlet, into the blue twilight of\nthe darkening wood; when the dull clatter of hoofs had dwindled into\nan ecstasy of silence, Merlin, white as the faint moon above, found\nagain the pool under the trees by the high-road to Caerleon. Going\non his knees by the brink he looked into its waters, black, sheeny,\nmysterious, webbed with a flickering west-light, sky mosaics dim and\nethereal between swart-imaged trees. Still as a mirror was the pool,\nyet touched occasionally with light as from a rippling star-beam, or\na dropped string from the moon's silver sandals. Merlin bent over it,\nhis fateful face making a baleful image in the water. Long he looked,\nas though seeking some prophetic picture in the pool. When night had\ncome he rose up with a transient smile, folded his cloak about him, and\npassed like a wraith into the forest.\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n\nWhile Gorlois was lowering over an imagined shame, and Uther given\nto brooding on a vision, the Knight of the Cloven Heart wandered\nthrough wild Wales and endured sundry adventures that were hardly in\nconcatenation with the distaff or the cradle.\n\nIn rough ages might was right, and every man's inclination law unto\nhimself. To strike hard was to win crude justice; to ride a horse,\nto wear mail, to carry a sword, were characteristics that ensured\nconsiderable reverence from men less fortunate, by maintaining at least\nan outward arrogance of strength. Not only on these grounds alone\ndid the Knight of the Cloven Heart hold at a disadvantage those folk\nof the wilderness who went--to speak metaphorically--naked. She made\nbrave show enough, had a strong arm and a strong body, and could match\nany man in the mere matter of courage. The moral effect of her great\nhorse, her shield and harness, and the sword at her side, carried her\nunchallenged through wood and valley where meaner wayfarers might have\ncome to grief, or suffered a tumbling. The forest folk assumed her a\nknight under her helmet and her harness; a certain bold magnificence of\nbearing in no wise contradicted the assumption.\n\nIt would be wearisome to record the passage of two months or more,\nto construct an itinerary of her progress, to chronicle the events\nof a period that was solitary as the wilds through which she passed.\nShe never slept a night under populous roof the whole time of these\nwanderings. Luckily it was fair weather, and a mild season; forest\nshade, such as it was, and the caves of the wilderness, a ruined villa,\nthe forsaken hut of a charcoal burner, an empty hermitage,--such in\nturn gave her shelter from the placid light of the moon, or the black\nstare of a starless sky. She never ventured even among peasant folk\nunhelmeted. Her food was won from cottager or herdsman by such store of\nmoney as she had about her, though many she came across were eager to\nappease so formidable a person with milk, and pottage, and the little\ndelicacies of the rude home. Often her fine carriage and youthful voice\nwon wonders from the bosom of some peasant housewife. She had her\nliberty, and was free to roam; the life contented her instincts for a\nseason, and at least she was saved the sight of Gorlois. Since war had\nfailed to loose her from the man, she would essay her best to keep him\nat a distance.\n\nIf hate repelled, love drew with dreams. Yet had Igraine been asked\nof peace at heart, she would have smiled and sighed together. There\nare degrees of misery, and solitary suffering is preferable to that\npublicity which is very torture in itself, a galling whip to the tender\nflanks of pride. In being free of Gorlois she was happy; in thinking\nof Uther and in contemplation of the shadows of the unknown she was of\nall women most miserable. A mood of self-concentration was settling\nslowly upon her like an inevitable season upon the face of the earth.\nDay by day a dream prophetic of the future was pictured in the imagery\nof thought till it grew familiar as an often looked on landscape that\nawakes no wonder and no strange unrest. The ordinances of man had\nthrust on her a damnable tyranny, and she was more than weary of the\nrestrictions of the world. The inevitable scorn of custom had long\ntaken hold upon her being, and she had been driven to that state when\nthe soul founds a republic within itself, and creates its ethics from\nthe promptings of the heart.\n\nUther was at Caerleon; she had heard the truth from many a peasant\ntongue. Caerleon therefrom drew her with magic influence, as a lamp\ndraws a golden moth from the gloom, or the light in the night sky wings\non the wild-fowl with the prophecy of water. Caerleon became the bourn\nof all her holier thoughts; strange city of magic, it held love and\nhate for her, desire and obloquy; though its walls were as a luring net\nscintillant with spirit gossamer, her very reason lulled her fears to\nsleep, and turned her southwards towards Uskland and the sea.\n\nIt came to pass, on the very day that Uther spoke with Merlin in the\nforest, that Igraine rode over a stretch of hills by a sheep-track, and\ncame down into a valley not many leagues from Caerleon. The place stood\nthick with woodland, ranged tier on tier with the peaked bosses of huge\ntrees. That impenetrable mystery of solitude that abides where forests\ngrow was deeply hallowed in this silent dale. The infinite majesty of\nnature had cast a spell there, and the vast oaks, like pyramids of\ngloom, caverned a silence that was utter and divine.\n\nGlimmering beneath the huge, stupendous boughs, through darkling aisles\nand the colossal piers that held the innumerable roofing of the leaves,\nIgraine passed down through umbrage and still ecstasies of green, by\ncolonnade and gallery,--interminable tunnels, where stray light struck\nslantwise on her armour, that it seemed a moving lustre in the solemn\nshade.\n\nDeep in the woodland lay a valley, a pastureland girt round with trees,\nand where the meadows, painted thick with flowers, seemed all enamelled\nwhite and azure, green, purple, pink, and gold. A peace as from the\nsun shone over it like saffron mist. A pool gleamed there, tranquil\nand deep with shadows; all the trees that Britain knew seemed girdled\nround it--oak, beech and holly, yew, thorn and cedar, the elfin pine,\nthe larch, whose delicate kirtle shames even broidery of silk. No sound\nsave the cuckoo's cry, and the uncertain twittering of birds, disturbed\nthe sanctuary of that forest solitude.\n\nIgraine, halting on the brink of the meadowland, looked down over wood\nand water. The quiet of the place, the clear glint of the pool, the\nscent of the meadows, brought back the valley in Andredswold, and the\nmanor in the mere. She loved the place on the instant. Even a blue\nplume of smoke rising straight to the sky, and the grey-brown backs of\na few sheep in the meadows, evidencing as they did the proximity of\nman, failed to disenchant the solitary grandeur of the scene.\n\nThere is no stable perpetuation of peace in the world; care treads\nupon the heels of Mammon, and lust lies down by the side of love. Even\nin the quiet of the wilderness the hawk chases the lark's song out of\nthe heavens, and wind scatters the bloom from the budding tree. Thus\nit was that Igraine, watching from under the woods, saw the sheep\nscampering suddenly in the meadows as though disturbed by something as\nyet invisible to her where she stood. Their bleating came up with a\ntinge of pathos, to be followed by a sound more sinister, the cry of\none in whom pain and terror leapt into an ecstasy of anguish--a shrill,\nbird-like scream that seemed to cleave the silence like the white blade\nof a sword. Igraine's horse pricked its ears with a snort of wrath,\nas though recognising the wounded cry of some innocent thing. The\ngirl's pulses stirred as she scanned the valley for explanation of this\ndiscord, sudden as the sweep of a falcon from the blue. Nor was she\nlong at gaze. A flickering speck of colour appeared in the meadowlands,\nthe figure of a woman running through the grass like a hunted rabbit,\ndarting and doubling with a whimpering outcry. Near as a shadow a tall\nstreak of brown followed at full stride, terrible even in miniature.\nHunter and hunted passed before the eye like the figures of a dream,\nyet with a fierce realism that whelmed self in an objective pity.\n\nNever did Britomart herself, with splendid soul, find fitter cause in\nfaerie-land than did the Knight of the Cloven Heart in that woodland\ndale. Igraine rode down from the trees, a burning figure of chivalry\nthat galloped through the green, and bore fast for the scudding forms,\nthat skirted round the pool. Like a stag pressed to despair, the hunted\none had taken to the water, and was already waist deep in ripples that\nseemed to catch the panic of the moment. Plunging on past tree and\nthicket, Igraine held on, while sheep scattered from her, to turn and\nstare with the stupidest of white faces at the horse thundering over\nthe meadows. The pursuer had passed the water-weeds, and was to his\nknees in the pool when the Knight of the Cloven Heart came down to the\nbank and halted, like a mailed statue of succouring vengeance.\n\nThe white heat of the drama seemed cooled for the moment. Over the\nflickering scales of the little mere the girl's white face, tumbled\nhair, and blue smock showed, as she half-floated and half-paddled with\nher hands. Nearer still, the leather-jerkined, fur-breeched figure of\nthe man bent like a baffled satyr baulked of evil. On the green slope\nof the bank the mailed splendour of chivalry waited like Justice to\nuphold the right.\n\nThe man in the mere wore the short Roman sword, or parazonium; any more\neffective weapon that he had possessed had been thrown aside in the\nheat of the chase and in the imagined security of his rough person. He\nhad the face of a wolf. In girth and stature he seemed a young Goliath,\na savage thing bred in savage times and savage places, and blessed with\nthe instincts of mere barbarism. Igraine's disrelish equalled her heat\nas she looked at him, and slanted her great sword over her shoulder.\n\nIn another instant the scene revived, and ceased to be a mere picture.\nThe girl in the pool had found a footing, and her half-bare shoulders\nshowed above the water. The man, with his short sword held behind him,\nwas splashing through the shallows with a grin on his hairy face that\nmeant mischief. Igraine, every whit as hot as he, held her horse well\nin hand, and put her shield before her. Matters went briskly for a\nminute. The man made a rush; Igraine spurred up and sent him reeling\nwith the charging shoulder of her horse; the short sword pecked at\nnothing, the long one struck home and drew blood. A second panther\nleap, a blow turned by the shield, a counter cut that made good carving\nof the fellow's skull. The shallows foamed and crackled crimson; hoofs\nstirred up the mire; a plunge; a noise of crossed steel; a last sweep\nof a sword, and then victory. Igraine's horse, neighing out the spirit\nof the moment, trampled the fallen body as it had been the carcase of a\nslaughtered dragon.\n\nThe girl in the pool waded back at the sight, her blue smock clinging\nabout her, and showing an opulent grace of shoulder, arm, and bosom--a\nfull figure swept by the damp tangle of her dark brown hair. She had\nfull red lips, eyes of bright blue, a round and ruddy face, that told\nof a mind more for tangible pleasures than for spiritual aspiration.\nShe came up out of the shallows like a water-nymph, her frightened face\nalready all aglow with a smile of gratitude, mild shame, and infinite\nreverence. Going down on her knees amid the water-weeds and flags, she\nheld up her playful hands as to a deliverer direct from heaven. \"Grace,\nLord, for thy servant.\"\n\nWith the peril past, Igraine could not forego the sly scrap of mischief\nthat the occasion offered; her white teeth gleamed in a smile under her\nhelmet, as she wiped her sword on the horse's mane, before sheathing it.\n\n\"Give Heaven thy thanks,\" she said, with a quaint sententiousness of\ngesture. \"Be sure in thy heart that it was a mere providence of God\nthat I heard thy screaming. As for yon clod of clay, we will bury it\nlater, lest it should pollute so goodly a pool. For the rest, child, I\nam an old man, and hungry, and would taste bread.\"\n\nThe girl jumped up instantly, with a shallow and half-puzzled smile.\nThe voice from the helmet was young, very young, and full of the\nfree tone of youth; yet both manner and matter were sage, practical,\nleavened with a hoary-headedness of intention that seemed to baulk the\ninferences suggested by such panoply of arms. With a bob of a curtsey,\nshe took the knight's bridle, and led the horse some fifty paces round\nthe pool, where, under the imminent shoulder of a cedar tree, a little\ncabin nestled under a hood of ivy. It was built of rough timber from\nthe forest, and thatched with reeds; honeysuckle clustered over its\nrude fa\u00e7ade, and thrust fragrant tendrils into its reed-latticed\nwindows, where an early rose or so shone like a red star against the\nrusset-wood. A garden full of flowers lay before the rustic porch that\narched the threshold; and an outjutting of the pool brought a little\nfiord of dusky silver up to the very green of the path, a streak of\nsilver blazoned with violet flags, golden marigolds of the marsh, and\na lace-like fringe of snowy water-weed in bloom. All around, the great\ntrees, those solemn senators, stood with their green shoulders bowed in\na strong dream of deep eternal thought.\n\nIgraine left the saddle and suffered the girl to tether her horse to a\ncedar bough. Her surcoat of violet and gold swept nearly to her ankles,\nand saved from any marring the infinite art of the anomaly that veiled\nher sex. Her man's garb seemed every whit as worthy of a woman, nor\ndid it hinder that loving grace that made her beauty of body the more\nadmirable and rare.\n\nThe girl came back with more bendings of the knee, and led Igraine amid\nthe flowers to the porch of the forest dwelling. Once within, she drew\na settle close to the doorway, spread a rug of skins thereon, and again\nbowed herself in homage.\n\n\"Let my lord be seated, and I will serve him.\"\n\n\"I am hungry, child; but first put off that wet smock of thine.\"\n\nThe girl crept behind the door of a great cupboard, with a blush of\ncolour in her cheeks. Cloth rustled for a moment; a circle of blue and\na slim pair of legs showed beneath the cupboard door; soon she was back\nagain in a gown of apple green, fastening it with her fingers over the\nfull swell of her bosom.\n\n\"What will my lord eat?\"\n\n\"What you have, child.\"\n\n\"Bread and dried fruit, the flesh of a kid, new milk and cheese, a\nlittle cider.\"\n\n\"Give me milk, child, a mere flake of meat, some cheese and bread, and\nI ask nothing more. I will pay you for all I take.\"\n\n\"Lord, how should you pay me, when I owe more than life to your sword?\"\n\nThe little shepherdess went about her business with a barefooted tread,\nsoft as any cat's. The cottage proved a wonder of a place. The great\ncupboard disgorged a silver-rimmed horn, wooden platter, a napkin white\nas apple blossom, red fruit piled up in a brazen bowl. The girl set the\nthings in order on the table, with an occasional curious look stolen\nat the figure in mail on the settle--splendid visitant in so humble a\nplace. And what a rich voice the knight had,--how mellow, with its many\nmodulations of tone. His hands too were wonderfully shapen, fingers\nlong and tapering, with nails pink as sea-shells. There surely must be\na face worth gazing at, for its very nobility, under that great brazen\nhelmet that glinted in the half light of the room.\n\nThe meal was spread, but the guest still unprepared. The forest child\ndropped a curtsey, and a mild suggestion that the knight should make a\nbeginning.\n\n\"Will not my lord unhelm?\"\n\nA rich, mischief-loving laugh startled her for answer.\n\n\"Child, take the thing off if you will.\"\n\nThe little shepherdess obeyed, and nearly dropped the helmet in the\ndoing of it. A mass of gold fell rippling down over the violet surcoat;\na pair of deep eyes looked up with a sparkling laugh; a satin upper lip\nand chin gave the lie to the nether part of the picture.\n\n\"Christ Jesu!\" quoth the girl with the helmet, and again \"Christ Jesu,\"\nas though she could get no further.\n\nIgraine caught her smock and drew her nearer.\n\n\"Come, little sister, kiss me for--'thank you.'\"\n\nWith a contradictory impulse the girl fell down on her knees and began\nto cry, with her brown hair tumbled in Igraine's lap.\n\nWhen persuasion and comforting had quieted her somewhat, she sat on the\nfloor at Igraine's feet, her round eyes big with an unstinted wonder.\nEven Igraine's hunger and the devoir done upon the new milk could\nhardly persuade the girl that this being in armour was no saint, but a\nvery real and warm-blooded woman. She even touched Igraine's fingers\nwith her lips, to satisfy herself as to the warmth and solidity of the\nslim strong hand. She had never heard of such a marvel, a woman, and\na very beautiful woman, riding out as a man, and doing man's bravest\nwork with courage and cleverness. The girl made sure in her heart\nthat Igraine was some princess at least, who had been blessed with\nmiraculous power by reason of her maidenhood and the magic innocence of\nher mind.\n\nIgraine talked to the girl and soon began to win her to less devotional\nattitude with that graciousness of manner that became her so well at\nsuch a season. She forgot herself for the time, in listening to this\nchild of solitude. The girl's father--an old man--had died two winters\nago, and she had buried him with her own hands, under a tree in the\ndale. Since his death, she had lived on in the cabin, alone, a forest\nchild nurtured in forest law. Every Sabbath, Renan, a shepherd lad in\na lord's service, would come over the hills and pass the day with her.\nThey were betrothed, and the lord of those parts had promised Renan\nfreedom next Christmastide; then Renan and Garlotte were to be married,\nand the cabin in the dale was to serve them as a home.\n\nGarlotte was soon chattering like any child. She talked to Igraine\nof her sheep and goats, her little corn-field on a sunny slope, her\ngarden, her wild strawberry beds and vine, her fruit trees, and her\nmarigolds. The lad Renan, bronze-haired and brown-eyed, sprang in here\nand there with irresistible romance. He could run like a hound, swim\nlike an otter, fish, shoot with the bow, and throw the javelin a great\nmany paces. He had such eyes, too, and such gentle hands. Igraine's\nsympathies were quick and vivid on matters of the kind. The girl's head\nwas resting against her knees before an hour had gone.\n\nThe evening was still and sultry and the sky overcast. When Igraine\nwent to the porch after supper, rain had begun to fall, and there was\nthe moist murmur of a heavy, windless shower through all the valley.\nThe sheep had huddled under the trees. Infinite freshness, unutterable\npeace, brooded over the green meadows and the breathless leaf-clouds\nof the woods. For all the sweet, dewy silence a bitter discontent lay\nheavy upon Igraine's heart, and woe made quiet moan in her inmost soul.\nGreen summer swooned in the branches and breathed in the odours of\nhoneysuckle, musk, and rose, yet for her there seemed no burgeoning, no\nbursting of the heart into song.\n\nThe girl Garlotte stood by and looked with a quaint awe into the proud,\nwistful face.\n\n\"What are you thinking of, lady?\" she said.\n\nIgraine's lips quivered.\n\n\"Of many things, child.\"\n\n\"Tell me of them.\"\n\n\"What should you know, child, of plagues and sorrow, of misery in high\nplaces, of despair coroneted with gold, of hearts that ache, and eyes\nthat burn for the love of the world that never comes?\"\n\n\"I am very ignorant, dear lady, but yet I think you are not happy.\"\n\n\"Is any woman happy on earth?\"\n\n\"Yet you are so good and beautiful.\"\n\n\"Child, child, beauty brings more misery than joy; it is a bright fire\nthat burns upon itself.\"\n\n\"Renan has told me I am beautiful.\"\n\n\"So you are, and to Renan.\"\n\n\"I never think of it, lady, save when Renan looks into my eyes and\ntouches my mouth with his lips; then say in my heart, 'I am beautiful,\nand Renan loves me, God be thanked!'\"\n\nThe words echoed into Igraine's soul. There was such pain in her great\neyes that the girl was startled from the simple contemplation of her\nown affairs of heart.\n\n\"You are sad, lady.\"\n\n\"Child, I am tired to death.\"\n\n\"Bide with me and rest. See, I will feed your horse and give him water;\nhe will do famously under the tree. There is my bed yonder in the\ncorner; I spread a clean sheet on it this very morning. Shall I help\nyou to unarm?\"\n\n\"Thanks, child. How the rain hisses into the pool.\"\n\n\"I love the sound, and the soft rattle on the green leaves. All will be\nfresh and aglister to-morrow, and the flowers will smile, and the trees\nshake their heads and laugh. How clumsy my fingers are; I am so slow\nover the buckles; ah! there is the last. I will put the sword and the\nshield by the bed. Shall we say our prayers?\"\n\n\"You pray, child; I have forgotten how to these many months.\"\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\n\nThere is a charm in simplicity of soul, and in sympathies green in\nthe first rich burgeoning of the mind, unshrivelled and untainted by\nthe miserable misanthropies of the world. The girl Garlotte was as\nignorant as you will, but she loved God, had the heart of a thrush\nin spring-time, and was possessed naturally of a warm and delicate\nappreciation of the feelings of others that would have put to utter\nshame the majority of court ladies.\n\nWomen of a certain gilded class are prone to judge by superficialities.\nLiving often in an artificial air of courtesy, the very life about them\nis a cultured, perfumed atmosphere unstirred by the deeper wind-throbs\nof true passion, or the solemn sweep of the more grand emotions.\nHypocrisy, veneered with mannerisms, propped with etiquette, pegged up\nwith gold, passes for culture and the badge-royal of fine breeding.\nOf such things the girl Garlotte was indeed flagrantly ignorant; she\nhad lived in solitudes, and had learnt to comprehend dumb things--the\ncry of a sheep in pain, the mute look from the eyes of a sick lamb.\nHer life had made her quick to see, quick to discover. She had all\nthe latent energy of a child, and her senses were the undebauched\nhandmaids of an honest heart. She knew nothing of the trivial prides,\nthe starched and petty arrogances, the small self-satisfactions, that\nbuild up the customs of the so-called cultured folk. She thought her\nthoughts, and they were generous ones, mark you, and spoke out on the\ninstant without fear, as one whose words were in very truth the audible\ncounterpart of the vibrations of her mind.\n\nTo Igraine at first there was some embarrassment in the ingenuous\nmethods of this child of the forest. It was in measure disturbing to be\nconfronted with a pair of blue eyes that looked at one like two pools\nof truth, and a pair of lips that naively remarked: \"You seem pale,\nlady, and in pain; you slept little, and talked even when you slept. I\nam rosy and cheerful, and I sleep from dusk till dawn. What is there\nin your heart that is not in mine?\" Still, with the abruptness once\nessayed, there was a refreshing sincerity in Garlotte's openness of\nheart. It was as the first plunge into a clear, cool pool--a gasp at\nthe first moment, then infinite warmth, intense kindling of all the\nsenses, with the clean ripples bubbling at the lips and the swinging\nwater buoying up the bosom. Garlotte recalled Lilith--Radamanth's\ndaughter--to Igraine, only that she had more penetration, more liberty\nof thought and character. The one was as a warm wind that lulled, the\nother a breeze blowing over open water--clean, invigorating, kind.\n\nIgraine's mood of unrest found refuge in the valley, and in Garlotte's\ncottage. She won some measure of inward calmness in the simple life,\nthe simple tasks, that kept the more sinister energies of the mind at\nbay. It contented her for a season with its companionship, its air of\nhome, its green quiet and tranquil beauty. Garlotte's cheerfulness of\nsoul, like some penetrating essence, suffused itself upon Igraine,\ndespite the militant savour of things more turbulent. She fell into\ntemporary contentment almost against her will, even as sleep enforces\nitself upon a brain extravagantly possessed by the delirium of fever.\n\nFor all the quiet of the place, circumstances were gathering and\nmoving down upon her with that ghostly and inevitable fatefulness that\nconstitutes true tragedy. No one could have seemed more hidden from the\neye of fate than she in the deep umbrage of the trees, yet often when\nthe heart imagines itself most secure from the factious meddling of the\nworld, the far, faint cry of destiny smites on the ear like some sudden\nstirring of a wind at night.\n\nIt was late evening, on the fifth day of Igraine's sojourn in the\nvalley. The day had been dull, grey, and colourless, wrapped in a blue\nhaze of rain that had fallen heavily, drenching the woods and making\nmonotonous music on the water. Towards evening the sky had melted to a\nserene azure; the air was a web of shimmering amber, the west streamed\nthrough a mist of gold, and every leaf glittered with dew. A luminous\nvapour hovered over the little mere, and there were rain pools in the\nmeadows that burnt with a hundred sunsets like clear brass.\n\nGarlotte and Igraine had been bathing in the mere. They had come up\nfrom the water to dry themselves upon a napkin of white cloth, the\nbronze-gold and brown hair of each meeting like twin clouds, while\ntheir linen lay like snow on the trailing branches of a tree near\nthe pool. Their limbs and shoulders gleamed against the silver-black\nmirror spread by the mere; their voices made a mellow sound through the\nvalley as they talked. Igraine had fastened her violet surcoat about\nher beneath her breasts; Garlotte's blue smock still hung from a branch\nabove her head.\n\nAs they sat under the tree, drying their hair and looking over the\npool to the forest realm beyond, Igraine told the girl much of the\nouter world as she had seen it; nor was her instruction unleavened by a\ncertain measure of cynicism--a bitterness that surprised Garlotte not\na little. The girl had great dreams of the glories of old cities, the\nsplendour of court life, the zest of a mere material existence.\n\n\"You do not love the great world,\" she said.\n\n\"Once, child, I did. Everything outside a convent wall seemed good\nto me; I thought men heroes, and the world a faerie place; who has\nnot! Thoughts change with time: that which I once hungered for, now I\ndespise.\"\n\n\"I have never been into a great city, not even into Caerleon. My father\nloved the country and said it was God's pasture.\"\n\n\"I would rather have a dog for a friend than most men, child. Man is\nalways thinking of his stomach, his strength, or his passion; he is\nvain, dull, and surly often; takes delight in slaying dumb things;\ndrinks beer, and sleeps like a log save for his snoring.\"\n\n\"But Renan doesn't.\"\n\n\"There are some _men_, child, among the swine.\"\n\n\"And the women?\"\n\n\"I have known good women.\"\n\n\"In the convent?\"\n\n\"I suppose there they were good, just as stones that lie in the grass\nare good in that they do very little harm.\"\n\n\"But they served God!\"\n\n\"Mere habit, just as you eat your dinner.\"\n\n\"A hard saying.\"\n\n\"Your sayings would be hard, child, if you had learnt what I have\nlearnt of the world.\"\n\nGarlotte pulled her blue smock from the tree and wrapped it round her\nshoulders.\n\n\"But you love God?\" she said.\n\n\"What is God?\"\n\n\"The Great Father who loves all things.\"\n\n\"Methinks then I am nothing.\"\n\n\"Nothing, Igraine?\"\n\n\"You say God loves all men and women. Why, then, have I been cursed\nwith perversities ever since I was born, tormented with contradictions,\nbaffled, and mocked, till the eternal trivialities of life now make my\nsoul sick in my body?\"\n\n\"Sorrow is heaven sent to chasten, just as rain freshens the leaves.\"\n\n\"Old, old proverb. Rain comes from clouds; clouds hide the sun; how can\nsorrow be good, child, when it darkens the light of life, hides God\nfrom the heart, and makes the soul bitter?\"\n\n\"That seems the wrong spirit, Igraine.\"\n\n\"So meek folk say; we are not all mild earth to be smitten and make no\nmoan. There are sea-spirits that lash and foam, fire-spirits that leap\nand burn. My spirit is of the flame; am I to be cursed, then, because I\nwas born with a soul of fire?\"\n\n\"We cannot answer all this, Igraine.\"\n\n\"I hate to bow down blindly, to cast ashes on the head because a\nsuperstition bids us so.\"\n\n\"I have faith!\"\n\n\"I cannot see with my heart.\"\n\n\"I would you could, Igraine.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you are right.\"\n\nGarlotte put on her shift and frock with a sigh, and straightway went\nand kissed Igraine on the forehead. They sat close together under the\ntree and watched the valley grow dim as death, and the pool black and\nlustrous as a mirror turned to the twilight. Garlotte's warm heart\nwas yearning to Igraine; her arm was close about her, and presently\nIgraine's head rested upon her shoulder. She began to tell the girl\nmany things in a still, stifled voice; her bitterness gushed out like\nfermented wine, and for a season she was comforted--with no lasting\nbalm indeed, for there was but one soul in the world that could give\nher that.\n\n\"Believe, Igraine, believe,\" said Garlotte very softly.\n\n\"Believe--child!\"\n\n\"That there is good for every one in the world if we wait and watch in\npatience.\"\n\n\"I seem to have watched years go by, and life stretches out from me as\na sea at night.\"\n\n\"Look not there, Igraine, but into your own heart and into the gold of\nfaith.\"\n\n\"I have no heart to look to, child.\"\n\n\"Save into a man's. And it was a good heart.\"\n\n\"Good as a god's.\"\n\n\"Then look into it still.\"\n\n\"You speak like a mother.\"\n\nThey had talked on into the dusk of night, forgetful of time, hearing\nonly the dripping from the leaves, seeing nothing but the short stretch\nof water and herbage at their feet. Yet an hour ago a figure in a\npalmer's cloak and cowl had come out from the western forest and stood\nleaning upon its staff, to stare out broodingly over the valley. The\nlaurel green of the man's cloak harmonised so magically with the green\nof grass and tree that it was difficult to isolate his figure from the\nframing of wood and meadow.\n\nThe pilgrim had stood long in the shadows and watched the two white\nforms come up out of the waters of the pool. He had seen them sit\nand dry their hair under the tree as the dusk crept down. While they\ntalked he had passed down towards the cottage, accompliced by the\ntrees, slipping from trunk to trunk, to enter the cottage itself while\nthe girls' faces were turned from it towards the pool. From one of\nthe narrow casements his cowled face had looked out; he had marked\nIgraine's red gold shimmering hair; he had seen her face for a moment,\nalso the shield hanging in the room with its cloven heart and white\nlilies, the sword and helmet, the harness of workmanship so subtle.\nWhen he had seen all this he had stolen out again into the gloaming,\na thin gliding streak of green under the gnarled thorns and the\nnight-bosomed cedars. The forest had taken him to its depths again and\nthe unutterable silence of its shades. The girls by the pool had heard\nno sound, nor dreamt of the thing that had been so near, watching like\na veritable ghost through the mist of the mere's twilight.\n\nCaerleon slept under the moon, a dream city in a land of dreams. Its\nwalls were like ivory in a dark gloom of green. The tower of the palace\nof the king caught a coronet from the stars, while in the window of an\nupper room a thin flame flickered like a yellow rose blown athwart the\nblack foliage of the night. Within blood-red curtains breathed over the\narched door; a little altar stood against the eastern wall, guarded\nabove by angels haloed with gold, standing in a mist of lilies with\nwings of crimson and green. The silence of the hour seemed embalmed in\nsilver--so pure, so still, so hallowed was it.\n\nUther knelt before the little altar in prayer; the light from the\nsingle lamp slanted down upon him, but left his face in the shadow.\nIt was past midnight, yet the man's head was still bowed down in\nhis devotion. He was in an ecstasy of spiritual ascent to heaven, a\nmood that made the world a Patmos, and his own soul a revelation to\nitself. At such a time his imagination could mount with a mystery of\npoetic rapture. Angels drumming on golden bells or bearing diamond\nchalices of purple wine seemed to gaze deep-eyed on him from a paradise\nof snow and amethyst. Above all shone the Eternal Face, that clear\nsun of Christendom shining with wounded love through the crimson\ntransgressions of mankind.\n\nDeliberate footfalls and the rustle of a drawn curtain intervened\nbetween solitude and devotion. The curtain fell again; footfalls echoed\naway to die down into a well of silence; a tall man wrapped in a cloak\nstood motionless in the oratory. Uther, still upon his knees, turned to\nthe window and the moonlight, with big prayerful eyes that questioned\nthe intruding figure.\n\n\"Merlin,\" he said, with a breath of prophecy.\n\n\"Even so, sire.\"\n\n\"I was praying but now for such a thing.\"\n\n\"Sire, pray no longer. I have kept my tryst.\"\n\nUther rose up straightway from before the altar and stood before the\nsquare of the casement. The moonlight made a halo of his hair, and lit\nhis face with a whiteness that seemed almost supernatural. Strong as he\nwas, his hands shook like aspen leaves; his lips were parted, and his\neyes wide with the shadow of the night. Merlin stood in the dark angle\nof the room; his voice seemed to come as from a tomb; the single lamp\nflame shook and quivered in a fickle draught.\n\n\"Sire, the moon is not yet full.\"\n\n\"And Igraine?\"\n\n\"Sire.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"Suffer me, sire, a moment.\"\n\n\"Speak quickly. God knows, I have prayed like a Samson.\"\n\nMerlin cast his mantle from him, and stood out in the moonlight wrapped\nin the mystic symbolism of his robe. Sapphire and emerald, ruby and\nsardonyx, flashed with a ghostly gleam in the pale light, and caught\nthe moonbeams in their folds. Merlin's thin hands quivered like a spray\nof May blossom waving in the night wind, and his eyes were like the\neyes of a leopard.\n\n\"Sire, thou wert Pelleas once.\"\n\n\"I should remember it.\"\n\n\"Thou art Pelleas again.\"\n\n\"Again?\"\n\n\"In thy red harness with thy painted shield, thy black horse; take them\nall.\"\n\n\"The past rushes back like dawn.\"\n\n\"Near Caerleon lies a valley.\"\n\n\"There are twenty valleys.\"\n\n\"Go north, sire, in thought. Pass the Cross on Beacon Hill, hold on for\nthe Abbey of the Blessed Mary, take to the hills, go by a ruined tower,\nford Usk, where there is a hermitage. Pass through a waste, cross more\nhills, go down into a valley that runs north and south.\"\n\n\"I follow.\"\n\n\"Go alone, sire.\"\n\n\"Alone.\"\n\n\"The valley is piled steep with forestland. Go down and fear not. In\nthe valley's lap lie meadowlands, a pool, a cottage. In that cottage\nyou shall find a knight; his armour is gilded gold, his horse a grey,\nhis shield shows a cloven heart set amid white lilies. Speak with that\nknight.\"\n\n\"Yet more!\"\n\n\"Speak with that knight, sire.\"\n\n\"In peace?\"\n\n\"If you love your soul.\"\n\n\"And Igraine--Merlin, what of her?\"\n\n\"That knight shall lead you to her. Sire, I have said.\"\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\n\nIt was early and a clear dewy morning when Uther rode down alone from\nthe palace by a narrow track that curled through the shrubberies\nclothing the palace hill. A generous sky piled its blue dome with\nmountainous clouds that billowed up above the horizon. The laurels\nin the shrubbery flickered their leaves like innumerable scales of\nsilver in the sun; amber sun rays slanted through the dense branches of\nthe yews, and flashed on the red harness that burnt down the winding\ntrack. The wind sang, the green larches tossed their 'kerchiefs, in the\ndistance the sea glimmered to the white frescoes of the sky.\n\nUther--Pelleas once more--tossed his spear to the tall trees, and burst\ninto the brave swing of a _chant d'amour_. With caracole and flapping\nmane his horse took his lord's humour. It was weather to live and love\nin, weather for red lips and the clouding down of perfumed hair. God\nand the Saints--what a grand thing to be strong, to have a clean heart\nto show to a woman's eyes! What were all the baser fevers of life\nbalanced against the splendid madness of a great passion!\n\nDown through Caerleon's streets he rode unknown of any on his tall\nblack horse. It was pleasant to be unthroned for once, and to put\na kingdom from off his shoulders. With what a swing the good beast\ncarried him, how the towers and turrets danced in the sun, how bright\nwere the eyes of the women who passed him by. All the world seemed\ngreener, the sky bluer, the city merrier; the laughter of the children\nin the gutter echoed out of heaven; the old hag who sold golden lemons\nunder a beech tree seemed almost a madonna--a being from a better\nworld. Uther laughed in his heart, and blessed God and Merlin.\n\nIt is one of the rare reflections of philosophy dear to the\ncontemplative mind, how joy jostles pain in the world, and pleasure in\ngold and scarlet elbows the grey-cloaked form of grief. Even innocent\nmerriment may throw a rose in the face of one who mourns, innocent\nindeed of the desire to mock. The throstle sings in the tree while\nthe beggar lies under it dying. So Uther the King flashed hate in the\neyes of one who watched,--knowing him only that morning as Pelleas\nthe knight. In an old play the jealous man saw the devil ride by, and\npromptly followed him on the chance of finding his lost wife, deeming,\nindeed, the devil's guidance propitious for such a quest.\n\nIt was the shield that caught Gorlois's eye as he stood on a balcony\nof his house and looked out over Caerleon. The device smote him sudden\nas the lash of a whip. The red harness, the black horse, the painted\nshield, mingled a picture that burnt into his brain with a vividness\nthat passed comprehension. He knew well enough to whom such arms should\nbelong; had he not carried them fraudulently to his own doubtful\nprofit? This knight must be that Pelleas whose past had worked such\nmischief with his own machinations, that Pelleas who had won Igraine\nthe novice fresh from the shadow of her convent trees. Gorlois watched\nthe man go by with a kind of superhuman envy twisting in him like a\ncolic. The smart of it made him stiffen, go pale, gnaw his lip.\n\nIf this was the knight Pelleas, what then? Gorlois could not reason\nfor the moment; his brain seemed a mass of molten metal in a bowl\nof iron. Convictions settled slowly, hardened and took form. Igraine\nhad loved the man Pelleas; Igraine was his wife; he had lost her and\nBrastias also; poison and the sword waited to do their work. Supposing\nthen this Pelleas was in quest of Igraine; supposing they had come to\nknow each other again; supposing Brastias and Pelleas were one and the\nsame man. Hell and furies--what a thought was this! It goaded Gorlois\ninto action. He would ride after the man, hunt him, track him, in hope\nof some fragment of the truth. Hazard and hate, blood and battle, these\nwere more welcome than chafing within walls as in a cage, or frying on\na bed as on a gridiron.\n\nGorlois's voice rang through gallery and hall like a battle-cry.\n\n\"Ho, there!--my sword and harness.\"\n\nThere was a grimness in the sound that made those who came to arm him\nbustle for dear life. They knew his black, furious humour, the hand\nthat struck like a mace, the tyranny that took blood for trifles. The\nstoutest of them were cowards before that marred and moody face. Be as\nbrisk as they would, they were too slow for Gorlois's temper, a temper\nvicious as a wounded bear's.\n\n\"God and the Saints--was ever man served by such a pack of\nstiff-fingered fools! The devil take your fumbling. Go and gird up\nharlots, or hold cooking-pots. On with that helmet.\"\n\nA fellow, very white about the mouth, clapped the casque on, and drew\na quick breath when the angry eyes withered him no longer. Armlets,\nbreastplates, greaves, cuishes, all were on. Gorlois seemed to emit\nfire like metal at white heat. He went clanging down stairway and\nthrough atrium to the courtyard, where a horseboy held a white charger.\nGorlois cuffed the lad aside, mounted with a spring, took his spear\nfrom an esquire, and rode straight for the gate, his horse's hoofs\nsparking fire from the courtyard stones. Half an hour or more had gone\nsince Pelleas had passed by on his black horse, and Gorlois spurred at\na gallop through Caerleon, bent on catching sight of the red knight\nbefore he should have ridden into the covering masses of the woods.\n\nPelleas meanwhile rode on like a lad whose first quest led him into the\ninfinite romance of the unknown. Woods and waters called; bare night\nand the blink of the stars summoned up that strangeness in life that\nis like wine to the heart of the strong and the brave. He was young\nagain--young in the first glory of arms; the world shone glamoured as\nof old as he turned from the high-road to a bridle-track that led up\nthrough woods towards the north.\n\nHolding on at a level pace he passed the woods and saw them rolling\nback like a green cataract towards the sea. Bare hills saluted him;\nthe beacon height with its great wooden cross stood out against the\nsky; mile on mile of wooded land billowed out before him, clouded with\na blue haze where the domes of the trees rose innumerably rank on\nrank. The Abbey of the Holy Mary lay low in meadows on his left, its\nfish pools shimmering in the sun, its orchards densely green about its\nwalls. Two leagues or more of wood and wild, a climb over hills, a long\ndescent, and Usk again shone out trailing distant in the hollows. A\ncrumbling tower stood up above the trees. Pelleas passed close to it,\ngiving antiquity due reverence as was his custom, looking up at its\nivied walls, its crown of gillyflowers, its windows wistful as a blind\nman's eyes. Another mile and Usk ran at his feet. A hermitage stood\nby the ford. Pelleas gave the good man a piece of silver and besought\nhis prayers before he rode down and splashed through the river to the\nfurther bank. Heathland and scrub rolled to the east, merging into the\nblue swell of a low line of hills. It was wild country enough, haunted\nby snipe and crested plover, an open solitude that swept into a purple\nstreak against the northern sky.\n\nIt was noon before Pelleas had made an end of its shadeless glare\nand taken to the hills that rose gently towards the east. His red\nharness moving over the green was lost to Gorlois, who had missed the\ntrail long ago in the woods beyond St. Mary's. It was dusk when the\nCornishman came guided to the ford, and learnt from the hermit there\nthat the chase lay across Usk and eastward over the heath. Gorlois\ngave the man no piece of silver, only a savage curse to gag his\nalms-seeking. Night came and caught him in the open, and rather than\nwander astray in the dark he spent the night under a whin bush, calming\nhis incontinent temper as best he might.\n\nAn hour past noon Pelleas stood on the last hill slope and looked down\nupon the massed woodland at his feet. Here at last was Merlin's valley\nchoked up with trees--a green lake of foliage that rippled from ridge\nto ridge. Pelleas, with the sun at his back, stood and looked down on\nit with a kind of quiet awe. So Godfrey and his knights looked down\nupon the holy city, so Dante saw Beatrice in his vision, and Cortez\ngazed at the Pacific in the west. Pelleas had taken his helmet from\nhis head and hung it at his saddle-bow; there was a grand hunger on\nhis face, a passionate calm, as he abode on the hill top with his tall\nspear a black streak against the sun.\n\nMystery waved him on to the great oaks whose tops rose like green\nflames to the blue of the sky. Could Igraine be in this valley? Would\nhe set eyes on her that day, and see the bronze gloss of her hair go\nshimmering through some woodland gallery? It was nigh upon a year since\nhe had seen her. It had been summer then, and it was summer now; his\nheart was singing as it had sung on that mere island when Igraine had\nlooked into his eyes under the cedar tree. He had borne much, endured\nmuch, since then; time had hallowed memory and shed a crimson lustre\nover the past. Manwise, for the great love that was in him, he almost\nfeared to look on her again lest she should have changed in face or in\nheart. Great God, what a thought was that! It had never smitten him\nbefore. Stiffened by his own strong constancy, he had dowered Igraine\nwith equal loyalty of soul, nor had considered the lapse of time and\nthe crumbling power of hours. The thought brought a dew of sweat to his\nforehead and made him cold even in the sun. No, honour to God, the girl\nhad a heart to be trusted, or he had never loved her as he did!\n\nShaking the bridle, he rode down into the murk of the trees. He had to\nslant his spear and to bow his head often as the great boughs swooped\nto the ground. The dim glamour of the place had a sinister effect upon\nhis mind; it solemnised him, touched the spiritual chords of his heart,\nuncovered the somewhat gloomy groundwork of philosophy that lay deep\nunder the fabric of religious habit. Merlin had told a tale and nothing\nmore. God's blessings were not man's blessings, God's ways not man's\nways. Pelleas had learnt to look for what he might have called the\ncontradictions of divine charity. We are smitten when we pray for a\nblessing, chided when desirous of comfort. Life would seem at times a\ngigantic tyranny for the creation of patience. Pelleas remembered the\npast, and kept his hopes and desires well in hand.\n\nBetimes he judged himself not far from the bottom of the valley, for\nthrough gaps in the foliage overhead he could see the woods on the\nfurther slope towering up magnificently to touch the sky. Still further\nthe long galleries of the wood arched out upon grassland gemmed with\nsummer flowers. Showers of sunlight told of an open sky. He was soon\nout of the shadows and standing under the wooelshawe, with the dale\nMerlin had pictured stretching north and south before his eyes.\n\nThe scene smiled up at him from its bath of sunlight--the green meadows\nflecked white, blue, and gold, the diverse foliage of the trees, the\nlittle pool smooth as crystal, the solemn barriers of the surrounding\nwoods. He looked first of all for the cottage built of timber, and\ncould not see it for its overshadowing trees. None the less, by the\npool a girl in a blue smock stood looking up towards him, her face\nshowing oval white from her loosened hair. Pelleas held his breath for\nthe moment, then saw well enough that it was not Igraine. Meanwhile the\nfigure in blue had disappeared as though in fear of him; he could no\nlonger see the girl from where he watched on the edge of the wood.\n\nRiding out, he sallied down through the long grass with its haze of\nflowers, his eyes turned with a steadfast eagerness to the pool in the\nmeadows. His impatience grew with every step, but he was outwardly cool\nas any veteran. First the brown thatch of the cottage came into view,\nthen the blue smock of the girl who stood by the porch and watched.\nLast of all Pelleas saw a gleam of armour through the gloom of a cedar\ntree, heard the neigh of a horse, the jar of a swinging shield. The\nsight made his heart beat more briskly than ever ghost or goblin could\nhave done. Pushing through the trees he came full upon a knight mounted\non a grey horse, who was advancing towards him bearing on his shield\nthe cognisance of a cloven heart.\n\nThe knight on the grey horse reined in and abode stone still in the\nmeadows, the sunlight flashing on his helmet and such points of his\nharness uncovered by his surcoat. Pelleas as he rode down took stock\nof the stranger with an eagerness that was half jealous maugre his\nperspicuity of soul. What had this splendid gentleman to do with\nIgraine the novice? Truth to tell, Pelleas would rather have had some\nhumbler person to serve as guide on such a quest.\n\nThe knight on the grey horse never budged a foot. Pelleas saw that he\ncarried no spear and that his sword was safe in his scabbard. This\nlooked like peace. Drawing up some three paces away, he scanned the\nstrange knight over from head to foot, voted him a passable man, and\nadmired his armour. And since his whole soul was set on a certain\nsubject, he made no delay over courteous generalities, but came at once\nto the point at issue.\n\n\"Greeting, sir; I have ridden from Caerleon to speak with you.\"\n\nThe knight in the violet surcoat swayed in the saddle as though shaken\nby a spear thrust on his painted shield. Pelleas noted that both his\nhands were tangled up in the grey horse's mane, though nothing could be\nseen of the face behind the fixed vizor of the helmet. A voice, husky,\ntoneless, feeble, answered him after a moment's silence.\n\n\"What would you with me, knight of the red shield?\"\n\n\"There is a lady whose name is Igraine; I seek her. I have been\nforewarned that a knight lodging in this valley has knowledge of her,\nand you, messire, seem to be that knight.\"\n\n\"That is the truth,\" quoth the cracked, husky voice from the helmet.\n\nPelleas considered a moment and held his peace. There was something\nstrange about this knight, something tragical, something that touched\nthe heart. Pelleas's instinct for superb miseries took hold of him with\na queer, twisting grip that made him shudder. His dark eyes smouldered\nas he watched the strange knight, and gave voice to the grim thought\nthat lay heavy on his mind.\n\n\"The lady is not dead?\"\n\n\"No,\" said the husky voice with blunt brevity.\n\n\"And she is well fortuned?\"\n\n\"Passably.\"\n\n\"Thank God,\" said Pelleas.\n\nThere was a dry sob in the brazen helmet, but Pelleas never heard the\nsound. He was staring into the woods with large, luminous eyes, and a\nhalf smile on his lips, as though his thoughts pleased him.\n\n\"Is the Lady Igraine far from hence?\" he asked presently.\n\n\"If you will follow me, my lord, I can bring you to her in less than an\nhour.\"\n\nPelleas flushed red to the forehead, his dark eyes beamed. He looked a\ngod of a man as he sat bareheaded on his black horse, his face aglow\nlike the face of a martyr. The Knight of the Cloven Heart looked at\nhim, flapped his bridle, and rode on.\n\nPelleas said never a word as they passed up the valley. There were deep\nthoughts in his heart, yearnings, and ecstasies of prayer that held\nhim in a stupor of silence. His was a grandeur of mind that grew the\ngrander for the majesty of passion. There was no blurting of questions,\nno gabbling of news, no chatter, no flurry. Like a mountain he was\ntowering, sable-browed, impenetrable, while the thunder of suspense\nlasted. The knight on the grey horse watched him narrowly with a white\nlook under his helmet that was infinitely plaintive.\n\nAt the northern end of the valley, on the very edge of the forest,\nstood a thicket of gnarled thorns still smothered with the snow of\nearly summer. The Knight of the Cloven Heart drew rein in the long\ngrass and pointed Pelleas to these white pavilions under the near\numbrage of the oaks.\n\n\"Look yonder,\" said the voice.\n\nPelleas answered with a stare.\n\n\"Would you see your lady?\"\n\n\"Be careful how you jest, my friend.\"\n\n\"I jest not, Uther Pendragon. Get you down and tether your horse; go in\namid yon trees and look into the forest. I swear on the cross you shall\nsee what you desire.\"\n\nPelleas gave the knight a long look, said nothing, dismounted, threw\nthe bridle over a bough. Then he thrust his spear into the ground and\nwent bareheaded in among the trees. Standing under the shadow of a\ngreat oak, he peered long into the glooms, saw nothing living but a\nrabbit feeding in the grass.\n\nSuddenly a voice called to him.\n\n\"Pelleas, Pelleas.\"\n\nIt was a wondrous cry, clear and plaintive, yet tremulous with feeling.\nIt rang through the woods like silver, bringing back the picture of a\nsolemn beech wood under moonlight, and a girl tied naked to the trunk\nof a tree. A great lustre of awe swept over Pelleas's face; his eyes\nwere big and luminous as the eyes of a blind man; he groped with his\nhands as he passed back under the May trees to the valley.\n\nIn the long grass stood a woman in armour, her helmet thrown aside, and\nher red gold hair pouring marvellous in the sunlight over her violet\nsurcoat. Her head was thrown back so as to show the full sweep of her\nshapely throat; her face was very pale under her parted hair, while\nher lids drooped over eyes that seemed to swim with unshed tears. Her\nhands, slightly outstretched, quivered as with a shuddering impulse\nfrom her heart, and her half-parted lips looked as though they were\nmoulded to breathe forth a moan.\n\nPelleas stood and stared at her as a dead man might look at God. He\ndrew near step by step, his face white as Igraine's, his eyes as deep\nwith desire as hers. Neither of them said a word, but stood and looked\ninto each other's faces as into heaven--awed, solemnised, silenced.\nAbove them towered the green woods; the meadows rippled from them with\ntheir broidery of flowers; the scent of the white May swept fragrant on\nthe air. Solitude was with them, and the mild smile of Nature glimmered\nwith the sunlight over the trees.\n\nIgraine spoke first.\n\n\"Pelleas,\" was all she said.\n\nThe man gave a great sob, fell on his knees, and would have kissed her\nsurcoat. Igraine bent down to him with eyes that shone like two deep\nwells of love. Both her hands were upon Pelleas's shoulders, his face\nwas turned to hers.\n\n\"Kneel not to me.\"\n\n\"Igraine.\"\n\n\"Pelleas.\"\n\n\"Let me touch you.\"\n\n\"There, there, you have my hand.\"\n\n\"My God, my God!\"\n\nIgraine gave a low cry, half knelt, half fell before him. Pelleas's\narms caught her, his face hung over hers, her hair fell down and\ntrailed a golden pool upon the grass. She put her hands up and touched\nhis hair, smiled wonderfully, and looked at him as though she were\ndying.\n\n\"Kiss me, Pelleas.\"\n\nPelleas drew a deep breath; his body seemed to quake; his whole soul\nwas sucked up by the girl's lips.\n\n\"Igraine,\" was all he said.\n\nHer face blazed, her hands clung about his neck.\n\n\"Again, again.\"\n\n\"My God, have I not prayed for this!\"\n\nHis eyes were large and wonderful to look upon. There was such awe and\nlove in them that an angel might have looked thus upon the Christ and\nhave earned no reproach. Igraine kissed his lips, crept close into his\nbosom, hid her face, and wept.\n\n\n\n\nX\n\n\nWhen Igraine had ended her tears, and grown calm and quiet, Pelleas\ntook her hand and led her to a grass bank painted thick with flowers\nthat sloped to the white boughs of a great May tree. He was radiant in\nhis manhood, and his eyes burnt for her with such a splendour of pride\nand tenderness that she trembled in thought for the secret she had kept\nfrom him in her heart. He could know nothing of Gorlois, or he would\nnot have come thus to her. The mocking face of fate leered at her like\na satyr out of the shadows, yet with the joy of the moment she put the\nthoughts aside and lived on the man's lips and the great love that\nbrimmed for her in his eyes.\n\nPelleas sat in the long grass at her feet and looked up at her as at\na saint. Never had she seen such glory of happiness on human face,\nnever such manhood deified by the holier instincts of the heart. The\nsheer strength of his devotion carried her above her cares and made her\ncontent to live for the present, and to gird time with the girdle of an\nhour.\n\n\"You are no nun, Igraine?\"\n\nShe smiled at him and shook her head.\n\n\"No, no, Pelleas.\"\n\n\"Would to God you had told me that a year ago.\"\n\n\"Would to God I had.\"\n\n\"It would have saved much woe.\"\n\nIgraine hung her head. The man's words were prophetic in their\nhonest ignorance, and the whole tale had almost rushed from her that\nmoment but for a certain selfishness that held her mute, a fear that\noverpowered her. She knew the fibre of Pelleas's soul. To tell him the\ntruth would mean to call his honour to arms against his love, and she\ndreaded that thought as she dreaded death.\n\n\"I was a fool, Pelleas,\" she said, with a queer intensity of tone that\nmade the man look quickly into her eyes.\n\n\"You did not know.\"\n\n\"Pardon, Pelleas, I knew your soul, how true and strong it was. God\nknows I tried you to the end, and bitter truth it proved to me. If you\nhad only waited.\"\n\n\"Ah, Igraine.\"\n\n\"Only a night; you would have had the truth at dawn.\"\n\n\"I struggled for your soul and for mine, as I thought.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, you chose the nobler part, thinking me a mere woman, a frail\nthing blown about by my own passion. I loved you, Pelleas, for the\ndeed, though it nigh brought me to my death.\"\n\n\"God knows I honoured you, Igraine.\"\n\n\"Too well; it had been better for us both if you had been more human.\"\n\nThere was an anguish of regret in her voice, a plaintive accusation\nthat made Pelleas wince to the core. He bent down and kissed her hand\nas it lay in her lap, then looked into her face with a mute appeal that\nbrought her to the verge of tears.\n\n\"Courage, courage, dear heart.\"\n\n\"God bless you, Igraine.\"\n\n\"I am very glad of your love.\"\n\n\"Come now, tell me how the year has passed.\"\n\nIgraine held his hand in hers and began to twist her hair about his\nwrist into a bracelet of gold. Her eyes faltered from his, and were hot\nand heavy with an inward misery of thought. The man's words wounded her\nat every turn, and in his innocence he shook her happiness as a wind\nshakes a tree.\n\n\"There is little I can tell you,\" she said.\n\n\"Every hour is as gold to me.\"\n\n\"Would I had them lying in my lap.\"\n\n\"We are young yet, Igraine.\"\n\nThere was a joyousness in his voice that sounded to the girl like a\nblow struck upon empty brass, or like the laugh of a child through a\nruined house. His rich optimism mocked her to the echo.\n\n\"I took refuge in Winchester,\" she began, \"with Radamanth my uncle, and\nlodged there many months. I watched for you and waited, but got no news\nof a knight named Pelleas. Week by week as my knowledge grew I began to\nthink and think, to piece fragments together, to dream in my heart. I\nlonged to see this Uther of whom all Britain talked. Ah, you remember\nthe cross, Pelleas, which you left at my feet?\"\n\nPelleas smiled. She put her hand into her bosom with a little blush of\npride and looked into the man's eyes.\n\n\"I have it here still,\" she said, \"where it has hung these many months.\nThis scrap of gold first taught me to look for Uther.\"\n\n\"Ah, Igraine, am I a king!\"\n\n\"My king, sire. And oh! how long it was before I could get news of\nyou; yet in time tidings came. Then it was that I left Winchester,\nwent on foot through the land, and hearing again of you I set out for\nWales and Caerleon with rumours of war in my ears. Even from Caerleon\nI followed you, even to the western sea, where I saw the great battle\nwith Gilomannius, and the noble deeds you did there for Britain.\"\n\nPelleas's dark eyes flashed up to hers. A man loves to be noble in deed\nbefore the face of the woman he serves, a species of divine vanity that\nbegets heroes. The girl's staunch faith was a thing that proffered the\nsuperbest flattery.\n\n\"You are very wonderful, Igraine.\"\n\n\"It was all for my own heart; and what greater joy could I have than to\nsee you a king before the thundering swords of your knights.\"\n\n\"You saw that, Igraine?\"\n\n\"Do you remember a hillock by the pine forest on the ridge, where you\nreined in after the charge and uncovered your head to the sun?\"\n\n\"As it were yesterday.\"\n\n\"I stood on that hillock, Pelleas, and saw your face after many months.\"\n\n\"Ah, Igraine, said I not you were very wonderful?\"\n\n\"No, no, I am only a woman, only a woman.\"\n\n\"God give me such a wife.\"\n\nThe word was keen as the barb of a lance. Pelleas's head was bowed over\nthe girl's hand as he pressed his lips to the gold circlet of hair, and\nhe did not see the frown of pain upon her face. Wife! What a mockery,\nwhat bitterness! The sky seemed black for a moment, the valley bare\nwith the blasts of winter and the moan of tortured trees. She half\nchoked in her throat, and her heart seemed to fail within her like a\nbowl that is broken. Yet there was a smile on her face when Pelleas\nlooked up from the circlet of her hair with the pride of love in his\nlarge eyes.\n\n\"What ails you, Igraine?\"\n\n\"A mere thought of the past.\"\n\n\"Tell it me.\"\n\n\"No, no, it is a nothing, a mere vapour, and it has passed. How warm\nyour lips are to my fingers. Tell me of yourself, Pelleas.\"\n\n\"But this armour, Igraine?\"\n\n\"I took it from a dead knight, God rest his soul. I have wandered long\nin Wales, yet ever drew to Caerleon where folk spoke your name, yet\nnever might I come near you, lest--lest you were too great for me.\"\n\n\"Child, child!\"\n\n\"Uther Pendragon, King of Britain!\"\n\n\"Let the world die.\"\n\n\"And let us live; Pelleas, tell me of yourself.\"\n\nThe man looked long over the valley in silence. His face was very\ngrave, and his eyes were deep with thought as though the past awed him\nwith the recollection of its bitterness.\n\n\"May I never pass such another night,\" he said.\n\nThe words were curt and calm enough as though leaving infinite things\nunsaid. Igraine sat silent by him and still plaited her hair about his\nwrist.\n\n\"I went away in the dark, for I thought you were a nun, Igraine, and\nI would not break your vows. I was nearly blind for an hour. Twice my\nhorse stumbled and fell with me in the woods, and once I was smitten\nout of the saddle by a tree. Dawn came, and how I cursed the sun. I\nseemed to see your face everywhere, and to hear your voice in every\nsound. Days came and went, and I hated the sight of man; as for my\nprayers, I could not say them, and I was dumb in my heart towards God.\nI rode north into the wilds, and into the fenlands of the east. Strange\nthings befell me in many places. I fought often, beast and wild men and\nrobber ruffians out of the woods. Fighting pleased me; it eased the\nwrath in my heart that seemed to rage up against the world, and against\nall things that drew breath. I wandered in the night of the forests,\nwaded through swamps, took my food by the sword, and never blessed man\nor woman. I felt bitter and evil to the core.\"\n\nIgraine bent down and touched his forehead with her lips.\n\n\"Brave heart,\" she said.\n\n\"You shall hear how I came by my own soul again.\"\n\n\"Ah, tell me that.\"\n\n\"It was as though a still voice came to me out of heaven. I was riding\nin the northern wilds not far from rough coastland and the sea, and\nriding, came upon a little house of timber all bowered round with\ntrees. It was a peaceful spot, flowers grew around, and the sun was\nshining, and I drew near, moved in my heart to beg food and rest, for\nI was half starved and gaunt as a monk from an African desert. What\ndid I see there? A dead man tied to a tree and gored with many wounds;\na woman kneeling dead before his feet, thrust through with a sword; a\nlittle child lying near with its head crushed by a stone or a club. The\nsword was a Saxon sword, and I knew who had done the deed; but sight\nof the dead folk by their empty home seemed to smite my pity like the\nthought of the dead Christ. I had pitied but myself and you, Igraine,\nand had wandered through the land like a brute beast mad with the\nsmart of my own wound. Here was woe enough, agony enough, to shame my\nheart. Straightway I went down on my knees and prayed, and came through\npenitence and fire to a knowledge of myself. 'Rise up,' said the voice\nin me, 'rise up and play the man. There is much sorrow in Britain, much\nshedding of innocent blood, much violence, and much brute wrath. Rise\nup and strike for woman and for babe, let your sword shine against the\nwolves from over the sea, let your shield hurl them from the ruined\nhearths of Britain, the smoking churches, and the children of the\ncross.' So I rose up strong again and comforted, and rode back into the\nworld to do my duty.\"\n\nWhen Pelleas had made an end of speaking, Igraine's eyes were full of\ntears. The simplicity of the man's words had awakened to the full all\nthe pathos of the past in her, and she was as proud of him as when she\nsaw him hurl Gilomannius and his host down the green slopes towards the\nsea. Her lips quivered as she spoke to him--looking into his face with\nher eyes dim and shadowy with tears.\n\n\"Forgive me all this.\"\n\n\"It has been good for me, Igraine, nor would I alter the days that are\ngone.\"\n\n\"No, no.\"\n\n\"We have found love again.\"\n\n\"Ah, Pelleas!\"\n\n\"What more need we ask?\"\n\n\"What more?\"\n\nHer voice was half a wail. Again it was winter, and the wind blew as\nthough at midnight; the flowers and the green woods were blurred before\nthe girl's eyes. Gorlois's hard face and the grey walls of Tintagel\ncame betwixt her and the summer. And, though the mood lasted but for a\nmoment, it seemed like the long agony of days crushed into the compass\nof a minute.\n\nEvening stood calm-eyed in the east. A tranquil heat hung over wood\nand valley, a warm silence that seemed to bind the world into a golden\nswoon. Not a ripple stirred in the grass with its tapestries of\nflowers; every leaf was hushed upon the bough; nothing moved save the\ndroning bee and the wings of the butterflies hovering colour-bright\nover the meadows. The sky was a mighty sapphire, the woods carved\nemeralds piled giantwise to the sun. There was no discord and no sound\nof man, as though the curse of Adam was not yet.\n\nIgraine had drawn Pelleas's great sword from its sheath. She held it\nslantwise before her, and pressed her lips to the cold steel.\n\n\"Old friend,\" she said, \"be ever true to me.\"\n\nPelleas laughed and touched her hair with his hand. A kind of\nexaltation came upon them, and the zest of life crept through the\nbodies like green sap in spring. Igraine had filled her brazen helmet\nto the brim with flowers, and she scattered them and sang as they\nroamed into the hoar shadows of the woods:--\n\n    \"Dear love of mine,\n    Where art thou roaming?\n    The west is red,\n    My heart is calling.\"\n\nNever had the vaults seemed greener, the half light more mysterious\nunder the massive trees. The far world was out of ken; they alone lived\nand had their being; the toil of man was not even like the long sob of\na moonlit sea, or the sound of rivers running in the night.\n\nThe infinite strangeness of beauty shone over them like a wizard light\nout of the west. Igraine's lips were very red, her face white in the\nshadows, her eyes deep with mute desire. Hand held hand, body touched\nbody. Often she would lie out upon Pelleas's arm, her head upon his\nshoulder, her hair clouding over his red harness. They were content\nto be together, to forget the world save so much of it as came within\nthe ken of their eyes, and the close grip of their twined fingers.\nThey said little as they swayed together under the trees. Soul ebbed\ninto soul upon their lips, and a deep ecstasy possessed them like the\nthrobbing pathos of some song.\n\nAs the day deepened Pelleas and Igraine turned back into the valley,\nhand in hand. The west burnt gold above the tree tops, the gnarled\ntrunks were pillars of agate bearing Byzant domes of breathless leaves.\nBy the white May trees the two horses stood tethered, black and grey\nagainst the grass. Loosing them, and taking each a bridle, they passed\ndown through flowers to the cottage and the pool.\n\nGarlotte met them there with her brown hair pouring over her shoulders,\nand a clean white kerchief over her throat and bosom. She came to\nthem through a little thicket of fox-gloves that were budding early,\nwhite and purple. Her blue eyes quivered for a moment over Pelleas's\nface as she made him a deep curtsey, and bent to kiss Igraine's hand.\nThere was a vast measure of sympathy in Garlotte's heart, and yet for\nall her well-wishing she was troubled for the two, fearing for them\ninstinctively with even her small knowledge of the world. She had\nlearnt enough from Igraine to comprehend in measure that element of\ntragedy that had entered with Gorlois into her life. Her interest in\nthe man Pelleas was no mere vulgar curiosity, rather an intense pity\nthat permeated her warm innocence of spirit to the core.\n\nShe had spread supper on the table, a much meditated feast that had\nkept her eagerly busy since she had guessed the name of the strange\nknight who had ridden down out of the woods. She had the pride of a\nyoung housewife in her creamy milk, her bread. She had made a tansy\ncake, and there was a rich cream cheese ready in the cupboard, and a\nfat rabbit stewing by the fire. Yet for all her ingenuous pride she\nfelt much troubled when it came to the test lest her fare should seem\nrude and meagre to the great knight in the red harness. Certainly he\nhad a kind face and splendid eyes, but would he not smile at her humble\nsupper, her horn cups, and her plates of hollywood? Her cares were\nempty enough, but they were very real to the sensitive child who feared\nto seem shamed before Igraine.\n\nHalf the happiness of life lies in the kindly sensibility of others\nto our desire for sympathy. A surly word, a trivial ungraciousness,\na small deed passed over in thankless silence, how much these things\nmean to a sensitive heart! Garlotte, standing in her cottage door, half\nshy and timid, found her small fears mere little goblins of her own\ninvention. Igraine, radiant as the evening, came and kissed her on the\nlips.\n\n\"Little sister, you have been very good to me.\"\n\nThe great knight too was smiling at her in quite a fatherly fashion.\nWhat a strong face he had, and what a noble look; she felt sure that he\nwas a good man, and her heart went out to him like an opening flower.\nWhen he took her hand, and a lock of her hair and kissed it, she went\nred as one of her own roses, and was dumb with an impulsive gladness.\n\n\"Little sister, you have been very good to me.\"\n\n\"Good, my lord, to you!\"\n\n\"Child, Igraine can tell you how.\"\n\n\"But the Lady Igraine, she saved my life!\"\n\n\"Ah, I had not heard that. Tell me.\"\n\nGarlotte found her ease in a moment. The whole tale came bubbling up\nlike water out of a spring. Pelleas's strong face beamed; he touched\nIgraine's hair with his fingers and looked into her eyes as only a\nman in love can look. Garlotte saw that she was giving pleasure, and\nfelt a glow from head to heart. Surely this great, grave-faced knight\nwas a noble soul; how gentle he was, and how he looked into Igraine's\neyes and bent over her like a tall elm over a slim cypress tree. She\ncaught the happiness of the two, and from that moment her heart was\nsinging and she had no more fear for herself and her poor cottage. Even\nthe horn cups took a golden dignity, and her tansy cake and her cream\nseemed fit for a prince.\n\nThe three were soon at supper together round the wooden table, with\nhoneysuckle and roses climbing close above their heads. Garlotte would\nhave stood and waited on Pelleas and Igraine, but they would have none\nof it; so she was set smiling at the head of her little table, and\nconstrained to play the lady under her own roof. It was a dull meal so\nfar as mere words were concerned. Pelleas's eyes were on Igraine in\nthe twilight, and he had no hunger save hunger of heart; yet that the\nsupper was a success there was no doubt whatever. Garlotte watched them\nboth with a quiet delight; young as she was she was wise in the simple\nlove of love, and so she mothered the pair to her heart's content in\nher own imagination. If only Renan had been there to help her serve,\nand touch her hand under the table, what a perfect guest-hour it would\nhave been.\n\nWhen the meal was over she jumped up with a shy smile, took a rush\nbasket from the wall, and went out into the garden. Igraine called her\nback.\n\n\"Where are you going, child?\"\n\n\"Up the valley to the dead oak tree where herbs grow. I must make a\nstew to-morrow.\"\n\n\"It will soon be dark.\"\n\nGarlotte swung her basket and laughed from her cloud of hair.\n\n\"You gathered herbs on Sunday, Igraine.\"\n\n\"You squirrel!\"\n\n\"Renan was here; you came home after dusk; good-by, good-by.\"\n\nThey heard her go singing through the garden, a soft _chant d'amour_\nthat would have gone wondrously to flute and cithern. It died away\nslowly amid the trees like an elf's song coming from woodlands in the\nmoonlight. Pelleas drew a deep breath and listened in the shadow of\nthe room with his hands clasped before him on the table. He looked as\nthough he were praying. Igraine's eyes were glooms of violet mystery as\nshe watched him, her hands folded over a breast that rose and fell as\nwith the restless motion of a troubled sea. She called the man softly\nby name; her body bent to him like a bow, her hair bathed his face with\ndim ripples of gold as mouth touched mouth.\n\nThey went out into the garden together and stood under the cedar tree.\n\n\"Pelleas, my love, my own.\"\n\n\"Heart of mine.\"\n\n\"You will never leave me?\"\n\n\"How should the sea put the earth from his bosom, or the moon pass from\nthe arms of the night?\"\n\n\"I am faint, Pelleas; hold me in your arms.\"\n\n\"They are strong, Igraine.\"\n\n\"There, let me rest so, for ever. Look, the stars are coming out, and\nthere is the moon flooding silver over the trees. My lips burn, and I\nam faint.\"\n\n\"Courage, courage, dear heart.\"\n\n\"How close you hold me! I could die so.\"\n\n\"What is death to us, Igraine?\"\n\n\"Or life?\"\n\n\"God in heaven, and heaven on earth.\"\n\n\"Your words hurt me.\"\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\n\nHow the birds sang that evening as a saffron afterglow fainted over the\nforest spires, and when all was still with the hush of night how the\ncry of a nightingale thrilled from a tree near the cottage!\n\nThe glamour of the day had passed, and now what mockery and bitterness\ncame with the cold, calculating face of the moon. Igraine tossed and\nturned in her bed like one taken with a fever; her brain seemed afire,\nher hair like so much flame about her forehead. As she lay staring\nwith wide, wakeful eyes, the birds' song mocked her to the echo, the\nscent of honeysuckle and rose floated in like a sad savour of death,\nand the moonlight seemed to watch her without a quaver of pity. Her\nheart panted in the darkness; she was torn by the thousand torments\nof a troubled conscience, wounded to tears, yet her eyes were dry and\nwaterless as a desert. Gorlois's face seemed to glare down at her out\nof the idle gloom, and she could have cried out with the fear that lay\nlike an icy hand over her bosom.\n\nPelleas slept under the cedar tree, wrapped in an old cloak, relic of\nGarlotte's father. How Igraine's heart wailed for the man, how she\nlonged for the touch of his hand! God of heaven, she could not let him\ngo again, and starve her soul with the old cursed life. His lips had\ntouched hers, his arms had held her close, she had felt the warmth of\nhis body and the beating of his heart. Was all this nothing--a dream,\na splendid phantasm to be rent away like a crimson cloud? Was she to\nbe Gorlois's wife and nothing more, a bitter flower growing under a\ngallows, sour wine frothing in a gilded cup?\n\nGod of heaven, no! What had the world done for her that she should obey\nits edicts and suffer for its tyrannies? Gorlois had cheated her of her\nliberty, let him pay the price to the fates; what honour, indeed, had\nshe to preserve for him? If he was a brute piece of lust, a tyrant,\na demagogue, so much the better, it would ease her conscience. She\nowed no fealty, no marriage vow, to Gorlois. Her body was no more his\nthan was her soul, and a dozen priests and a dozen masses might as\nwell marry granite to fire. How could a fool in a cape and frock by\ngabbling a service bind an irresponsible woman to a man she hated more\nthan the foulest mud in the foulest alley? It was a stupendous piece\nof nonsense, to say the least of it. No God calling himself a just God\ncould hold such a bargain holy.\n\nAnd then--the truth! What a stumbling-block truth was on occasions!\nShe knew Pelleas's intense love of honour, the fine sensibility of his\nconscience, the strong thirst for the highest good, that made him the\nvictim of an ethical tyranny. If he had left her after Andredswold\nbecause he thought her a nun, what hope now had she of holding him if\nhe knew her to be a wife? And yet for all her love she could not bring\nherself to keep him wholly from the truth. For all her passion and the\nfire in her rebellious heart she was not a woman who could fling reason\nto the winds, and stifle up her conscience with a kiss. Besides, she\nloved Pelleas to the very zenith of her soul. To have a lie understood\nupon her lips, to be shamed before the man's eyes, were things that\nscourged her in fancy even more than the thought of losing him. She\ntrembled when she thought how he might look at her in later days if a\npassive lie were proven against her with open shame.\n\nBut to tell him of Gorlois, and the humiliation of that darkest hour\nof her life! Could such a man as Pelleas serve her longer after such a\nconfession? He would become a king again, a stranger, a man set in high\nplaces far beyond the mere yearning of a woman's white face. And yet,\nit was possible that his love might prove stronger than his reason; it\nwas possible that he might front the world and frown down the petty\njudgments of men. Glorious and transcendent sacrifice! She could face\ncalumny beside him as a rock faces the froth of waves; she could look\nGorlois in the eyes, and know neither shame nor pity.\n\nHer mood that night was like the passage of a blown leaf, tossed up to\nheaven, whirled over the tree tops, driven down again into the mire.\nStrong woman that she was, her very strength made the struggle more\nindecisive and more racking. She could not renounce Pelleas for the\ngreat love she bore him, and yet she could not will to play a false\npart by reason of this same great love. Her soul, like a wanderer in\nthe wilds, halted and wavered between two tracks that led forward into\nthe unknown.\n\nGarlotte was sleeping in the far corner of the cottage. The girl\nhad given up her bed to Igraine, who envied her her quiet, restful\nbreathing as she lay and listened. In her doubt she called and woke\nGarlotte from her sleep, hardly knowing indeed what she desired to say\nto her, yet half fearful of lying alone longer in the night with her\nown thoughts for company. Garlotte rose up and came across the room to\nthe bigger bed. She knelt down; two warm arms crept under the coverlet,\nand a soft cheek touched Igraine's.\n\n\"Why are you awake, Igraine?\"\n\nThe warmth of the girl's body, her quiet breathing, the sweep of her\nhair, seemed to bring a scent of peace and human sympathy into the\nmoonlit room. Igraine put her arms about her, and drew her down to her\nside. Their white faces and clouding hair lay close together on the\npillow.\n\n\"You are in trouble, Igraine?\"\n\n\"How should I be in trouble?\"\n\n\"You breathe like one in pain, and your voice is strange.\"\n\n\"Hush, Garlotte.\"\n\n\"Am I not right?\"\n\n\"Pelleas must not hear us talking.\"\n\nThey were silent awhile, lying in each other's arms with no sound\nsave that of their breathing. Igraine's misery burnt in her and cried\nout for sympathy; Garlotte, half wise by instinct, yearned to share a\ntrouble which she did not wholly comprehend, to advise where she was\npartly ignorant. The girl felt a great stirring of her heart towards\nIgraine, but could say nothing for the moment. Having no better\neloquence at command she raised her head and kissed the other's lips, a\nwarm, impulsive kiss that seemed as rich in sympathy as a rose in scent.\n\nIgraine's confidence woke at the touch of the girl's lips; she hungered\neven for this child's comfort, her simple guidance in this matter of\nlife and love. It was easy enough to die, hard to exist as a mere\nspiritless Galatea devoid of soul.\n\n\"Garlotte!\"\n\n\"Yes, Igraine.\"\n\n\"Imagine that you were married to a man you hated, and you loved Renan.\"\n\nGarlotte raised herself in bed.\n\n\"And Renan loved you and knew nothing?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Would you tell Renan the truth?\"\n\nGarlotte remained motionless, propped on her two hands, and looking\nout of the window into the streaming moonlight. Her brown hair touched\nIgraine's face as she lay still and watched her. The room was very\nsilent, not a breeze seemed stirring, the roses athwart the window were\nstill as though carved in wood.\n\nGarlotte spoke very softly, looking up with her face white and solemn\nin the moonlight.\n\n\"I should tell Renan,\" she said.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because I love him.\"\n\n\"Yes--go on.\"\n\n\"I should not love him rightly in God's eyes if I kept him from the\ntruth.\"\n\nThe coverlet rose and fell over Igraine's bosom, and there was a queer\ntwisting pain at her heart.\n\n\"But if you were never to see Renan again?\" she said.\n\n\"If I told him the truth?\"\n\n\"Yes, child.\"\n\nGarlotte dared not look into Igraine's face; her lips were twitching,\nand her eyes were hot with tears.\n\n\"I do not know,\" she faltered.\n\n\"Think, child, think!\"\n\n\"I should not tell him.\"\n\nIn half a breath she had contradicted herself with a little gasp.\n\n\"Yes, yes, I should tell him.\"\n\n\"The truth?\"\n\n\"Because I should not be happy even with him if I were acting a lie.\"\n\nIgraine gave a dry sob, and drew Garlotte down again to her side. They\nlay very close, almost mouth to mouth, their arms about each other's\nbodies.\n\n\"I love Pelleas.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes.\"\n\n\"I will tell him the truth.\"\n\n\"Ah, Igraine, it is best, it is best.\"\n\n\"But it will kill me if I lose him.\"\n\n\"Ah, Igraine, but he will love you all the more.\"\n\nIt was Garlotte who broke into tears, and hid her face in the other's\nbosom. Igraine's eyes were as dry as a blue sky parched with a summer\nsun, and her voice failed her like the slack string of a lute. The\nmoonlight slanted down upon them both. Before dawn they had fallen\nasleep in each other's arms.\n\nHow many a heart trembles with the return of day; what fears rise with\nthe first blush of light in an empty sky! The cloak of night is lifted\nfrom weary faces; the quiet balm of darkness is withdrawn from the\nmoiling care of many a heart. To Igraine the dawn light came like a\nmessage of misery as she lay beside the sleeping Garlotte, and watched\nthe gloom grow less and less in the little room. This dawn seemed\na veritable symbol of the truth that she feared to look upon--and\nrecognise. The night seemed kinder, less implacable, less grave of\nface. Day, like a pale justiciary, stalked up out of the east to call\nher to that assize where truth and the soul meet under the eye of\nheaven.\n\nHow different was it with Pelleas under the eaves of the great cedar.\nHe had slept little that night for mere wakeful happiness; the moon had\nkept carnival for him above the world; at dawn the stars had crept back\nfrom the choir stalls into the chambers of the night. He had known no\nweariness, no abatement of his deep calm joy. His heart had answered\nblithely to the dawn-song of the birds as though he had risen fresh\nfrom a dreamless sleep. The day to him had no look of evil; the sky\nwas never grey; the flush in the east recalled no flashing of torches\nover a funeral bier. He rose up in the glory of his clean manhood, the\nstrong kindliness of his great love. His prayers went to heaven that\nmorning with the lark, and the Spirit of God seemed like a wind moving\nsoftly in the green boughs above his head.\n\nVery early before it was light he had taken a plunge and a swim in\nthe pool, a swinging burst through the still water that had made him\nrevel in his great strength. He had come up from the pool like a god\nrefreshed, and had put on his red harness while the mists rose from the\nvalley, and the birds chanted in the ghostly trees. When the day was\nfully awake he walked the grass-path in the garden like a watchman,\nwith the scent of honeysuckle and thyme in his nostrils, and a blaze\nof flowers at his feet. As he paced up and down with his face turned\nto the sky, he sang in a mellow bass a song of Guyon's, the Court\nminstrel--\n\n    \"When the dawn has come,\n    My heart sighs for thee and the gleam of thy hair;\n    Eyes deep as the night\n    When the summer sky arches the world.\"\n\nSo sang Pelleas as he paced the grass with his eyes wandering ever\ntowards the doorway of the cottage.\n\nPresently Igraine came out to him, and stood under the shadow of the\nporch. Her hair hung lustrous about a face that was white and drawn,\ndespite a smile. Certainly a haze of red flushed her cheeks when\nPelleas came up with a glory of love in his eyes, took her hands and\nkissed them, as though there was no such divine flesh in the whole wide\nworld. How wonderful it was to be touched so, to have such eyes pouring\nout so strong a soul before her face, to know the presence of a great\nlove, and to feel the echoing passion of it in her own heart!\n\nAfter the barren months of winter, and the long bondage in Tintagel,\nit seemed ah idyllic thing to be so served, so comforted. And was this\nfaery time but for an hour, a day, and no longer? Was she but to see\nthe man's face, to feel the touch of his hands, the grand calm of his\nlove, before losing him, perhaps for life? Her heart fluttered in her\nlike a smitten bird. And Pelleas, too, what a thrust lurked for the\nman, a blow to be given in the name of truth. How could she speak to\nhim of Gorlois when he came and looked at her with those eyes of his?\n\nIgraine had never felt such misery as this even in the gloomy galleries\nof Tintagel. It tried her courage to the death to face Pelleas's\nwistful gaiety, and the adoration that beamed on her from his eyes.\n\n\"Dear heart, it is dawn--it is dawn!\"\n\nPelleas held her hands, and waited for her lips to be turned to his.\nInstead, he saw lowered lids and quivering lashes, lips that were\nplaintive, a face white beneath a wealth of hair.\n\n\"Ah, Igraine, you do not look at me.\"\n\nHer eyes trembled up to his with a sudden infinite lustre.\n\n\"Pelleas!\"\n\n\"Girl, girl!\"\n\n\"Ah, I have hardly slept.\"\n\n\"Nor I, Igraine.\"\n\n\"I think I am worn out with thinking of you.\"\n\n\"Ha, little woman, you are extravagant; you will die like a flower even\nwhile I hold you in my bosom.\"\n\nGarlotte came out from the cottage, and was kissed by Pelleas on the\nlips. The girl's eyes were red and heavy; she had been crying but a\nmoment ago in the shadow of the cottage room, and she was timid and\nvery solemn. Pelleas looked at her like a big brother.\n\n\"Come now, little sister,\" he said, with a rare smile; \"methinks you\nmust be in love too by your looks.\"\n\n\"Yes, lord.\"\n\n\"Said I not so? You women take things so to heart.\"\n\n\"Yes, lord.\"\n\n\"What a solemn face, little sister!\"\n\nGarlotte mastered herself for a moment, then burst into tears and ran\nback into the cottage. Pelleas coloured, looked troubled, glanced\nat Igraine, thinking he had hurt the girl's heart with his words.\nIgraine's face startled him as if the visage of death had risen up\nsuddenly amid the flowers. He stood mute before her watching her\nstarved lips, her drawn face, her eyes that stared beyond him with a\nkind of cold frenzy.\n\n\"Pelleas, Pelleas!\"\n\nIt was like the wild cry of a woman over her dead love. The sound\nstruck Pelleas with a vague sense of stupendous woe, a dim prophecy\nof evil like the noise of autumn in the woods. Before he could gather\nwords, Igraine had turned and run from him as in great fear, skirting\nthe pool and holding for the black yawn of the forest aisles. Pelleas\nstarted to follow her in a daze of wonder. Was the girl mad? Had love\nturned her brain? What was there hid in her heart that made her wing\nfrom him like a dove from a hawk?\n\nBy the trees Igraine slackened and turned breathless on the man as\nhe came towards her through the long grass. Her eyes were dim and\nfrightened, her lips twitching, and there was a bleak hunted look upon\nher face that made her seem white and old. Pelleas's blood ran cold in\nhim like water; a vague dread sapped his manhood; he stared at Igraine\nand was speechless.\n\nThe girl put her arm before her eyes and shook as she stood. Pelleas\nfell on his knees with a cry, and reached for her hand.\n\n\"Igraine, Igraine!\"\n\nShe snatched her arm away and would not look at him.\n\n\"My God, what is this, Igraine?\"\n\n\"Don't touch me; I am Gorlois's wife!\"\n\nA vast silence seemed to fall sudden on the world. It might have been\ndead of night in winter, with deep snow upon the ground and no wind\nstirring in the forest. To Igraine, swaying in an agony with her arm\nover her face, the silence came like the hush that might fall on heaven\nbefore the damning of a lost soul to hell. She wondered what was in\nPelleas's heart, and dared not look at him or meet his eyes. God in\nheaven! would the man never speak; would the silence crawl on into an\neternity!\n\nAt last she did look, and nearly fell at the wrench of it. Pelleas was\nstanding near her looking at her with his great solemn eyes as though\nshe had given him his death. His face seemed to have gone grey and\nhaggard in a moment.\n\n\"Gorlois's wife!\" was all he said.\n\nIgraine hung her head, shivered, and said nothing. Pelleas never\nstirred; he seemed like so much stone, a mere pillar of granite misery.\nIgraine could have writhed at his feet and caught him by the knees only\nto melt for a moment that white calm on his face that looked like the\nmask of death.\n\nA voice that was almost strange to her startled her out of her stupor\nof despair.\n\n\"How long have you been wed, Igraine?\"\n\n\"Nine months, Pelleas.\"\n\nThe man seemed to be struggling with himself as though he strove after\nthe truth, yet could not confront it for all his strength. When he\nspoke his voice was like the voice of a man winded by hard running. He\nappeared to urge himself forward, to goad his courage to a task that\nhe dreaded. There was great anguish on his face as he looked into the\ngirl's eyes.\n\n\"I must speak what I know, Igraine.\"\n\nThe words seemed slow with effort. Igraine watched him in silence, full\nof a vague dread.\n\n\"Gorlois has spoken to me of his wife.\"\n\n\"Say on, Pelleas.\"\n\nPelleas hesitated.\n\n\"The truth--tell me the truth.\"\n\nShe was almost clamorous. Pelleas plunged on.\n\n\"Gorlois told me how his wife was faithless to him, how she had fled\nwith Brastias, the knight who had ward over her at Caerleon. I never\nknew her name until this hour.\"\n\nThe words might have fallen like the strokes of a lash. Igraine\nstood and stared at the man, her open mouth a black circle, her eyes\nexpressionless for the moment, like the eyes of one smitten blind. The\nfull meaning of the words numbed her and hindered her understanding. A\nbabel of shame sounded in her ears. The sinister intent of the man's\naccusation rose gradual before her reason like the distorted image of a\ndream. She felt cold to the core; a strange terror possessed her.\n\n\"Pelleas, what have you said to me?\"\n\nHer voice was a mere whisper. Pelleas hung his head and said never a\nword. His silence seemed to fling sudden fire into Igraine's eyes, and\nher face flamed like a sunset. It might have been Gorlois who stood and\nchallenged the honour of her soul.\n\n\"Man, tell me what is in your heart.\"\n\nHer voice was shrill--even imperious. Pelleas hung his head.\n\n\"Gorlois keeps poison for his wife,\" were his words.\n\nIgraine's lips curled.\n\n\"A sword for Brastias.\"\n\n\"Generous man.\"\n\nPelleas was watching her as a prisoner watches a judge. He had a great\nyearning to believe. Fear, anguish, anger, were in Igraine's heart,\nbut she showed none of the three as she stood forward and looked into\nthe man's eyes with a steadfastness no honour could gainsay.\n\n\"Pelleas!\" she said.\n\n\"Girl!\"\n\n\"Look into my eyes.\"\n\nHe did so without flinching. Igraine took his sword and gave it naked\ninto his hand.\n\n\"Listen! Gorlois told you a lie.\"\n\n\"Igraine!\"\n\n\"Do you believe me, Pelleas? If not, strike with the sword, for I will\nlive no longer.\"\n\nThe man gave a sudden cry, like one who leaps over a precipice, threw\nthe sword far away into the grass, and falling on his knees, buried his\nface in his hands.\n\n\n\n\nXII\n\n\nIgraine stood and watched Pelleas as he knelt in the grass at her feet\nwith his face hidden from her by his hands. She saw the curve of his\nstrong neck, the sweep of his great shoulders. She even counted the\nsteel plates in his shoulder pieces, and marked the tinge of grey in\nhis coronal of hair.\n\nCalm had come upon her with the trust won by the confessional of\nthe sword. She felt sure of the man in her heart, and eased of a\ndouble burden since she had told him the truth and brought him to a\ndeclaration of his faith. She knew well from instinct that her honour\nstood sure in Pelleas's heart.\n\nGoing to him, she bent and touched his head with her hand.\n\n\"Pelleas,\" she said very softly.\n\nThe man groaned and would not look at her.\n\n\"Mea culpa, mea culpa!\" was his cry.\n\nIgraine smiled like a young mother as she put his hands from his face\nwith a gradual insistence. It was right that he should kneel to her,\nbut it was also right that she should forgive and forget like a woman.\nYet as she stood and held his hands in hers, Pelleas hung his head and\nwould not so much as look into her face. He was convicted in his own\nheart, and contrite according to the deep measure of his manhood.\n\nIgraine touched his hair softly with her fingers, and there was a great\nlight in her eyes as she bent over him.\n\n\"Come, Pelleas, and sit by me under the trees, and I will tell you the\nwhole tale.\"\n\nNever had she seemed so stately or so superb in Pelleas's eyes as she\nstood before him that morning, strong and sorrowful with the burden\nof her past. He knelt and looked up at her, knowing himself pardoned,\nhumbled to see love in the ascendent so soon upon her face as she\nlooked down at him from her golden aureole of hair.\n\n\"I am forgiven?\" he said.\n\n\"Ah, Pelleas!\"\n\n\"You have shamed me; I am a broken man.\"\n\nHe rose up half wearily and stood looking at her as though some\nmysterious influence had parted them suddenly asunder. So expressive\nwere his eyes, that Igraine read a distant anguish in them on the\ninstant, and fathomed his thoughts, to the troubling of her own heart.\n\n\"Look not so,\" she said, \"as though a gulf lay deep between us here.\"\n\n\"How else should I look at you, Igraine, when you are wife to Gorlois?\"\n\n\"Never in my soul.\"\n\n\"How can that help us?\"\n\nIgraine winced at the words and took refuge in silence. She went and\nseated herself at the foot of a gnarled oak. Pelleas followed her and\nlay down more than a sword's length away, leaving a stretch of green\nturf between, a thing insignificant in itself, yet full of meaning to\nthe girl's instinctive watchfulness. The man's face too was turned\nfrom her towards the valley, and she could only see the curve of his\ncheek and chin as she began to speak to him of that which was in her\nheart.\n\n\"You know the man Gorlois?\" she said.\n\nPelleas nodded.\n\n\"In Winchester Gorlois saw my face and straightway pestered me as\nhe had been turned into my shadow. By chance he had rendered me\nservice, and from the favour casually conferred plucked the right of\nthrusting his perpetual homage upon me. I trusted Gorlois little from\nthe beginning, and trusted him less as the weeks went by. His eyes\nfrightened me, and his mouth made my soul shiver; the more importunate\nhe grew the more I began to fear him.\"\n\nPelleas shifted his sword and said nothing.\n\n\"A day came when the man Gorlois grew tired of courtesies, and would be\ngainsaid no longer. It was in Radamanth's garden; we quarrelled, and\nthe man laid hands upon me and crushed me against the wall to thieve\na kiss. In my anger I broke from him and ran into my uncle's house.\nThe same night I fled to an abbey, the abbey of St. Helena, and left\nWinchester in my dress at dawn.\"\n\nIgraine could see the muscles of Pelleas's jaw standing out contracted\nas though his teeth were clenched in an access of anger. He was\nbreathing deeply through his nostrils, and his hands plucked at the\ngrass with a terse snapping sound. These things pleased Igraine, and\nshe went on forthwith.\n\n\"I left Winchester on foot at dawn and travelled towards Sarum, for I\nheard that Uther the King was there, and it was greatly in my mind,\nsire, to see his face. An old merchant friend of Radamanth's overtook\nme on the road; at a ford the horse he had lent me fell and twisted\nmy ankle. I was carried to Eudol's house, and lay abed there many\ndays, learning little to my comfort that Gorlois had ridden out and\nwas hunting me through the countryside. Recovered of my strain, and\nfearful of Gorlois's trackers, I held on for Sarum through the woods,\nand lodged the same night in a hermitage in a little valley. Here the\nfirst piece of craft overtook me, for early in the morning outside the\nhermitage I saw a knight ride by on a black horse, bearing red harness,\nand armed at all points like to you.\"\n\nPelleas turned his head for the first time and looked at her as though\nwith some sudden suspicion of what was to follow. Igraine saw something\nin his dark eyes that made her heart hurry. His face was like the face\nof a man who fronts a storm of wind and rain with brows furrowed and\neyes half-closed. There was much that was threatening in his look, a\nsubdued ominous wrath like a storm nursed in the bosom of a cloud.\n\nIgraine told the whole quaint tale, how she followed Gorlois in faith,\nhow she was led into the forest, bewitched there, and made a wife,\nmesmerised into a false affection for the man by Merlin's craft. It\nwas a grim tale, with a clear contour of truth, and credible by reason\nof its very strangeness. It was sufficient to manifest to Pelleas how\nIgraine's strong love for him had lost her her liberty and made her the\nvictim of a man's lust.\n\nWhen she had ended the tale Pelleas left the grass at her feet and\nbegan to pace under the trees like a sentinel on a wall. His scabbard\nclanged occasionally against his greaves. Masses of young bracken\ncovered the ground between the trees with a rich carpet of green, and\nhis armour shone like red wrath under the wreathing arcs of foliage.\nHis face was dark and moody with the turmoil of thought, but there\nwas no visible agitation upon him; nothing of the aspen, more of the\nunbending oak. Igraine leant against her tree and watched him with a\ncurious care, wondering what would be the outcome of all this silence.\nDown in the valley the pool glistened, and she could see Garlotte\nwalking in the cottage garden. How different was this child's lot to\nhers. With what warm philosophy could she have changed Pelleas into a\nshepherd, and taken the part of Garlotte to herself.\n\nPresently Pelleas stayed in his stride through the bracken, and came\nand stood before her, looking not into her face but beyond her into the\ndeeps of the wood.\n\n\"Tell me more, Igraine.\"\n\n\"What more would you hear from me?\"\n\n\"That which is bitterest of all.\"\n\n\"God, must I tell you that!\"\n\n\"Let us both drink it to the dregs.\"\n\nIgraine's face and neck coloured rich as one of Garlotte's red roses,\nand she seemed to shrink from the man's eyes behind the quivering\nsunlight of her hair. She put her hands to her breast and stood in a\nstrain of thought, of struggle against the infinite unfitness of the\npast.\n\nPelleas saw her trouble, and his strong face softened on the instant.\nHe had forgotten milder things in his grappling of the truth. Igraine's\nred and troubled look revived the finer instincts of his manhood.\n\n\"Never trouble, child,\" he said; \"I know enough of Gorlois to read the\nrest.\"\n\nBut Igraine, as by inspiration, had come by other reasons for telling\nout the whole to the last pang. She was at pains to justify herself\nto Pelleas, nor was she undesirous of inflaming him against Gorlois,\nher lord. She had wit enough to grasp the fact that Pelleas's wrath\nmight be roused into insurrection against custom and the edicts of the\nChurch. A volcanic outburst might throw down the barriers of man and\nleave her at liberty to choose her lot. Moreover, her hate of Gorlois,\nan iconoclastic passion, had crushed the reverence of things existing\nout of her heart. A contemplation of her evil fortune had brought her\nto the conviction that she was exiled from the sympathies of men, a\nspiritual bandit driven to compass the instincts of a rebellious soul.\nIn her hot impulse for liberty and the justification of her faith, she\ndid not halt from making Pelleas feel the full malignity of truth. She\nneither embellished nor emphasised, but portrayed incidents simply in\ntheir glaring nakedness in a fashion that promised to inflame the man\nto the very top of her desire.\n\nIgraine's cheeks kindled, and she could not look at the man for the\nwords upon her lips. Pelleas's face was like the face of man in\ntorture. The woman's words entered into him like iron; his wrath\nwhistled like a wind, and the very air seemed tainted in his mouth.\nWhat a purgatory of passion was let loose into the calm precincts of\nthe place! This burning vault of blue, was it the same as roofed the\nworld of yesterday? The feathery mounts of green dappled with amber,\nand these flowers, had they not changed with the noon lust of the sun?\nThere was a rank savour of fleshliness over the whole earth, and all\nlife seemed impious, passionate, and unclean.\n\n\"My God, my God!\"\n\nThe man's cry shook Igraine from her rage for truth. In her\nconfessional she had been carried like a bird with the wind. Looking\ninto Pelleas's face she saw that he was in torment, and that her words\nhad smitten him in a fashion other than she had foreseen. It was not\nwrath that burnt in his eyes, only a deep grieving, a frenzy of shame\nand anguish that seemed to cry out against her soul. A sudden stupor\nmade her mute. With a great void in her heart she fell down amid the\nbracken with a sense of ignominy and abasement overwhelming her like a\ndeluge.\n\nPelleas stood and shut his eyes to the sun. A red glare smote into his\nbrain; love seemed numb in him and his blood stagnant. Prayer eluded\nhim like a vapour. Looking out again over wood and valley, the golden\nhaze, the torpor of the trees mocked him with a lethargy that smiled at\nthe impotence of man.\n\nAnd Igraine! He saw her prone beneath the green mist of the fern\nfronds, lying with her face pillowed on her arms, her hair spread like\na golden net over the brown wreckage of the bygone year. To what a pass\nhad their love come! Better, he thought, to have lived a king solitary\non a throne than to have wandered into youth again to give and win\nsuch dolor.\n\nHis face was dark as he stood and looked at the woman's violet surcoat\ngleaming low under the bracken. How symbolical this attitude seemed of\nall that had fallen upon his heart--love cast down upon dead leaves!\nIgraine had feared his honour. Pelleas feared for it in another sense\nas he looked at the woman, and felt his pity clamouring for life.\nHe could have given his soul to comfort her if no shame could have\ncome upon her name thereby. As it was, some spiritual hand seemed at\nhis throat stifling aught of love that found impulse on his lips. A\nsuperhuman sincerity chilled him into silence, and held him in bondage\nto the truth.\n\nA face stared up from the bracken, wan, tearless, and tragic. The\nwistfulness of the face made him quail within his harness. He knew too\nwell what was in Igraine's heart, and the look that questioned him like\nthe look of a wounded hare. Her eyes searched his face as though to\nread her doom thereon. There was no whimpering, no noise, no passionate\nrhetoric. A great quiet seemed to take its temper from the silence of\nthe woods.\n\n\"Pelleas.\"\n\n\"Yes, Igraine.\"\n\n\"Tell me what is in your heart.\"\n\nPelleas hung his head; he could not look at her for all his courage.\nShe was kneeling in the bracken with her hands crossed over her breast\nand her face turned to his with the white wistfulness of a full moon.\nPelleas felt death in his heart, and he could not speak nor look into\nher eyes.\n\n\"Pelleas.\"\n\n\"Child.\"\n\n\"You do not look at me.\"\n\n\"Great God, would I were blind!\"\n\nThe truth came crying to her like the wild cry of a bird taken by a\nweasel in the woods. A great sobbing shook her; she fell down and\ncaught Pelleas by the knees.\n\n\"Pelleas, Pelleas!\"\n\n\"My God, Igraine, I stifle!\"\n\n\"Don't leave me, don't send me away.\"\n\n\"What can I say to you?\"\n\n\"Only look into my eyes again.\"\n\nPelleas put his fists before his face; the girl felt him quiver, and he\nseemed to twist in an agony like a man dangling on a rope. Igraine's\nhands crept to his shoulders; she drew herself by his body as by a\npillar till her face met his and she lay heavy upon his breast.\n\n\"Pelleas!\"\n\nHer breath was on his lips, and her hair flooded over his hands like\ngolden wine.\n\n\"Pelleas, Pelleas!\"\n\nThe words came with a windless whisper.\n\n\"Have pity, Igraine.\"\n\n\"I will never leave you.\"\n\n\"Gorlois's wife!\"\n\n\"Never, never!\"\n\n\"My God!\"\n\n\"I am not his. Pelleas, take me body and soul; take me and let me be\nyour wife.\"\n\n\"How can I sin against your soul, Igraine?\"\n\n\"Is it sin, then, to love me?\"\n\n\"You are Gorlois's wife before God.\"\n\n\"There is no God.\"\n\n\"Igraine!\"\n\n\"I will have no God but you, Pelleas.\"\n\nThe man took his hands from his face and looked into Igraine's eyes. A\nstrong shudder passed over him, and he seemed like a great ship smitten\nby a wave, till every fibre groaned and quivered in his massive frame.\n\nA green calm covered the valley, and the whole world seemed to faint\nin the golden bosom of the day. Not the twitter of a bird broke the\nvast hush of the forest. The sunlit aisles climbed into a shadowland\nof mysterious silence, and an azure quiet hung above the trees. As for\nPelleas and Igraine, their two lives seemed knotted up with a cord of\ngold. They had mingled breath, and taken the savour of each other's\nsouls. Yet for all the glory of the moment it was but autumn with\nthem--a pomp of passion, a red splendour dying while it blazed into the\ngrey ruin of a winter day.\n\nIgraine read her doom in the man's face. It was the face of a martyr,\npale, resolute, yet inspired. A dry sob died in her throat, and her\nhands dropped from the man's shoulders. Pelleas stood back and looked\nat her with a warm light in his dark eyes, the green woods rising\nbehind him like a bank of clouds.\n\n\"Igraine.\"\n\nShe nodded, felt miserable, and said nothing.\n\n\"I cannot love you easily.\"\n\nIgraine's eyes stared at him with a mute bitterness. She was a woman,\nand thought like a woman; mere saintly philosophy was beyond her.\n\n\"You are too good a man, Pelleas,\" she said.\n\n\"I would hold my love in my heart like a great pearl in a casket of\ngold.\"\n\n\"What comfort is there in mere splendid misery, and in such words?\"\n\n\"How should I love you best?\"\n\n\"Ah, Pelleas, ask your own heart.\"\n\nThe man was an impossible being for mere mortal argument. He seemed to\nbear spiritual pinions that tantalised the intelligence of the heart.\nIgraine felt herself adrift and beaten, and she was hopeless of him to\nthe core.\n\n\"Think you I shall be a saint, Pelleas,\" she said, \"when you have given\nme back to myself?\"\n\n\"I shall pray for you.\"\n\n\"And for a devil!\"\n\nShe gave a shrill laugh, and twined her hair about her wrist.\n\n\"Ah, Pelleas! you know not what you do.\"\n\n\"Too well, Igraine.\"\n\n\"You are too strong for me, and yet--and yet--I should not have loved\nyou so well if you had not been strong.\"\n\n\"That is how I think of you, Igraine.\"\n\n\"You love me more by leaving me.\"\n\n\"I love you more by keeping you pure before my soul.\"\n\nA great calm had come upon Igraine. She was very pale and firm about\nthe lips, and her eyes were staunch as steel. Her voice was as clear\nand level as though she spoke of trivial things.\n\n\"I shall not go back to Gorlois,\" she said.\n\n\"Beware of the man.\"\n\n\"Doubtless you would speak to me of a convent.\"\n\nPelleas fell into thought, with his dark eyes fixed upon her face.\n\n\"As a novice.\"\n\nIgraine almost smiled at him.\n\n\"And not a nun?\"\n\nFor answer he spoke three simple words.\n\n\"Gorlois might die.\"\n\nThe stillness of the woods seemed like the hush of a listening\nmultitude. A blue haze of heat hung over the rolling domes of\nthe western trees, and never a wind-wave stirred the long grass.\nMountainous clouds sailed radiant over ridge and spur, and it might\nhave been Elysium where souls wandered through meads of asphodel.\n\nIgraine looked long over the valley with its stately trees, its\nflowering grass and quiet pool in the meadows. She was vastly calm,\nthough her eyes were full of a woe that seemed to well up like water\nout of her soul. She still twisted and untwisted a strand of her hair\nabout her wrist, but for all else she was as quiet as one of the trees\nthat stood near and overshadowed her.\n\n\"Pelleas,\" she said.\n\nThe man came two steps nearer.\n\n\"Go quickly.\"\n\n\"Igraine!\"\n\n\"Man, man, how long will you torture me? I am only a little strong.\"\n\nThe calm of tragedy seemed to dissolve away on the instant. Pelleas\nthrust his hands into the air like a swimmer sinking to his death. His\nheart answered Igraine's exceeding bitter cry.\n\n\"Would we had never come to this!\"\n\n\"I cannot say that, though my heart breaks.\"\n\nPelleas fell down and clasped her with his arms about the knees. His\nface was hidden in the folds of her surcoat. Presently he loosed his\nhold, looked up, took a ring from his hand and thrust it into her palm.\n\n\"The signet of a king,\" he said; \"keep it for need, Igraine. Have you\nmoney?\"\n\n\"I have money, Pelleas.\"\n\n\"God guard you!\"\n\nIgraine was white to the lips, but she never wavered.\n\n\"Heaven keep you!\" she said.\n\nHer voice was hoarse in her throat, and she began to shiver as though\nchilled by a sleety wind.\n\n\"Go quickly, Pelleas; for God's sake hide your face from me!\"\n\n\"It is death; it is death!\"\n\nHe sprang up and left her without a look. Igraine saw him go through\nthe long grass with his hand over his eyes, staggering like one\nsword-smitten to the brain. He never stared back at her, but held\nstraight for the cottage and the cedar tree where his black horse was\ntethered under the shade. She watched him mount and gallop for the\nforest, nor did she move till his red harness had died into the gloom\nof the trees.\n\n\n\n\nXIII\n\n\nDown through the woods that morning rode Gorlois on his great white\nhorse, with helmet clanging at saddle-bow, shield hung at his left\nshoulder, spear trailing under the trees. He was hot, thirsty, and in\na most evil temper. His bronzed face glistened with sweat, and the\nchequered webs of light flickering through the leaves flashed fitfully\nupon his golden harness. Since dawn he had ridden the hills in the\nglare of the sun till his armour blazed like an oven; it was June\nweather, and hot at that; his tongue felt like wood rubbing against\nleather; it was a damnable month for bearing harness.\n\nCasting about over the hills he had come upon Garlotte's valley, and\nseeing it green and shadowy, had plunged down to profit by the shade.\nSince the Red Knight was lost to him, it was immaterial whether he rode\nby wood or hill. On this account, too, Gorlois's temper was as hot as\nhis skin. He hated a baulking above all things; he was moved to be\nfurious with trifles, and like the savage who gnashes at the stone that\nbruises his foot, he cursed creation and felt thoroughly at war with\nthe world. A grim unreason had possession of him, such a mood as makes\nmurder a mere impulse of the hand, and malice the prime instinct of the\nheart.\n\nAs he rode with loose rein the trees thinned suddenly, and the forest\ngloom rolled back over his head. Gorlois halted mechanically under the\nwooelshawe, and scanned the valley spread before him under the brown\nhollow of his hand. He had expected no such open land in this waste\nof wood--open land with water, a cottage, sheep feeding, and horses\ntethered under the trees. One of the horses tethered there was a black.\nThe coincidence livened Gorlois's torpid, sunburnt face with a cool\ngleam of intelligence. He sat motionless in the saddle and took the\nlength and breadth of the valley under the keen ken of his black eyes.\n\nThe man swore a little oath into his peaked black beard. His face grew\nsuddenly rapacious as he stared out under the hollow of his hand. He\nhad seen a streak of red strike through the green wall far up the\neastern slope that fronted him, a scrap of colour metallic with the\nhint of armour. It went to and fro under the distant trees like a\ntorch past the windows of a church. Gorlois's hand tightened on the\nbridle. He watched the thing as a hawk watches a young rabbit in the\ngrass.\n\nBetimes he gave a queer little chuckle, and turned his horse into the\ndeeper shade of the trees. He began to make a circuit round the valley,\nholding northwards to compass the meadows. He cast long, wary glances\ninto the wood as he went; tried his sword to see that it was loose in\nthe scabbard; took his helmet from the saddle-bow, and let down the\ncheek-pieces from the crown. Before long he kicked his stirrups away,\nrolled out of the saddle, and tied his horse to an oak sapling in a\nlittle dell. Going silently on foot over the mossy grass, stopping\noften to stare into the sunny vistas of the forest, moving more or\nless from tree to tree, he worked his way southwards along the eastern\nslope. Streaks of meadowland and the glint of water showed below him,\nand he heard the bleat of sheep far away, and the tinkling of a bell.\n\nPresently the murmur of voices came to him through the woods. He\nventured on another fifty paces, then stopped behind a tree to listen.\nThere were two voices, he was sure of that: one was a woman's, and the\nother had the sonorous vibration of a man's bass. Gorlois's eyes took a\nqueer, far-away look, and his strong teeth showed between his lips.\n\nHe worked his way on through the trees with the cautious and deliberate\ninstinct of a hunter. The two voices gained in timbre, character, and\nexpression. Their talk was no jays' chatter; Gorlois could tell that\nfrom the emphasis of sound, and a certain dramatic melody that ran\nthrough the whole. Soon the voices were very near. Going on his belly,\nwith his sword held in his left hand, he crawled like a gilt dragon\nthrough a forest of springing fern. He crawled on till he was quite\nnear the two who stood and talked under the trees. Lying flat, never\nventuring to lift his head, he crouched, breathing hard through his\nnostrils and holding his scabbarded sword crosswise beneath his chin.\n\nGorlois's face, scarred and drawn as it was, seemed as he listened a\nclear mirror for the portrayal of human passion. His black moustachios\ntwitched above his angular jaw; his eyes took a rapacious and glazed\nlook, and a shadow seemed to cover his face. He turned and twisted as\nhe lay, and dug the points of his iron-shod shoes into the soft ground\nas though in the crisis of some pain. It was the woman's voice that did\nall this for him. Every word seemed like the wrench of a hook in his\nflesh, as he cursed and twisted under the bracken.\n\nPresently he lay still again, as though to listen the better. He could\nhear something of what was said to the man in the red harness, but the\nmain drift of their talk was beyond him. Pelleas! Pelleas! He squirmed\nlike a crushed snake at each sounding of the name. The bracken hardly\nswayed as he crawled on some twenty paces and again lay still, with his\ncheek resting upon the scabbard of his sword.\n\n\"Gorlois might die.\"\n\nGorlois heard the words as plainly as though they had been spoken into\nhis ear. A vast silence hung like thunder over the forest. Gorlois lay\nas though stunned with a stone, his dry mouth pressed to the cold steel\nof the sword. His eyes took a stubborn stare under the sweep of his\ncasque. With gradual labour he raised himself upon his elbows, drew his\nknees up under his body, and lifted his head slowly above the sweep of\ngreen.\n\nThe ground fell away slightly from where Gorlois knelt in the bracken,\nand he could look down on the two who stood under the trees, while the\nfern fronds hid his harness. He saw a woman in violet and gold, her\nhair falling straight on either side of her face, and her arms folded\ncrosswise over her breast. He saw also the knight in red harness, with\nhis locked hands twisting above his head as in an agony, while his face\nwas hidden by his arm. A passionate whisper of words passed between the\ntwo. Even when Gorlois watched, the man in the red harness jerked\nround and fell on his knees at the woman's feet. Gorlois suddenly saw\nhis face; it was the face of Uther the King.\n\n[Illustration: \"LIFTED HIS HEAD SLOWLY ABOVE THE SWEEP OF GREEN\"]\n\nGorlois dropped back under the bracken as though smitten through with a\nsword. He lay there a long while with his head upon his arms. A sudden\nbreeze came up the valley, sounding through the trees, swaying the\ngreen fronds above the man's harness, calling a gradual clamour from\nthe woods. The overmastering image of the King seemed to frown down\nGorlois for the moment, and he crouched like a dog--with the courage\ncrushed out of his soul.\n\nBetimes Gorlois's reason revived from the stroke that had stunned it\nfor a season. Like Jonah's gourd a quick purpose sprang up and shadowed\nhim from the too hasty heat of his own passions. He was a virile\nman, capable of great wrath and great resentment. Yet he was no mere\nfirebrand. His malice, strangely enough, was one-handed and reached out\nonly against the woman. For Uther he conceived a superhuman envy, a\npassion that rose above mere bloody expiation by the sword. Gorlois had\nthe wit to remember the finer cruelties of a spiritual vengeance, the\ngain of wounding the soul rather than the flesh. His malice was a thing\nfanatical in itself, yet taken from the forge to be cooled and tempered\nlike steel.\n\nWhen he lifted his head again above the bracken, Uther had gone, and\nIgraine stood alone under the trees. She stood straight and motionless\nas some tall flower, her hair falling like quiet sunlight, unshaken by\na wind. Her great beauty leapt out into Gorlois's blood and maddened\nhim. As she looked out over the valley, Gorlois, straining his neck\nabove the bracken, could see that she watched Uther as he went down\nfrom her towards the pool. Even to Gorlois there was something tragic\nabout the solitary figure under the trees, a stiff, grievous look as\nthough woe had transformed her into a pillar of stone. To him the\naffair seemed a mere assignation, a hazardous passage of romance.\nMeasuring the souls of others by his own morality, he guessed nothing\nof the deeper throes that surged through the tale like the long moan of\na night wind.\n\nGorlois saw Uther and his black horse disappear into the opposing bank\nof woodland. Viciously satisfied, he lay in the bracken and watched\nIgraine, coming by a queer pleasure in considering her beauty, and\nin the knowledge that her very life was poised on the point of his\nsword. How little she thought of the man-dragon lying in his gilded\nscales under the green of the feathery fronds. Gorlois felt a kind of\narrogance of ownership boasting itself in his heart. Certainly he held\na means more sinister than the sword wherewith to perfect his vengeance\nand to preserve his honour. A very purgatory, bolgia upon bolgia,\nstretched out in prospect for the souls of the two who had done him\nthis great evil. Gorlois made much of it, with a joy that was hard and\ndurable as iron.\n\nIgraine stirred at last from her stupor of immobility. Walking\nunsteadily, as though faint in the heat, she passed out from the\ntrees with their mingling of sun and shadow, and went down through\nthe long grass towards the pool and the cottage. Gorlois knelt in the\nbracken, and watched her with a smile. There was little chance of her\nescaping, and he could be as deliberate as he pleased over the matter.\nHe inferred with reason that the cottage served her as a lodging in\nthis woodland solitude, where she lay hid from all the world save\nfrom Uther, whose courtezan she was. Gorlois laughed--a keen, biting\nlaugh--at the thought of it all. At least he would go back for his\nhorse and spear, and make a fitting entry before the woman who was his\nwife.\n\nIgraine, walking as though in her sleep, came into the cottage, and\nalmost fell into Garlotte's arms. The girl looked frightened, and very\nwhite about the lips. She could find nothing in her heart to say to\nIgraine; she helped her to the bed, and ran to the cupboard to get wine.\n\n\"Drink it,\" she said, the cup rocking to and fro in her hand.\n\nIgraine did her best, but spilt much of the stuff upon her bosom,\nwhere it made a stain like blood. She sat on the edge of the bed, and\nlooked into the distance with expressionless eyes. Her hands were very\ncold. Garlotte chafed them between her own, murmured a word or two, but\ncould not bring herself to look into Igraine's face. From the valley\nthe bleating of sheep came up with a sudden wind, and the red roses\nflung their faces across the latticed casement.\n\nIgraine was looking through the window into the deep green of the\nwoods. She could see the place where Pelleas had left her, even the\ntree under which she had stood when she had pleaded with him without\navail. How utterly quiet everything seemed. Surely June was an evil\nmonth for her; had it not brought double misery--and well-nigh broken\nher heart? And the end of it all was that she was to go back to a\nconvent, to grey walls, vigils, and the sounding of a bell. Even that\nwas better than being Gorlois's wife.\n\nSuddenly, as she sat and stared out of the casement, her body grew\ntense and eager as a bent bow. Her eyes hardened, lost their dreamy\nlook; the hands that had rested in Garlotte's gripped the girl's wrists\nwith a force that made her wince.\n\n\"Saddle the horse.\"\n\nThe words came in a hard whisper. Garlotte stared at her, and did not\nstir.\n\n\"Child, never question me; be quick, on your life.\"\n\nIgraine, a different woman in a moment, had started up and taken her\nshield and helmet from the wall. Her sword was girded to her. Quick\nas thought, she gathered up her trailing hair, thrust on the casque,\nstrapped it to the neck-plate under her surcoat. Garlotte, vastly\npuzzled, but inspired by Igraine's earnestness, had hurried out with\nsaddle and bridle over her shoulder. As she ran through the garden, she\nlooked up to the woods and saw the reason of Igraine's flurry. A knight\nhad come out from the forest on a white horse, his armour flashing and\nblazing in the noonday sun. He had halted motionless at the edge of\nthe woodland, as though to mark what was passing beneath him in the\nvalley.\n\nGarlotte found Igraine armed beside her, as she stood by the grey\nhorse under the cedar, and tugged with trembling fingers at the saddle\nstraps. Bit and bridle were quickly in place. Igraine, moved by a\nhurried tenderness, gripped Garlotte to her with both arms.\n\n\"God guard you, little sister.\"\n\n\"Where are you going, Igraine?\"\n\n\"God knows!\"\n\n\"Who is yonder knight?\"\n\n\"Gorlois, my husband.\"\n\nIgraine climbed into the saddle from the girl's knee. She dashed in\nthe spurs and went at a gallop over the meadows towards the south.\nGorlois's white horse was coming at full stride through the feathery\ngrass. The man was riding crosswise over the valley, bent on cutting\noff Igraine from the southern stretch of meadows, and driving her back\nupon the woods. It was Igraine's hope to overtake Pelleas, and to put\nherself behind the barrier of his shield. Gorlois, guessing her desire,\ndrove home the spurs, and hunted her in earnest.\n\nIgraine headed the man and won a lead in the first half mile. Her grey\nhorse plunged like a galley in a rough sea, and she held to the pommel\nof her saddle to keep her seat. Gorlois thundered at full gallop in her\nwake, the long grass flying before his horse's hoofs like foam. He had\nthrown away his spear, and his eyes were set in a long stare on the\ngalloping horse ahead. The zest of the chase had hold of him, and he\nused the spurs with heavy heel.\n\nThe green woods rolled down on them as the valley narrowed to its\nsouthern end. Igraine had never wandered so far from Garlotte's\ncottage, and the ground was strange to her, nor did she know how the\ncountry promised. Riding at full gallop, she saw with a shudder of\nfear a barrier of rock running serrate across her path and closing the\nnarrow valley like a wall. Gorlois saw it too, and sent up a shout\nthat made Igraine's hate flame up into a kind of rapture. To have\nturned right or left up the steep grass slope towards the woods, would\nhave given back to Gorlois the little start she had of him. With a numb\nchill at her heart she abandoned all hope of Pelleas, and turned to\nface the inevitable, and Gorlois her lord.\n\nThe man came up like a wind through the grass, and drew rein roughly\nsome ten paces away. He laughed as he stared at Igraine, an uncouth,\nangering laugh like the yapping of a dog. He looked big and burly in\nthe saddle, and the muscles stood out in his neck as he tilted his\nsquare jaw and stared down at his wife. Igraine had not looked upon his\nface since he had been smitten in battle. Its ugliness seemed to match\nhis soul.\n\nGorlois lifted up his voice and mocked her.\n\n\"Ha, my brave, you are trapped, are you? Mother of God, but you make\na good figure of a man. These many months I have missed you, wife in\narms. And you have served in the pay of my lord the King. Good service\nand good pay, I warrant, and plenty of plunder. I will have that\nharness of yours hung over my bed.\"\n\nIgraine suffered him not so much as a word. She was furious, and in no\nmood to be scoffed down and cowed by mere insolent strength. She looked\ninto Gorlois's libidinous face from behind the vizor of her helmet,\nand thought her thoughts. Gorlois ran on in his mocking fashion. His\nbronzed face gleamed with sweat, and a rough lascivious smile showed up\nhis strong white teeth to her.\n\n\"Ha, now, madame! deliver, and let us have sight of you. The King loves\nyour lips, eh! They are red, and your arms are soft. I warrant he found\nyour bosom a good pillow. Uther was ever such a solemn soul, such a\nmonk, such a father. It is good for the heart to hear of him knotted up\nin a woman's hair.\"\n\nIgraine shook with the immensity of her hate.\n\n\"You were ever a foul-tongued hound,\" she said.\n\n\"Am I your echo?\"\n\n\"I wish you were dead.\"\n\n\"So said the King.\"\n\n\"So you spied on us?\"\n\nGorlois set up a scoffing laugh, showing his red throat like a hungry\nbird.\n\n\"And saw my wife the King's courtezan; ha, what a jest! Come, madame,\nlet us be going; your honest home waits for you. I will chatter to you\nof moralities by the way.\"\n\nHe had hardly delivered himself of the saying, when Igraine's hand\nclutched at the handle of her sword. She jerked the spurs in with her\nheels. Her grey horse started forward like a bolt; blundered into\nGorlois; caught him cross-counter, and rolled his white stallion down\ninto the grass. Igraine had lashed out at the shock. Her sword caught\nGorlois's arm, and cut through sleeve and arm-guard to the bone. As he\nrolled with his horse in the grass, she wheeled round, and clapping in\nthe spurs, rode hard uphill for the forest.\n\nGorlois, hot as a furnace, scrambled to his feet, and dragged his horse\nup by the bridle. Half off the saddle, with empty stirrups dangling,\nhe went at a canter for the yawn of the wood. His slashed arm burnt as\nthough it had been touched with a branding-iron; blood dripped down\nupon his horse's white shoulder. He was soon steady in the saddle\nand galloping full pelt after Igraine, the ground slipping under his\nhorse's hoofs like water, the long grass flying like spray.\n\nIgraine's horse lost ground up the slope; he had less heart than\nGorlois's beast, and was weaker in the haunches. By the time they\nreached the trees, Igraine had twenty yards to her credit and no more.\nShe saw her chance gone, and heard Gorlois close in her wake, caught\nsideways a glimpse of plunging hoofs and angry harness. Drawing aside\nsuddenly with all her strength, she let Gorlois sweep up on her flank\nand pass her by some yards. Before he could turn, she rode into him as\nfast as she could gather; her sword clattered on his helmet,--sparks\nflew.\n\nGorlois wrenched round and put his shield above his head.\n\n\"By God,--hold off,--would you have me fight a woman?\"\n\nA swinging cut rattled on his shoulder-plate for answer.\n\nGorlois rapped out an oath and drew his sword.\n\n\"Hold off!\"\n\nHis roar seemed to shake the trees. To Igraine it was the mere\nmeaningless threatening of a sea. She struck home again and again while\nGorlois foined with her; more than once she reached his flesh.\n\nGorlois's grim patience gave way at last; a clean cut drew spurting\nblood from his shoulder.\n\n\"God curse you!--take it then.\"\n\nHe swung his sword with a great downward sweep, a streak of steel that\nstruck crackling fire from the burnished casque. Igraine's arm dropped\nlike a broken bough; for half a breath she sat straight in the saddle,\nswayed, sank slantwise, and slid down into the long grass. Her horse\nstood still at her side, looking at her with mild blue eyes.\n\nGorlois gave a queer short laugh. He looked frightened for the moment;\nthe flush of anger had passed and left him pale. He dismounted, bent\nover Igraine, unstrapped her helmet. She was only dazed by the blow;\nblood trickled red amid her hair, and her blue eyes stared him in the\nface.\n\nShe lifted up a hand with a bitter cry of defiance.\n\n\"Strike, strike, and make an end.\"\n\nGorlois's grimness came back, and his eyes hardened.\n\n\"That were too good for you.\"\n\n\"Devil!\"\n\n\"By God, I shall tame you--never fear!\"\n\n\n\n\nBOOK IV\n\nTINTAGEL\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nThe castle of Tintagel stood out above the sea on a headland that rose\nbluffly above the white foam that girdled it. The waves swinging in\nfrom the west seemed to lift ever a hoarse chant about the place with\ntheir perpetual grumbling against the cliff. Colour shifted upon the\nbosom of the sea. Blue, green, and grey it would sweep into the west,\nnetted gold with the sun, banded with foam, or spread with purple\nbeneath the drifting shadow of a cloud. Hills rose in the east. Between\nthese crags and the sea rolled a wilderness cloven by green valleys and\na casual stream. Tintagel seemed to crown a region grand and calamitous\nas the sea itself.\n\nThe sun was going down over the waters, watched by a flaxen-haired lad\nsquatting on the wall of an outstanding turret. His legs dangled over\nthe battlements, and his heels smote against the weathered stone. There\nwas a premature look of age upon his face, a certain wistful wisdom\nas though he had completed his novitiate early in the world. His blue\neyes, large and sensitive as a dog's, stared away over the golden edge\nof the sea.\n\nThis was Jehan the bastard, a pathetic shred of humanity, thin and\nmotherless, blessed with nothing save a dreamy nature that stood him in\npoor stead in such a hold as Tintagel. Like any mongrel owned of none,\nhe was given over largely to the cuffs and curses of the community.\nMen called him a fool, and treated him accordingly. He was scullion,\nhorse-boy, pot-bearer, by turns. The men of the garrison could make\nnothing of a lad who wept at a word, never showed fight, but crept\naway to mope and snivel in a corner. He had earned epithets enough, but\nlittle else; and the rude Philistines of the place, beings of beer and\nbone, knew little of those finer instincts with which Nature chooses on\noccasion to endow a soul.\n\nAt times Jehan would creep away up this turret stair to live and\nbreathe for a season with no friend save the ever-complaining sea.\nHe would perch himself on the battlements with the salt wind blowing\nthrough his hair, the rocks beneath him boiling foam from the waves\nthat swept in from the west. The perch was perilous enough, but the lad\nhad no fear of the windy height, or of the waves breaking against the\npediment of the cliff. To him man alone was terrible. There appeared\nto be a confident understanding between Nature and himself, a sense of\ngood fellowship with his surroundings, such as the chamois may feel for\nits mountain pinnacle, and the bird for the tree that bears its nest.\n\nJehan's thin face was turned often towards the central tower of the\ncastle, a square campanile that stood in the centre of the main court,\nforming a species of citadel or keep. High up in the wall there was\na window, a streak of gloom that showed nothing of the room within.\nOver Jehan this window possessed a peculiar influence. It was the\ncasement-royal of romance. Day by day, ever since Gorlois had come\nsouth again, the lad had watched for the white oval of a face that\nwould look out momentarily from the shadow. Sometimes he saw a woman's\nhand, a golden head glimmering in the sun. Jehan had seen Gorlois's\nwife brought a second time into Tintagel. Her staring grief had taken\nstrange hold upon his heart. Ever since, with the kindled chivalry of a\nboy, he had done great deeds in dreams, handled a sword, taken strong\nmen by the throat. The imagined event had fired the soul in him, and\nmade him the disciple of these sad and wistful eyes.\n\nA bell smote in the court below. Its iron clapper dinned the fancies\nout of Jehan's head, calling him to the menial realities of life. It\nwas the supper hour, and the men of the guard would be strenuously\ninclined over the steaming pot, the wine-jar, and the twisting spit.\nJehan left his turret with the pathetic cynicism of an autumn twilight.\nLittle drudge that he was, he yet had the inward independence to\ndespise the folk who fed like swine, and terrorised him with pure\nblatant barbarism. He could listen to their blasphemy, their ribald\nsongs, and breathe the moral garlic of their tongues with a disrelish\nthat never wavered. He had none of the innate impudence of youth.\nHad he been of coarser fibre the men would soon have made a lewd\nand insolent imp of him, but he was spared such a fate by a certain\nspiritual instinct that recoiled from the vapouring brutality of it all.\n\nThere seemed more ribaldry abroad in the guard-room that night than was\ncustomary even in so pious a place. The company, much like a pack of\nhounds, hunted jest after jest from cover, and gave tongue royally with\na zest that would have been admirable in any other cause. Lamps swirled\nill-smelling smoke about the room. There was a lavish scattering of\narmour along the benches, and the floor was dirtier than the floor of\nany tavern.\n\nJehan's ears tingled as he went among the men, climbing over sprawling\nlegs, edging between stools and benches. The air reeked of mead, and\nthe miasma of loose talk rising from twenty throats. A woman's name was\ntossed from tongue to tongue, bandied about with a familiar insolence\nthat made him blush for her like a brother. His heart burnt with the\nbestial impudence, the sweat, the foul breath of it all. Yet before\nthese red-bearded faces, these vociferous mouths, he was a coward,\nhating himself for his fear, hating the men for the sheer tyranny of\nthe flesh that awed him.\n\nTo hear in this den such things spoken of a woman, and of such a woman!\nThat she was true his quick instinct could aver in the very maw of the\nworld. There was the silver calm of the full moon in her face, and\nshe had for him the steadfastness, the incomprehensible eloquence, of\nthe stars. Were these men blind, that the staring grief, the divine\nscorn, that had smitten him from the first with a vague awe, were\ninvisible to them? Their coarse cynicism was brutally incomprehensible\nto Jehan. Having a soul, he could not see with the eyes of the sot or\nthe adulterer, nor had he learnt to mistrust the intelligence of his\nown heart.\n\nAs he laboured from man to man with his jug of mead to keep the brown\nhorns brimming, he thought of the golden head that had glimmered in\nthe criss-cross light of the yews in the castle garden. The woman had\nbeen faithless, to put popular report mildly; and Gorlois was a hard\nman; he would see her dead before he pitied her. Jehan was so far gone\nin dreams for the moment that he tripped over an outstretched pair of\nlegs, and shattered his stone jar on the floor.\n\nA \"God curse you,\" and lavish largesse in the way of kicks, recompensed\nthe dreamer for this contempt of office. Jehan, bruised, spattered\nwith mead, crawled away under the benches, and took refuge in a dark\ncorner, where he could recover his wits behind the piled pikes of the\ngentlemen who cursed him. Such incidents were the trivialities of a\nmenial existence. Jehan wiped his face on his sleeve, choked down his\nsobs with a dirty fist, and devoutly hoped to be forgotten.\n\nMeanwhile a broad figure had stood framed in the doorway, and drawn the\nattention of the company from the boy squirming like an eel along the\nfloor. Jehan, peeping round the pile of pikes, saw a woman in a scarlet\ngown standing under a lamp that flared on the threshold. The woman was\nof unusual girth and height. Her black hair streamed about her sensual\nred face like clouds about a winter sun. Her neck was like the neck of\na bull, and her bare arms would have shamed the arms of a smith. Jehan\nwatched her as he would have watched a natural enemy, a thing whose\ndestiny was to be brutish and to destroy.\n\nMen called her Malmain, the evil-handed. She was a cub of the forest,\nstrong as a bear, cruel as any wolf. Years ago she had been caught as a\nchild in the woods, tracked down to a rocky hole, a whelp that clawed\nand bit, and knew nothing of the speech of men. She had been brought\nto Tintagel and bred in the place, the pet of the soldiery, who had\ntaught her the use of arms and the smack of wine. In ten years she had\ngrown to her full strength, a creature wise in all the uncomely things\nof life, coarse, bold, and violent. Last of all, Gorlois, with a genius\nfor vengeance, had given her charge of Igraine, his wife.\n\nThe woman was good to look upon in a large, florid fashion. She came in\nand sat herself down on a stool at the end of one long wooden table,\nand stared round with her hard brown eyes. One man passed her a cup,\nanother the wine jar. She tossed the former aside with an air of scorn,\nand buried her face in the mouth of the jar. When she had taken her\npull she spat on the floor with a certain quaint deliberation, and\nwiped her mouth on the back of her bare arm.\n\nA wicked innuendo came from a man grinning at her elbow. Malmain\nlaughed and pulled at her lip. Her presence conferred no leavening\ninfluence upon the place, and her sex made no claim for decorum. She\nwas more than capable of caring for herself in the company of these\ngentlemen of the guard, for she could take her laugh and liquor with\nthe best of them, and claim a solid respect for a fist that could smite\nlike a mace.\n\nShe flustered up a sigh that ended in a hiccough. \"I am tired,\" she\nsaid, stretching her arms and showing the breadth and depth of her\ngreat chest.\n\n\"Go to bed, fragile one, and shake the castle.\"\n\n\"Little chance of that; who says I snore?\"\n\n\"Gildas the trumpeter.\"\n\n\"Curse him; how should he know?\"\n\nThe man questioned grinned, and shrugged his shoulders.\n\n\"I meddle no further,\" he said. \"How is the lord's wife?\"\n\nMalmain licked her lips and reached for the pot. She tilted it with\nsuch gusto that the liquor overflowed and ran down her chin. After more\ncat's-pawing and a snivel she waxed communicative with a matter-of-fact\ncoarseness, and like an old hound soon had the rest tonguing in her\ntrack.\n\n\"Gorlois will break her yet,\" quoth one.\n\n\"Or bury her.\"\n\n\"A fit fellow, too,--and a gentleman; why can't she knuckle to him and\nplay the lady?\"\n\n\"The woman's worth three of that chit with the white face; a fine brat\nought to come of it.\"\n\nMalmain showed her strong white teeth.\n\n\"Somehow,\" she said, \"there's no more cross-grained creature than a\nwoman with a grievance, especially when she has been baulked of her\nman. Let a woman speak for a woman, though I break the spirit of her\nwith a whip. There's less fighting now; by Jesus, you should see her\nbones staring through her skin.\"\n\nJehan had listened to their talk behind the pile of pikes in the\ncorner. The blatant cynicism of it all chilled him like a March wind.\nHe thought of the sad, strong face, the patient scorn, the youth, the\nprophetic May of her of whom they spoke. There was a certain terrible\nrealism here that tore the tender bosom of his dreams.\n\nThe room stifled him with its smoke and stew. Crawling round by the\nwall on all fours, he gained the door and crept out unnoticed into the\ndark. In the sky above the stars were shining. The world seemed big\nwith peace, and the face of the heavens shone mild and clear as the\nface of God.\n\nJehan stood under the shadow of the wall and looked at the window high\nup in the tower. It was black and lustreless, and only the dust of the\nstars shone up in the vast canopy of gloom. Jehan shook his fist at the\ndark pile of stone. Then he went up to the roof of the little turret\nand watched the sea foaming dimly on the rocks below.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\n\"I would have you know, madame, that every woman is pleasing to\nman,--saving his own wife.\"\n\n\"Who in turn is pleasing to his friend,--even if he chance to be a\nking.\"\n\nThe woman on the couch tossed her slipper from her small foot, and\nstruck a series of snapping chords from the guitar that she held in\nher bosom. There was a certain rich insolence in her look,--a sensuous\nwickedness that was wholly poetic. The man bent forward from his stool,\nlifted the slipper, and kissed the foot whence it had fallen. He won a\nsmile from the face bowered up in cushions, a smile like sunlight on\na brazen mirror, brilliant, clear, metallic. There was a fine flush\non her face, and the star on her bosom rose and fell as her breathing\nseemed to quicken and deepen for the moment. Her fingers plucked\nwaywardly at the strings as she looked out from the window towards the\nsea.\n\n\"I love life,\" she said.\n\n\"Surely.\"\n\n\"The pomp, the pride, the glory of being great. I have a future for\nyou.\"\n\nA kind of spiritual echo burnt in the man's eyes.\n\n\"And my wife?\"\n\n\"You are still something of a madman.\"\n\n\"So you say.\"\n\n\"I--indeed!\"\n\nHe bent forward with a sudden eruption of passion and kissed her foot\nagain, till she drew it away under the folds of her dress.\n\n\"Ah, you are still a little mad,\" she said, turning and smiling at him\nwith her quick eyes; \"bide so, my dear lord; I can suffer it.\"\n\n\"And yet--\"\n\n\"I hate her! I hate her! I hate her!\"\n\n\"Bah!--she cannot harm you.\"\n\n\"I hate her for being a martyr, for being strong, for thinking herself\na saint. Pah!--how I could scratch her proud, big face. She humiliates\nme because of her misery, because she is contented to suffer. It is\nimpossible to trample such a woman underfoot.\"\n\nThe man gave a queer laugh.\n\n\"You are still envious.\"\n\n\"I envious,--I!\"\n\n\"Because she is never humbled, never asks mercy.\"\n\n\"Curse her, let her die! Come and fan me, I am sleepy.\"\n\nOn the southern side of the central tower, between it and the State\nquarters of the castle, lay the garden of Tintagel. It was a lustrous\nnook, barriered by grey walls, sheltered from the sea wind, and open to\nthe full stare of the sun. Sombre cypresses lifted their spires above\nflower-beds mosaicked red, gold, and blue. The paths were tiled with\ncoloured stones, and bordered with helichryse. In the centre of all a\npool glimmered from a square of bright green grass.\n\nThe window in the tower that had so seized upon the lad Jehan's heart\nlooked out upon this square of colour that shone beneath the extreme\nblue of the summer sky. The casement was an open mihrab whence tragedy\ncould look out upon the world. The glory of the sea, the sky, the\ncliffs, contrasted with the twilight tint of the prison room.\n\nGorlois's wife sat in the window-seat and watched the waves and the\nhorizon with vacant eyes. She was clad in a tattered gown of grey. Her\nhair had been shorn close, leaving but a golden aureole over neck,\nears, and forehead. One hand was wrapped in a blood-stained cloth, and\nthere were marks left by a whip upon her face. Her gown reached hardly\nto her ankles, showing bare feet and wheals, where the scourge had\nbeen. She was very frail, very worn, very spiritual.\n\nHer face was the face of one who looks into the solemn sadness of the\npast. Her lips were pressed together as in pain, and a certain divine\ndespair dwelt in her deep eyes like light reflected from some twilight\npool. The muscles stood limned in her neck like cords, and the fingers\nof one hand were hooked in the neck-band of her gown.\n\nMany days had passed since the life in Garlotte's valley. They had\ntaught Igraine the deeds that might result from the stirring of the\npassions of such a man as Gorlois. It was a strenuous age, and men's\nsouls were cast in large mould either to the image of good or evil.\nEven Boethius could not escape the malice of a great king. Attila had\nscourged the nations with a scourge of steel. Old things were passing\namid disruption and despair. Gorlois had caught the Titanic, violent\nspirit of the age. His personality had won a lurid emphasis from\ntragedies that shook the world.\n\nIgraine had suffered many things, shame, torture, famine, since she had\nfallen again into his power. The man had shown no pity, only a fine\nfecundity in his devices for the breaking of her spirit. He could be\nbarbarous as any Hun, and though she had guessed his fibre, it was not\ntill these latter days that she learnt to know him more fully to her\nown distress. It was not the physical alone that oppressed her; Gorlois\nhad imagination, ingenuity; he made her moral sufferings keener than\nthe lash, and subordinated the flesh to the spirit. Igraine withstood\nhim through it all. She felt in her heart that she was going to die.\n\nAs she sat at the window, the sound of laughter came up suddenly from\nthe garden, glowing in the sunlight. Mere mockery might have been its\ninspiration, so light, so merry, and so mellow was it. Igraine heard\nit, and leant forward over the sill to gain a broader view of the tiled\nwalks and flower-beds below. She saw a woman dart out of a doorway in\nthe wall opposite, and run in very dainty fashion, holding her skirts\ngathered in one hand, the other flourishing a posy of red roses. As\nshe ran she laughed with an unrestrained extravagance that had in it\nsomething sensual and alluring.\n\nIgraine watched her with a badge of colour in her cheeks. The woman\nin the garden was clad in a tunic of sky-blue silk that ran down her\nbody like flowing water. The tunic was cut low at the neck so as to\nshow her white breast, whereon shone a little cross of gold. Her hair\nshimmered loose about her in the sunlight like an amber veil. Her\nlips were tinctured with vermilion; her face seemed white as apple\nblossom, and shadows had been painted under her lids. She moved with\na graceful, sinuous air, her blue gown rippling about her, her small\nfeet, slippered with silver embroidery, flashing glibly over the stones.\n\nA man was following her among the cypresses, and Igraine saw that it\nwas Gorlois, sunburnt and strong, with ruddy arms, and the strenuous\nzest of manhood. There was something unpleasing in the muscular\nmovement of his mood. He was Gr\u00e6cian and antique, a Mars striding with\nthe red face of no godly love; sheer bovine vigour in the curves of his\nstrong throat.\n\nIgraine saw the woman run round the garden, laughing as she went, her\nhair blowing behind her in the sunlight. She turned up the central\npath that led to the pool, with its little lawn closed by a balustrade\nof carved stone. Morgan la Blanche stood by the water and watched\nGorlois abjuring the paths and striding towards her, knee-deep in blue\nand purple. He leapt the balustrade, and stood looking at the woman\nlaughing at him through her hair.\n\nThe red roses were thrust into Gorlois's face as he came to closer\nquarters. There was a short scuffle before the girl abandoned herself\nto him with a kind of sensuous languor. Igraine saw her body wrapped up\nin the man's brown arms.\n\nIt was a minute or more before the two became aware of the face at\nthe window overhead. Igraine found them staring up at her, Gorlois's\nswarthy face close to the woman's light aureole of hair as she stood\nbuttressed against his broad chest. By instinct Igraine drew back\ninto the room, till pride conquered this shrinking impulse. She leant\nforward upon her hands and stared down at the two, allegorical as Truth\nshaming Falsehood.\n\nThe woman, meanwhile, had drawn aside from Gorlois's arms. She was\npulling the roses to pieces, and scattering the red petals on the\nwater, and there was a peevish sneer upon her lips.\n\n\"Ever this white death,\" she said.\n\nIgraine saw the impatient gesturing of Morgan's hands, the tap of\nthe embroidered slipper on the grass. The woman's words seemed to\ntrouble Gorlois; he stood aside, and did not look at her, even when\nshe edged away, watching him over her shoulder. It was a conflict of\ndishonourable sensations. Morgan jerked a quick look from her large\nblue eyes at the window overhead. There was nothing but rampant egotism\nupon her face, and it was evident that she trusted on Gorlois to follow\nher. He was staring swarthily into the water as though he watched the\nfish moving in the shallow basin. He hardly heeded Morgan as she picked\nup her pride and left him. Other thoughts seemed to have strong hold\nupon his mind, and he stood at gaze till the blue gown disappeared\nunder the arch of the door it had so lately quitted.\n\nGorlois leant against the balustrade and pulled his moustachios. His\neyes had no very spiritual look, and his red lower lip drooped like an\nunfurled scroll. More than once he cast a quick, restless glance at\nthe window in the tower. Irresolution seemed to run largely through\nhis mood, and it was some while before he gathered his manhood and\npassed up an avenue of cypresses towards the tower. At the foot of the\nstairway he stood pulling his lip, and staring at the stones, oppressed\nby a certain dubiousness of thought.\n\nClimbing the stairs, he found the woman Malmain in an alcove, asleep\non a settle. Her head had fallen back against the wall, her mouth was\nagape, and she was snoring with her black hair tumbled over her face.\nGorlois woke her with his foot.\n\nThe woman started up with the growl of a watch-dog, stared, and stood\nsilent. Gorlois, curt as a man burdened with a purpose, spoke few words\nto her. She opened a door by a certain, mechanical catch, went in, and\nclosed it after her.\n\nHalf an hour passed.\n\nThe door rolled again on its hinges. Malmain came out and stood before\nGorlois on the threshold. She was breathing hard, and sweat stood on\nher face. Gorlois gave her a look and a word, passed in, and slammed\nthe door after him. Malmain sat down on the settle, wiped her face, and\nlistened.\n\nFor a minute or more she heard nothing. An indefinite sound broke the\nsilence, like the moving of branches in a wind at night. There was the\nsound of hard breathing, and the creaking of wood. Something clattered\nto the floor.\n\n\"God judge between you and me.\"\n\nThe voice was half-stifled as with the choking bitterness of great\nshame. Malmain grinned in her corner, and leant her head against the\ndoor to listen the better.\n\n\"What of God!\" said the man's voice with a certain hot scorn; \"what is\nGod?\"\n\n\"Take your knife and end it.\"\n\n\"Madame wife, there is good in you yet.\"\n\nThere was silence again, like a lull betwixt ecstasies of rain.\nPresently the woman's voice was heard, low, sullen, shamed.\n\n\"Man--man, let me die!\"\n\n\"Own me master.\"\n\n\"You--you! How can I lie in my throat!\"\n\n\"Is truth so new a thing?\"\n\n\"You have taught me to love death.\"\n\nMalmain heard Gorlois's hand upon the door. She opened it forthwith;\nhe came out upon the threshold. His hands were trembling, and his face\nseemed dull, his eyes passionless.\n\n\"I shall tame you yet,\" he said.\n\n\"You can kill me!\" came the retort from the room.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nThere was in Tintagel a certain man named Mark, a legionary of the\nguard. The castle had known him two months or less, when he had come\nsouth into Cornwall with Gorlois's troop from Caerleon. He was an\nolive-skinned mercenary, black of beard and black of eye. In the\nguard-room he had become vastly popular; he could harp, tell a tale,\nhurl the bar, with any man in the garrison. He was strong and agile as\na panther, and as ready with his tongue as he was with his sword. His\ncomrades thought him a merry rapscallion enough, a good fellow whose\nlife was rounded comfortably by the needs of the flesh. He could drink\nand jest, eat, sleep, and be happy.\n\nWomen have quick instinct for a man of mettle, one whose capabilities\nfor pleasing are somewhat of a perilous kind. Malmain of the Forest\nhad taken note of Mark's black eyes, his olive skin, the immense\nself-control that seemed to bridle him. He had a fine leg, and a most\ngentlemanly hand. Moreover, his inimitable impudence, his supple wit,\ntook her fancy, seeing that he was a man who professed a superb scorn\nfor petticoats, and posed as being wise beyond his generation. There\nwas a certain insolent independence about him that seemed to make of\nhim a philosopher, a person pleased with the puerilities of others.\n\nIt came about that Malmain--clumsy, lumbering creature--took to heaving\nstupendous sighs under the very nose of Mark of the guard. She had not\nbeen bred to reservations. If she liked a man, she told him the truth,\nwith a certain admirable frankness. If she hated him, he could always\nrely upon her fist. Any ethical principle was like a book to her--very\ncurious, no doubt, but absolutely beyond her understanding.\n\nNow the man Mark was a person of intelligence and discretion. He needed\nthe woman's friendship for diplomatic reasons snared up in his own\nlong skull, and since such partisanship could be won by a look and a\nword, he soon had Malmain very much at his service. Shrewd and cunning\nwench that she was in the course of nature, she was somewhat easily\nfooled by the man's suave impudence. She haunted Mark like a shadow\nwhen off her duty,--a very substantial shadow, be it noted,--and made\nit extravagantly plain that she was blessed after all with some of the\nsentiments of a woman.\n\nOne evening, being in the mood, she caught him in a bye-passage as he\ncame off guard. He was in armour, and carried a spear slanted over his\nshoulder. His burnished casque seemed to give a fine setting to his\nstrong, sallow face.\n\nMalmain, generous creature, filled the passage like a gate. Her face\nmatched her scarlet smock, and she was grinning like some grotesque\nhead from the antique. Mark came to a halt, and leaning on his spear,\nlooked at her in the most bland manner possible. He did not trust\nwomen overmuch, and he mistrusted Malmain in particular. Moreover, she\nsmacked of the wine-cask.\n\nThe woman edged close, and shook a fist in his face with a certain\nbluff enthusiasm.\n\n\"A bargain! a bargain!\"\n\nThe passage was open to the west, and a glare of sunlight shimmered\ninto Mark's eyes. He could only see the woman as a great blur, a mass\nof trailing hair, a loose, exuberant smock haloed with gold.\n\n\"Ha! my cherub, you seem in fettle.\"\n\nThe fist still flickered in his face.\n\n\"A bargain! a bargain!\"\n\n\"Mother of mercy! you are in such a devil of a hurry.\"\n\n\"A kiss for what's in my hand.\"\n\n\"A buffet--big one--a rush-ring, or a garter?\"\n\n\"That tongue of yours; look and see, look and see!\"\n\nMalmain spread her fingers. The man saw a ring of gold carved in the\nform of a dragon, with rubies for eyes, and a collar of emeralds about\nits throat. Lying in the woman's moist, fat palm, it glimmered in the\nslant light of the sun. Mark's eyes glittered as he looked at it.\n\n\"I had the thing from the woman above,\" quoth Malmain, jerking her\nthumb over her shoulder.\n\n\"A bribe?\"\n\n\"Who'd bribe me? Not a woman!\"\n\n\"Honest soul.\"\n\n\"'That ring looks well on your finger,' said I. 'I shall have it.'\n'Never!' said she. 'That's too big a word,' said I. So I forced it off,\nfor all her temper, and broke her finger in the doing of it.\"\n\nA transient shadow seemed to pass across the man's face, the wraith of\na ghost-wrath insensible to the world.\n\n\"Close the bargain, cherub.\"\n\n\"A buss for it.\"\n\n\"Twenty kisses in a week, and my mug of supper beer.\" He had the ring.\n\nMalmain did not stand alone in her devotion to Mark of the guard. The\nman had come by another friend in Tintagel, a friend without influence,\nit is true, but one, at least, who possessed abundant individuality,\nand the charm of an ingenuous nature. Mark was no mere bravo when he\nturned partisan to the lad Jehan, and took him within the pale of his\nmothering wit. He had a profound knowledge of men, and a philosophic\ninsight into character that had not been gained solely on the march or\nin the ale-house. By profession he appeared a devil-may-care gentleman\nof the sword, a man of bone and muscle, the possessor of a vigorous\nstomach. These attributes were mere stage properties, so to speak,\nnecessary to him for the occasion. For the rest, he knew what he knew.\n\nMark had seen more than cowardice in the sensitive face of the lad.\nHe had discovered the soul beneath the surface, the warmer, bolder\npersonality behind the deceit of the flesh. Jehan appealed to him as\na friendless thing, a vial of glass jostled in the stream of life by\nrough potsherds and sounding bowls. Mark took the lad in hand and made\na disciple of him in less than a week. He humoured the lad, encouraged\nhim, treated him like a comrade, drew the soul out of his limp,\nstarved body. Jehan had never fallen upon such a friend before. He was\nbewitched by the man's personality. This Mark with the strong face and\nthe falcon's eye seemed to see deep into the finer sentiments of life,\nto think as he thought, to conceive as he conceived. Jehan, unconscious\nlittle idealist that he was, bubbled over into innumerable confidences\nand confessions of feeling. This dark-eyed man, who never laughed at\nhim, whose voice was never blatant and threatening, seemed to exert\na magnetic influence upon his spirit. Jehan throned him a species of\ndemigod, and idolised him as he had idolised few living things on earth\nbefore.\n\nThere was more method in Mark's friendship than his comrades of the\nguard ever dreamt of in their thick noddles. They had many a laugh at\nMalmain and many a jest at her expense, but their wit never worked\nbeyond vulgar banality. As for Jehan, his existence certainly seemed\nto better itself so far as they were concerned, though what the man\nMark could see worth patronising in the lad, they were at a loss\nto discover. Jehan grew less servile, less diffident, more open of\ncountenance. He hided a cook-boy of his own age in a casual scuffle.\nMark had used a strong arm and a stronger wit for him on occasion, and\nthe little bastard was no longer cuffed at the random pleasure of every\ngentleman of Gorlois's guard.\n\nJehan often spoke to Mark of the lady of the tower whose hair was like\nthe red-gold cloak of autumn. The man seemed ready to hear of her\nbeauty and her distress, and all the multitudinous tales concerning her\ngiven from the guard-room. He kindled to the romantic possibilities\nof the affair, and was as full of sentiment as Jehan himself could\nwish. Saying little at first, he watched the lad with keen, discerning\neyes, as though tracing out the trend, depth, and sincerity of his\nsympathies; nor was he long ignorant of the strain of chivalry that was\nsounding in the lad's heart. The more generous sentiments leapt out\nin a look, a word, a colouring of the cheek. Given inspiration, it was\npossible to make a fanatic of the boy, a hero in the higher rendering\nof the term.\n\nIn due course the man grew more communicative, less of a listener.\nJehan heard of Avangel, of the island manor in Andredswold, of Pelleas,\nand of the days in Winchester. The whole tragedy was spread before\nhim like a legend, some mighty passion throe of the past. He listened\nopen-mouthed, with blue eyes that searched the man's face. Mark had\ntaken to himself of a sudden an air of mystery and peril. Jehan knew by\nintuition that these matters were to be kept secret as the grave. Great\npride rose in him at being held worthy of such trust. He felt even\naggrieved when Mark spoke to him of discretion, with a finger on his\nlip. Such a secret was like a hoard of gold to the lad. It pleased him\nwith a sense of responsibility and of faith, and Jehan loved honour,\nfor all his novitiate amid the morals of the guard-room.\n\nHe had drunk deep of old songs, and of the heroics of the harp. Such\nthings were like moonlight to him, touching his soul with a lustre of\nidyllic truth. He began to dream dreams, and to speculate extravagantly\nas to the things that were yet hid from his knowledge. It was borne\nin upon his mind that Mark was this Pelleas in disguise, come to save\nIgraine from Gorlois and the towers of Tintagel. The notion took his\nheart by storm, and his sympathies hovered over the woman like so many\nscarlet-winged moths. He desired greatly to speak to Mark of that\nwhich was in his heart, but feared to seem mischievous and lacking in\ndiscretion.\n\nSome three days after Malmain had given Mark the Lady Igraine's ring,\nGorlois rode hunting with Morgan la Blanche and a train of knights\nand damsels. Half the castle turned out to see them sally with their\nten couple of hounds in leash, and a goodly company of prickers and\nbeaters. Gareth the minstrel rode with the company on a white horse\nand sang to the harp a hunting song, and then a chant d'amour.\nMorgan's laugh was as clear as a bell pealing over water as she rode at\nGorlois's side in the sunlight, her silks and samites and gold-green\ntissues fluttering in the wind.\n\nJehan ran over the bridge to see them go down into the valley. The dogs\ntugged at the thongs, the boar spears glittered, the dresses threaded\nthe maze of green as roses thread a briar. Jehan climbed a rock,\nexulting in the life, the spirit, the colour of it all. Gareth's strong\nvoice came up from the valley as he sang of love and of the fairness of\nwomen. Jehan envied him his harp and the honour that it won him. It was\nhis own hope to sing of the beauty of the world, the green ecstasy of\nspring, of autumn forests flaming to the sky, the eternal sorrow of the\ntortured sea. He came by this same desire in later years when he sang\nto Arthur and Guinevere and Launcelot of the Lake in the gardens of\nCaerleon.\n\nA hand plucked him by the heel as he lay curled on the rock watching,\nthe cavalcade flickering away into the green. Looking down, he saw the\nstrong face of Mark of the guard. There was a smile on the man's lips,\nand to Jehan there seemed something prophetic in his eyes. He climbed\ndown and stood looking into the other's face, the mute, trusting look\nof a dog.\n\nMark took him by the shoulder.\n\n\"The sea is blue and gold, and the 'Priest's Pool' like a violet well.\"\n\n\"There is time for a swim.\"\n\n\"We will watch for a sail from the cliffs.\"\n\n\"And you will tell me more of Pelleas and Igraine.\"\n\nMark was in a visionary mood; he used his spear as a staff and talked\nlittle. A sleepy sea bubbled a line of foam along the shore. Bleak\nslopes rolled greenly against an azure sky, and landwards crag and\nwoodland stood steeped in a mist of sunlight. Jehan, sedulous and\nreverent, watched the passionless calm of thought upon the man's face.\nHis eyes were turned constantly towards the sea with the hope of one\nwaiting for a white sail from the underworld.\n\nWhen they had gone a mile or more along the cliffs, they came to a\npath leading to a bay whose lunette of sand shone red gold above the\nfoam. It was a place of crags and headlands, poised sea billows, purple\nwaters pressing from the west. Jehan sat on a stone and waited. Mark\ntook his cloak and bound it to the staff of his spear. Jehan watched\nhim as he stood at his full height like a tall pine on the edge of the\ncliff and lifted his spear at arm's length above his head. Seawards,\ndim and distant like a pearl over the purple sea, Jehan saw a sail\nstrike out of the vague west. Mark still held the cloak upon his spear.\nJehan understood something of all this. His mind, packed with plots and\nsubtleties, shone with the silvery aureole of romance.\n\nThe sail grew against the sky, and a ship loomed gradual out of the\nwest. Mark shook the cloak from his spear, and climbed down the path\nthat curled from the cliff with Jehan at his heels. Below, the waves\nswirled in amid the rocks and ran ripple on ripple up the yellow sand.\nThe whole place seemed filled with the hoarse underchant of the sea.\n\nIn a narrow part of the track Mark stopped suddenly, and stood leaning\non his spear. Jehan nearly blundered into him, but saved himself by the\nhelp of a tuft of grass. The man's face was on a level with the lad's,\nand his eyes seemed to look into Jehan's soul.\n\nHe pointed to the distant headland, where the towers of Tintagel rose\nagainst the sky.\n\n\"Death waits yonder,\" he said.\n\n\"For whom?\"\n\n\"Igraine,--Gorlois's wife.\"\n\nJehan looked at him with all his soul. The man was no longer the\nquaint, vapouring soldier, but a being of different mould, keen,\nsolemn, even magnificent. Jehan felt himself on the verge of romance;\nthe man's face seemed to stare down fear.\n\n\"And Pelleas!\" he said.\n\n\"Pelleas?\"\n\n\"Art thou not Pelleas?\"\n\nMark smiled in his eyes.\n\n\"Your dreams fly too fast,\" he said.\n\n\"And yet--\"\n\n\"You would see some one play the hero. Who knows but that a bastard may\nsave a kingdom.\"\n\nMark moved on down the path, stopping now and again to watch the ship\nat sea; Jehan followed at his heels. They reached the beach, and saw\nthe waves rolling in on them from the west, with the white belly of\na sail showing over the water. Mark made no further tarrying in the\nmatter. Standing on a stretch of sand levelled smooth by the water, he\ntraced a cross thereon with the point of his spear.\n\n\"Swear by the cross.\"\n\nJehan's face was turned to the man's, eager and enquiring.\n\n\"To whom shall I swear troth?\" he said.\n\n\"To Gorlois's wife.\"\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\n\"And to the King.\"\n\n\"The King!\"\n\nJehan crossed himself with great good-will.\n\n\"By the blood of the Lord Jesu, I swear troth.\"\n\nThey went down close to the waste of waters, and let the spume sweep\nalmost to their feet. A vast blue bank of clouds mountained the far\nwest; the sea seemed deep in colour as an amethyst. Gulls were winging\nand wailing about the cliffs. Tintagel stood out in its strength\nagainst the sky, and they could see the waves white upon its rocks.\n\nMark took the ring Malmain had given him from a pouch at his belt, and\nheld the gold circle before the lad's eyes.\n\n\"From the hand of Gorlois's wife,\" he said.\n\nJehan nodded.\n\n\"This ring was given her by that Pelleas.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Who is Uther Pendragon, the King.\"\n\nJehan's blue eyes seemed to dilate till they looked strangely large in\nhis thin white face.\n\n\"The King!\" he said, in a kind of whisper.\n\nMark made all plain to him in a few words.\n\n\"The Lady Igraine loved Pelleas, as well she might, not knowing him to\nbe Ambrosius's brother. It was this same great love that brought her in\nperil of Gorlois's sword. It is this same love that draws her down to\nher death--there in Tintagel. Uther Pendragon is at Caerleon; her hope\nis with him. You, Jehan, shall carry word of this to the King.\"\n\nThe lad's heart was beating like the heart of a giant. The world seemed\nto expand about him, to grow luminous with the glory of great deeds;\nhe had the braying of a hundred trumpets in his ears. He heard swords\nring, saw banners blow, and towers topple like smitten trees.\n\n\"I am the King's servant,\" he said.\n\n\"You have sworn troth; so be it. You shall go to the King, to Uther\nPendragon, at Caerleon. Tell him you had this ring from a soldier,\nbribed to deliver it by the Lady Igraine. Tell him the evil that is\ndone to her in the castle of Tintagel. Tell him all--withhold nothing.\"\n\nJehan flushed to the temples; his lips moved, but no words came from\nthem. He stood stiff and erect, looking out to sea, following with his\neyes the sweep of Mark's spear.\n\n\"I am the King's servant,\" he said.\n\nThe ship had drawn in towards the shore. She was lying to with her\nsails put aback, her black hull rising and falling morosely against\nthe tumultuous purple of the clouds. Nearer still a small galley came\nheading for the shore with a gush of foam at her prow as the men in her\nbent to the oars. The galley came swinging in on the broad backs of the\nsluggish waves, and shooting the surf, grounded on the sands, the men\nin her leaping out and dragging her beyond the reach of the sea.\n\nThere was a more mellow light on Mark's face as he pointed Jehan to\nthe boat, and the ship swaying on the sun-gilded waves.\n\n\"They will carry you to Caerleon,\" he said.\n\n\"And you, sire?\"\n\n\"There is need of me at Tintagel.\"\n\n\"I have sworn troth.\"\n\nJehan stood and looked into the west at the clouds gold-ribbed, domed,\nsnow, and purple. His face might have been lit by the warm glow of a\nlamp, so clear and radiant was it. He had thrust the King's ring into\nhis bosom.\n\n\"The Lord Jesu speed me,\" he said; \"through the Lady Igraine's face I\nam no longer a coward. God speed me to save her!\"\n\nMark kissed him on the forehead.\n\n\"You have a soul in you,\" he said.\n\nThe man stood on the strand under the black cliffs and watched the boat\nclimb the waves. He saw the galley hoisted up, the sails flapping in\nthe wind as the ship sheered out and ran for the open sea. Her sails\ngleamed white against the tumultuous west, and the ridged waters hid\nher hull. Overhead, the gulls screamed and circled. Mark, shouldering\nhis spear, turned back and climbed the cliff, with his face towards the\ntowers of Tintagel.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nA galley came up the Usk towards dawn, towards dawn when the woods were\nhung with mist, and a vast quiet brooded over the world. The river made\na moist murmur through reeds and sedge, seeming to chant of golden\nmeads as it ran to wed the sea. All the eastern casements of Caerleon\nglimmered gold as the dawn struck over wood and hill; the city's walls\nsmiled out of the night; her vanes and towers were noosed as with fire.\nThe galley drew to the great quay, and poled to the steps as the city\nawoke.\n\nA lad, with his russet mantle turned up over his girdle, passed up\nfrom the galley and the quay towards the southern gate of the city of\nCaerleon. His step was sanguine, his face deep with dreams. He seemed\nto personate \"Youth\" entering that city of woeful magic that poets and\npainters name \"Romance.\"\n\nWithin the walls the stir of life had been sounded in by the clarions\nof the dawn. Seafaring men went down to the river and their ships. At\nthe gate arms rang, tumbrils rumbled. Slim girls passed out into the\norchards and the fields, under the trees all heavily grained, russet\nand green and gold. Women drew water at the wells. The merchant folk in\nthe market square spread their stalls for the day--fruit, flesh, fish,\ncloth, and the fabrics of the East, armour and brazen jars, vases of\nstrange device.\n\nThe city pleased the lad as he passed through its stirring streets, and\ntook the vigour of it, the human symbolism, into his soul. His idealism\nshed a glamour over the place; how red and white were its maidens;\nhow fair its stately houses; how splendid the clashing armour of its\nguards. In the market square he asked a wizened apple-seller concerning\nthe palace, and was pointed to the wooded hill where white walls rose\nabove the green. Jehan solaced himself with a couple of ruddy apples\nfrom the stall. It was early yet for the palace, so the seller said,\nand Jehan sat down by a fountain where doves flew, and thought of his\nerrand as he watched the folk go by.\n\nThe sun was high before he came to the great gate leading to the\ngardens of the King. It chanced to be a great day at Caerleon, a day\nof public appeal, when Uther played patriarch to his people, and sat\nto hear the prayers of the wronged or the oppressed. Hence it followed\nthat Jehan, pressing in at the gate, found himself one among many,\none of a herd, a boy among his elders. In the antechamber of the\npalace he was edged into a corner, elbowed and kept there by stouter\nclients who, as a mere matter of course, shouldered a boy to the wall.\nArgument availed nothing. Men were used to plausible tales for winning\nprecedence, and each considered his especial matter the most pressing\nin the eyes of justice. The crowd overawed him. The doorkeepers thrust\nhim back with their staves when he waxed importunate and attempted to\nparley. Often he bethought him of the ring, but, being quick to suspect\ntheft in such a mob, he kept the talisman tight in his tunic, and\ntrusted to time and the powers of patience.\n\nWhat with giving way to women whose sex commended them, and men whose\nstrength and egotism seemed vested in their elbows, Jehan was fended\nfar from the door all day. A squabbling, querulous crowd filled the\nplace; women with grievances, merchants who had been plundered on the\nroad; peasants, priests, soldiers; beggars and adventurers; a Jew\nbanker whom some Christian had taken by the beard; a farmer whose\nwife had taken a fancy to a gentleman's bed. It was a stew of envy,\ndiscontent, and misfortune. Jehan, whose none too sumptuous clothing\ndid him little service, was shouldered casually into the background.\n\"Take second place to a brat of a boy! God forbid such an indignity!\"\nThe vexed folk believed vigorously in the premiership of years.\n\nIt was well towards evening when Jehan, who had gone fasting save for\na rye-cake, found himself the last to claim audience of the King. A\nfat pensioner, yawning phenomenally and dreaming of supper, eyed him\nwith little favour from the top step of the stair. The day had been a\ncrowded one, and the savoury scent of roast flesh assailed the senses\nof the gentleman of the \"white wand.\" Jehan braved the occasion with\nheart thumping, produced the ring, and held it as a charm under the\ndoorkeeper's nose.\n\nThere was an abrupt revulsion in the methods of this domestic demigod.\nDoors opened as by a magic word; servants went to and fro; bells\nsounded. A grey-bearded Pharisee appeared, scanned the lad over with an\naristocratic contempt, beckoned him to follow. The man with the white\nwand refrained for a moment from yawning over the paltriness of the\nworld at large.\n\nJehan, taken by galleries and curtained doors, and disenchanted\nsomewhat with the palatial r\u00e9gime, found himself in a chapel casemented\ntowards the west. Lamps burnt upon the altar, and a priest knelt upon\nthe steps as in prayer. Sacramental vessels glimmered at the feet of\nthe frescoed saints. A fragrant scent of musk and lavender lay heavy on\nthe air.\n\nJehan saw a man standing by a window, a man girded with a sword, and\ngarbed in no light and joyous fashion. The man's face possessed a kind\nof sorrowful grandeur, a solemn kindliness that struck home into the\nlad's heart. The eyes that met his were eyes such as women and children\ntrust. Jehan guessed speedily enough that this was the King.\n\nThere was a certain intuition big in him, prophesying of the pain that\nburdened his message. He faltered for the moment, knelt down, looked\ninto the man's eyes, and took courage. There was a questioning calm in\nthem that quieted him like the dew of prayer. He took the ring and gave\nit into the King's hand.\n\n\"From the Lady Igraine,\" was his plea.\n\nNow Jehan, though he looked no higher than Uther's knees, saw him rock\nand sway like some great poplar in a storm. A strange lull seemed to\nfall sudden upon the world. The lad listened to the beating of his own\nheart, and wondered. He had soul enough to imagine the large utterance\nof those few words of his.\n\nA deep voice startled him.\n\n\"Your message.\"\n\nHe knelt there and told his tale, simply, and without clamour.\n\n\"It is the truth, sire,\" he said at the end thereof, \"so may I drink\nagain of the Lord's blood, and eat his bread at the holy table.\"\n\n\"My God, what truth!\"\n\nThe man's voice swept the chapel like a wind, deep, sonorous, and\nterrible. The large face, the broad forehead, the deep-set eyes were\nturned to the casement and the west. The face was like the face of one\nwho looks into hell. Jehan, on his knees, looked up and shivered. He\nhad told the truth, and the storm awed him like a miracle. It seemed\nalmost impious to be witness of a wrath that was as the righteous\npassion of a god.\n\n\"Gorlois tortures her?\"\n\n\"To her death, sire.\"\n\n\"The whole--spare nothing.\"\n\n\"She is starved and scourged, and harlots mock her.\"\n\n\"God!\"\n\n\"They drag her soul in the mire.\"\n\nIt was sunset, and all the sky burnt gold and crimson in the west.\nEvery lozenge of glass in the casement shone red as with fire. Beyond\nCaerleon a mysterious gloom of trees rolled blackly against the chaos\nof the decline. The whole world seemed glamoured and steeped in a\nghostly quiet. Usk, a band of shadowy gold, ran with vague glimmerings\nto the sea.\n\nThe King spread his arms to the west, and under his black brows his\neyes smouldered.\n\n\"Am I Uther of Britain--and a King?\"\n\nAnd again in a deep half-heard whisper--\n\n\"Igraine! Igraine! thou art true unto death.\"\n\nFrom the terrace below came sudden the sound of harping. It was\nRivalin, the Court minstrel, singing as the sun went down--\n\n    \"Quenched be all the bitter pain,\n    When the roses bloom again\n    Eyes shall smile through glimmering tears.\"\n\nThe face of the King was like the face of a man who sees a vision.\nAll the glow of the hills seemed in his eyes. His hands shook as he\nstretched them to the west, the west that was a chasm of torrential\ngold.\n\n\"Igraine,\" he said, as in a dream.\n\nAnd again--\n\n\"Tintagel will I hurl into the sea.\"\n\nJehan knelt and looked mutely at the King. The gloom of the roof seemed\nto cover him like a canopy, and the frescoes glimmered through the\nblue shadows. Uther wore a small crucifix about his neck. Jehan, full\nof a sense of tragedy, saw him tear the crucifix from its chain, and\ncast it at his feet. The priest at the altar, haloed by the glowing of\nhis lamps, looked at the King, white and wondering. It was an exultant\nvoice that made the chalice quiver.\n\n\"Hitherto I have served a God,\" it said; \"now I will serve my own soul!\"\n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nThe woman's face, haloed by the gloom of the casement, still looked out\nfrom Tintagel over the solitary grandeur of sea and cliff. Igraine saw\nships pass seldom athwart the west, but they brought no hope for her,\nfor she thought herself alone, and served of none. How should Uther the\nKing know that she was mewed in Tintagel at Gorlois's pleasure! Had he\nnot commended her to the calm orchards and cloisters of a nunnery? Even\nthe ring he had given her had been stolen by sheer force. Days came and\nwent, dawn flooded the eastern woods with gold, and evening tossed her\ntorches in the west. To Igraine they were as alike as the gulls that\nwheeled and winged white over the blue waters.\n\nThere are few men of such despicable fibre that they are wholly ruled\nby the egotism of the flesh. Your complete villain is no frequent\nprodigy, being more the denizen of the regions of romance than of the\ncommon, trafficking, trivial world. There are bad men enough, but few\nNeros. Give a human being passions, pride, and intense egotism, and\nhis potential energy for evil is unbounded. Virtue is often a mere\nmatter of habit or circumstance. Joseph might have ended otherwise if\nPotiphar's wife had had more wit; and as for Judas, he was unfortunate\nin being made banker to a God.\n\nGorlois of Cornwall was beholden to his own strenuous, north-winded\nnature for any trouble he might incur in his madness against Igraine.\nHowever much he braved it out to his own conscience, he knew well\nenough whether he was content or no. He was a strong man, and selfish,\nresentful, and very human. He was no Oriental monster, no mere Herod.\nWhat magnanimity he possessed towards his wife had been frozen into a\nwolfish scorn by the things that had passed in Garlotte's valley in\nWales. Moreover, he had a bad woman at his elbow. Like many a vexed and\nrestless man, he had turned to ambition, and the darker features of his\ncharacter were being developed thereby. A king had wronged him; it was\neasy for a great noble to lay plots against a king. War and the clamour\nof war became like the prophetic sound of a storm from afar in his ears.\n\nLittle comment had followed upon the disappearance of the lad Jehan on\nthe day when Gorlois and his knights had ridden hunting. No one cared\nfor the lad; no one missed him materially. Casual gossip arose thereon\nin the guard-room. The lad had risked the halter or the branding-iron,\nand sundry threats were launched after him at random. Mark of the guard\nshrugged his shoulders and laughed.\n\n\"There's pluck in the lad,\" he said, \"for all your bullying. By my\nfaith, I guess he grew tired of kicks and leavings, and of being cursed\nby so many sons of the pot. Bastard or no bastard, the lad's no fool.\"\n\nThe guard-room scoffed complacently at the notion. Jehan do anything in\nthe world but snivel! Not he! These gentlemen judged of a man's worth\nby the animal propensities of the creature. They weighed a man as they\nwould weigh an ox--for flesh, and the breed in him. Mark, making a\nshow of warming to his wine, enlightened his men further as to Jehan's\ndisappearance.\n\n\"The lad and I went to bathe,\" he said; \"there was a ship in the\noffing, and sailors had come ashore to get water by St. Isidore's\nspring. They wanted a lad for cabin service, so I took two gold pieces,\nand told them to kidnap Jehan.\"\n\nA laugh hailed the confession, a laugh that changed to a cheer when\nMark won accomplices by casting largesse for a scramble on the\nguard-room floor.\n\n\"I wish them luck of him,\" said the captain, pocketing silver; \"devil\nof a spark could I ever knock out of the lad.\"\n\n\"May be you hit too hard.\"\n\n\"May be not. I'll lay my fist against a rope's-end for education.\"\n\n\"Mark takes his wine like a gentleman,\" quoth one.\n\n\"May he get drunk on pay day.\"\n\n\"And sell another Joseph into Egypt.\"\n\nThe woman Malmain came in to join them, corpulent and thirsty.\nSuperabundant and colossal, she impressed a strenuous and didactic mood\nupon the company, grumbling like a volcano, emitting a smoke of mighty\nunfeminine gossip. Her black eyes wandered continually towards Mark of\nthe guard. She watched him with a certain air of possession amid all\nher sweat and jabber, laughing when he laughed, making herself a coarse\necho to his will.\n\nSome one spoke of Gorlois's wife. So personal a subject moved Malmain\nto mystery on the instant. She tapped her forehead with her finger;\nshook her head with a significance that was sufficient for the occasion.\n\n\"Mad!\" said the captain of the guard.\n\nMalmain sucked her lips and yawned with her great chasm of a mouth.\n\n\"She was always that,\" she said with a hiccough.\n\n\"Paradise, eh?\"\n\n\"And golden harps!\"\n\n\"And, damme, no beer!\"\n\nThere was a certain flavour in the last remark that made the men roar.\n\n\"I wonder where they'll bury her,\" said the captain.\n\n\"Throw her into the sea.\"\n\n\"Gorlois's little wench won't weep her eyes out.\"\n\nMalmain smote a stupendous hip, and tumbled to the notion. The settle\nshook and creaked under her as though in protest.\n\n\"We'll all get married,\" she said; \"Mark, my man, don't blush.\"\n\nBabylon was compassed round! The same evening a soldier on the walls\nof Tintagel saw a dim throng of sails rise whitely out of the west.\nThe streaks of canvas stood above the sea touched by the light of\nthe setting sun. There was something ominous in these gleaming sails\nsweeping in a wide half-circle out of the unknown. A motley throng of\ncastle folk gathered on the walls. Men spoke of the barbarians and of\nIreland as they watched the ships rising solemn and silent from the\nwest. Gorlois himself climbed up into a tower and gazed long at these\nsails whose haven was as yet unknown. He learnt little by the scrutiny.\nThe ships had hardly risen above the purple twilight when night came\nand shrouded the whole in vague and impenetrable gloom.\n\nGorlois ordered the castle into a state of siege, and with the night an\natmosphere of suspense gathered about Tintagel.\n\nAbout midnight some dozen points of fire burst out redly on the hills.\nSudden and sinister they shone like beacon fires, but by whom lit\nthe castle folks could not tell. Men idled on the walls, shoulder to\nshoulder, talking in undertones, with now and again a bluff oath to\ninvoke courage. The black infinite, above, around, seemed to hem the\nplace as eternity hems the soul. War and death lurked in the dark, and\non the rocks the sea kept up a perpetual moan.\n\nGorlois walked the walls with several of his knights. He was restless,\nand in no Christian temper, for the dark muzzled him. Not that he\nfeared the unknown, or the perils that might lurk on hill or sea. He\nhad the soul of a soldier, loved danger for its own sake, and took a\nhazard as he would take wine. Yet there are certain thoughts that haunt\na man for all his hardihood, thoughts that may not weaken him though\nthey may chafe his temper. Such to Gorlois was the memory of a starved\nface looking out at him scornfully from the gloom, the face of Igraine,\nhis wife.\n\nThat night Gorlois's mind was prophetic in dual measure. Like a good\ncaptain he scanned the human horizon for snares and enmities, old feuds\nand the vengeances of men. The dark sky seemed to hold out two scrolls\nto him tersely illumined as to the near future. To Gorlois they read--\n\nTHE BARBARIANS,\n\nOR\n\nTHE KING!\n\nForewarned thus in spirit, he kept to the walls till dawn. The sea sang\nfor him stern epics of tumult and despair. Large projects were moving\nin his mind like waters that bubble up darkly in a well. He was in a\nmood for great deeds, alarms and plottings, lusts, gnashings, and the\nsplendid agonies of war.\n\nWhen the grey veil rose from the world many faces looked out east and\nwest from Tintagel for sign of legions or of ships at sea. Strange\ntruth! not a sail showed upon the ocean, not a spear or shield\nglimmered on the eastern hills. The threatenings of the night seemed to\nhave cleared like the leaden cloudscape of a stormy sky.\n\nGorlois, scarred, brooding, sinister, appealed his knights as to the\nevent.\n\n\"Not a ship, not a shield,\" he said, \"yet I'll swear we saw watchfires\non the hills. Were we scared for nothing?\"\n\n\"Devil's beacons,\" quoth one.\n\n\"I have heard sailors tell of the phantom fleet of the Ph\u0153nicians.\"\n\n\"Have a care,\" said Sir Isumbras of the wrinkled face; \"I remember me\nof the taking of Genorium; given the chance of an ambuscado, the good\ncaptain--\"\n\nGorlois cut in upon his prosings.\n\n\"Scour the country, well and good,\" he said, \"send out your riders; we\nwill see whether there is a Saxon betwixt Tintagel and Glastonbury.\"\n\nGorlois had hardly delivered himself, and the company was passing from\nthe battlements, when a trumpet-cry thrilled the solitary morning\nair. Gorlois and his knights halted at the head of the turret-stair,\nand looked out from the walls towards the east. A single figure on\nhorseback was moving along the ridge leading to the headland. The rider\nwas clad in black, and his horse-trappings were of sable. He carried\nneither spear nor shield, but only a herald's long trumpet balanced\nupon his thigh. He rode very much at his leisure, as though the whole\nworld could abide his business.\n\nGorlois eyed him blackly under his hand.\n\n\"I was wrong, sirs,\" he said.\n\nOld Isumbras's wrinkles deepened. He tapped the walls with the scabbard\nof his sword, and waxed oracular after an old man's fashion. Gorlois\nturned his broad back on him.\n\n\"There is trouble in yonder gentleman's wallet,\" he said.\n\nThey passed with clashing arms down the black well of the stairway to\nthe court. Gates were rumbling on their hinges. The herald had ridden\nover the bridge, and the guards had given him passage. He was brought\ninto the court where Gorlois stood in the centre of a half-circle of\nknights. The herald wore a cap of crimson velvet and a mask over his\nface. He walked with a certain stately swagger; it was palpable that he\nwas no common fellow.\n\nThere was no parley on either part. Those who watched saw that this\nemissary carried a case of scarlet cloth and a naked poniard. He gave\nthe case into Gorlois's hands, but threw the poniard on the stones at\nhis feet. A fine insolence burnt in his stride and gesturing. Gorlois's\nscar seemed to show up duskily upon his cheek, and he looked as though\ntempted to tear the mask from the stranger's face. An incomprehensible\ndignity waved him back, and while he dallied with his wrath, the man\nturned his back on him and marched unconcernedly for the gate. The\ncourt bristled with steel, but none hindered or molested him. They\nheard the gate roll to, and the rattle of hoofs on the bridge. The\nsound died rapidly away, leaving Tintagel silent as a ruin.\n\nGorlois picked up the poniard, for none of his men stirred, and cut\nthe woven band that held the lappets of the case. The white corner of\na waxen tablet came to light. Gorlois drew the tablet out, held it at\narm's length, and read the inscription thereon. His face grew hard and\nvigilant as he read, and he seemed to spell the thing over to himself\nseveral times before satisfied to the letter. He stood awhile in\nthought, and then leaving his knights to their conjectures, walked away\nto that quarter of the castle where Morgan la Blanche had her lodging.\n\nHe found the woman couched by the window that looked out towards the\nsea. Though dawn had but lately come, she was awake, and sat combing\nher hair, while a kitten slept on the blue coverlet covering her lap.\nWine and fruit stood on the table near the bed, with scented water, a\nrouge-pot, and a bowl of flowers. Morgan was smothered in fine white\nlinen, banded at neck and wrists with sky-blue silk. A kerchief of gold\ngossamer work covered her shoulders.\n\nGorlois touched her lips, and let her hair run through his fingers like\nwater.\n\n\"Minion, you are awake early.\"\n\nMorgan's face shone white, and her eyes looked tired and faded.\nShe had heard rumours and had watched the night through, being\ntender-conscienced as to her own skin. Adversity, even in its meaner\nforms, was a thing insufferably insolent, a cloud in the absolute gold\nof a sensuous existence. Being quick to mark any shadowing of the\nhorizon, she was undeceived by Gorlois's mere smile. She caught his\nhand and stared up at him.\n\n\"Well!\"\n\n\"What troubles you?\"\n\n\"Is it to be a siege?\"\n\nGorlois stretched his strong neck, laughed, and eschewed subtlety. It\ninterested him to see this worldling ruffled, Morgan, whose chief care\nwas how the world might serve her.\n\n\"Read,\" he said, putting the tablet into her hands.\n\nMorgan sat up in bed with her fair hair streaming over her shoulders.\nShe traced out the words hurriedly with a white finger-tip. Her eyes\nseemed to grow large as she read; her hands trembled a very little.\nAt the end thereof she dropped the tablet into her lap and looked at\nGorlois with a certain petulant dread.\n\n\"How did the man hear of all this?\"\n\n\"God knows!\"\n\n\"Treachery!\"\n\nGorlois jerked his belt and said nothing.\n\nThe woman Morgan sat and hugged her knees. She looked out to sea with a\nfrown on her face, and the blue coverlet dragged in tight folds about\nher waist. The kitten woke up and began to play with Morgan's hair as\nit trailed down upon the bed. She cuffed the little beast aside, and\nlooked at Gorlois. Her eyes now were steely and clear, and very blue\nunder her white forehead.\n\n\"Obviously, he has learnt all,\" she said.\n\nGorlois nodded morosely.\n\n\"And this matter is to be between you alone?\"\n\n\"I have his word.\"\n\n\"And he is a fool for truth.\"\n\nSilence held them both awhile, and Morgan seemed to dally with her\nthoughts. Her lips worked loosely as though moving with her mind. The\nkitten clawed its way up the coverlet and rubbed its glossy flank\nagainst the woman's arm.\n\n\"What of an ambush?\" she suggested mildly.\n\nGorlois darted a look at her and shook his head.\n\n\"No; it shall be fair between us.\"\n\n\"Honour!\"--with a sneer.\n\n\"I am a soldier.\"\n\n\"By the prophet, that is the strange part of it all. You go out to kill\na man, and yet trouble about the method.\"\n\n\"There honour enters.\"\n\n\"You kill him, all the same.\"\n\nMorgan tossed the quilt aside, thrust a pair of glimmering feet out of\nthe bed, and stood at Gorlois's elbow. She took the tablet of wax and\nheld it over a lamp that was burning till the wax softened and suffered\nthe lettering to be effaced. Gorlois's great sword hung from the carved\nbed-post. Morgan took it and buckled it to the man with her plump,\nworldly little hands.\n\n\"Let it not fail,\" she said.\n\nGorlois kissed her lips.\n\n\"There will be no King; and the heir--well, you are a great soldier,\nand men fear your name.\"\n\nShe kept him with her awhile and then bade him farewell. The sun was\nhigh in the heavens when Gorlois, in glittering harness, rode out alone\nfrom Tintagel, and passed away into the wilds.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nThere was a preternatural brightness over sea and cliff that day.\nHeadland and height stood limned with a luminous grandeur; the sea was\na vast opal; mountainous clouds sailed solemn and stupendous over the\nworld. Towards evening it grew still and sultry, and storms threatened.\nA vapoury leviathan lowered black out of the east, devouring the blue,\nwith scudding mists spray-like about his belly. The sky changed to a\nsable cavern. In the west the sun still blazed through mighty crevices,\ncandescent gold; the world seemed a chaos of glory and shadow.\nSea-birds came screaming to the cliffs. The walls of Tintagel burnt\nathwart the west.\n\nPresently out of the blue bosom of an unearthly twilight a vague wind\nrose. Gusts came, clamoured, and died into nothingness. The world\nseemed to shudder. The dry bracken and grass on the hillsides hissed\nas the wind came seldom and tumultuous. The roadway smoked. In the\nvalleys the trees moaned, shivered, and stood still.\n\nMark of the guard stood in the garden leaning on his spear, watching\nthe storm gathering above. It was his guard that night over the\nstairway leading to Igraine's room, and he stood under the shadow of\nthe tower.\n\nA red sword flashed sudden out of the east, and smote the hills.\nThunder followed, growling over the world. Then rain came, and a\nwhirlwind seemed to fly from the face of the storm. In the west a\nburning crater still poured gold upon a restless and afflicted sea.\n\nIt grew dark very rapidly, and a thundering canopy soon overarched\nTintagel. Now and again flaming cracks of fire ran athwart the dome\nof the night, lighting battlements and sky with a weird momentary\nsplendour. Rain rattled on the stones and drifted whirling against door\nand casement. Small torrents formed along the walks; every spout and\ngully gushed and gurgled. Like an underchant came the hoarse cry of the\nsea.\n\nMark had withdrawn under the arch of the tower's entry. A cresset\nflamed and spluttered higher up the stairway, throwing down an\nineffectual gleam upon the man's armour as he stood and looked into the\nnight. The storm fires lit his face, making it start out of the dark\nwhite and spiritual, with largely luminous eyes. He held motionless at\nhis post like a Roman soldier watching the downfall of Pompeii.\n\nSolitude possessed garden, court, and battlement, for no one stirred\non such a night. The knights of the garrison were making merry in the\ngreat hall, and the men of the guard, unpestered by their superiors,\nhad gathered a great company in the guard-room to emulate their\nofficers. The scullion knaves and wenches had fled the kitchen; the\nsentinels had sneaked from the walls. There was no fear now of a\nleaguer. Had not Duke Gorlois declared as much before his sally?\n\nMark alone stood to his post, listening to the laughter that reached\nhim between the stanzas of the storm. His face was like the face of\na statue, yet alert and eager for all its calm. More than once he\nwent out through the storm of rain to the great gate and stood there\nlistening while the wind howled overhead. About midnight the noise of\ngaming and revelling seemed suddenly to cease, as when folk hear the\ntolling of a bell for prayer. Only the wind kept up its hooting over\nthe walls.\n\nMark stood a long while by the guard-room door with his ear to the\nplanking. Seldom a quavering cry came out to him, and the place grew\nempty of human sound. All Tintagel seemed asleep, though many casements\nstill shone out yellow against the gloom. Mark slipped to the main\ngate. There was a postern in it for service after dark. He drew back\nthe bolts and loosed the chain from the staple, and leaving the small\ndoor ajar, passed back to the tower's entry.\n\nThunder went rolling over the sea. Mark left his spear by the porch and\nwent up the first few steps of the stairway. He took the cresset from\nits bracket, carried it down, and tossed it into the court, where the\nflames spluttered out in the rain. Darkness accomplished, he went up\nthe stairway to the short gallery leading to Igraine's room. At the top\nhe stood and listened. He heard the sound of breathing, and knew that\nit came from the woman Malmain who slept in the alcove before the door.\n\nMark smote the wall a ringing blow with the handle of his poniard. A\nbench creaked; some one yawned and began to grumble. It was so dark\nthat the very walls were part of the prevailing gloom.\n\n\"Who's there?\"\n\nMark stood aside.\n\n\"The cresset's out on the stairs.\"\n\nTwo arms came groping along the wall.\n\n\"You've been asleep, cherub.\"\n\n\"Mark!\"\n\n\"You were forgetting our tryst.\"\n\nA thick sensual laugh sounded from the stairhead. Something opaque\nmoved in the dark; a pair of arms felt along the passage; a hand\ntouched Mark's face. Malmain's arms wrapped the man's body; she lifted\nhim to her with her great strength, and kissed his lips.\n\n\"Rogue!\"\n\nOnce, twice, a streaking shadow rose and fell with the faintest\nglinting of steel. There was a staggering sound, a wet cough, a\nsharp-drawn breath, and then silence. Malmain fell against the wall\nwith her hands to her side, held rigid a moment, and then slid into a\nheap. Mark bent over the woman and gripped her wrist.\n\nIn a short while he left the body lying there and moved to the door.\nSliding his long fingers over the panels, he found the spring that\nmarked the catch. Light streamed through into the gallery and fell upon\nMalmain as she lay huddled against the wall, her hair trailing along\nthe floor like rills of blood.\n\nA lamp burnt in the room, showering a thin silvery lustre from its\npedestal, leaving the angles in dull brown shadow. The room was bare\nand bleak as a beggar's attic. The one window had been shuttered up\nagainst the rain, and the crazy lattice shook in the wind. The whole\ntower seemed to quake, pressed upon by the broad shoulders of the storm.\n\nGorlois's wife lay asleep on a rough bed in the centre of the room.\nMark went forward and stood over her. The light fell upon Igraine's\nface and haloed it with a quiet radiance. Her hands were folded over\nher breast, and the man looking upon her face saw it drawn and haggard\neven in sleep. It had a kind of tragic fairness, a stained beauty like\nthe wistful strangeness of an autumnal garden. It was pale, piteous,\nthin, and spiritual. The flesh shone like white wax; the short hair\nglimmered like a net of gold.\n\nSo changed, so ethereal, was the face of the sleeper, that the man\nstood and looked at her with gradual awe. Passed indeed was the\nblood-red rose of life, green summer with its ecstasy of song.\nAutumn's rich tapestries of bronze and gold were falling before the\nwind of winter and the shrill sword of death. The woman on the bed\nlooked like some pale princess slumbering out her doom in some baleful\ntower.\n\nIgraine's sleep was shallow and ineffectual, a restless stupor\nimpressed upon a troubled mind. The storm seemed to figure in her\ndreams. A kind of splendid misery played upon her face, such misery as\nfloods forth from some old legend, strange and sad. Her hands tossed to\nand fro over the coverlet like fallen flowers stirred by a wind. Her\nlids drooped over half-opened eyes.\n\nA sudden gust broke the catch of the casement, and swung the frame into\nthe room. All the boisterous laughter of the storm seemed to sweep in\nwith the wind. With the racket Igraine woke and started up in bed upon\nher elbow. The lamp flame, draught-slanted over the rim, gave but a\nfeeble light; the room was filled with wavering darkness.\n\nMark stood back from the bed. There was blood upon his tunic. For a\nmoment he was speechless like a man caught in a theft.\n\nIn the dim light and to the half-awakened senses of the sleeper,\nthe intruder stood for Gorlois, beard, face, and figure. A moment's\nhesitancy lost Mark the lead. The door stood wide. What ensued came\ncrowded into the compass of a few seconds.\n\nIgraine, quick to conceive, jerked the coverlet from the bed. Before\nMark could prevent her, she had thrown it over the lamp and smothered\nthe flame. The room sank into instant darkness and confusion. Mark's\nvoice sounded above the storm. Then came the slamming of a door, and\nsilence save for the blustering of the wind.\n\nIgraine stood on the threshold in the dark, and drew her breath fast.\nShe had shut the man in the room, and the door opened only from without\nby a spring catch. Mark of the guard was trapped.\n\nAnd Malmain!\n\nIgraine remembered the woman, and heeding nothing of the voice that\ncalled to her from the room, groped her way to the stairhead, expecting\nat every step to hear the woman's challenge start out of the gloom. At\nthe end of the gallery she nearly tripped and fell over some inanimate\nthing. Reaching down out of curiosity she drew her hand back with a\nhalf cry, her fingers fouled with a thick warm ooze. An indefinite\nterror seized her in the dark. She went reeling down the stairway,\nclutching at the walls, grasping the air. A faint outcry still followed\nher from the room above.\n\nIn the garden rain still rattled, and scud blew from the pools. Igraine\nstood motionless under the shadow of a cypress, with her face turned\nto the sky. Her ragged gown blew about her bare ankles, and the wind\nwhirled rain into her face. She drew deep breaths and stretched out her\nhands to the night, for there was the kiss of liberty in this cold,\nshrill shower.\n\nAnon the old fear urged her on, companioned now by a reawakened\ncourage. She was weak and starved, but what of that! The storm seemed\nto enter into her soul with its blustery vigour, crying to her with the\nmultitudinous echoes of the night. What was the mere peril of the flesh\nto one who had faced spiritual torture more keen than death!\n\nCreeping round under the shadow of the wall with quick glances darted\ninto the dark she made her way round the court to the great gate. The\ngate-house was dark as the sky, and there was no tramping of sentinels\nfrom wall to wall. Igraine crept into the yawn of the archway, brushing\nalong the stones. With each step she listened for the rattle of a\nspear, and looked for the armed figure that should clash out on her\nfrom the gloom. She won the gate and leant against it, breathless from\nmere suspense. Her fingers groped over the great beams, touched an\noutstanding edge, and tugged at it. The edge moved; a door came open\nand let in the wind.\n\nIgraine stood a moment and pondered this mystery in her heart. She had\nchanced on nothing in the whole castle save one man and a corpse. Some\nstrange doom might have fallen upon the place like the doom that smote\nthe Assyrians in their sleep.\n\nPlain before her stood the open gate and liberty. The hint was\nsufficient for the occasion. Igraine, leaving Tintagel to the unknown,\ngathered her rags round her and passed out into the night.\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n\nA rolling country spread with moor, wood, and crag. A storm creeping\nblack out of the east over the tops of a forest of pines. On the slope\nof a hill covered with a mauve mist of nodding scabei and bronzed\ntracts of bracken, two horsemen motionless in armour. Far away, the\nglimmer of a distant sea.\n\nUther the King wheeled his horse and pointed northwards towards the\npine woods with his sword. The challenge came plainly in the gesture.\nThere was no need for vapouring or for heroics; a quick stare--eye for\neye--said everything a soldier could desire.\n\nUther, on his black horse, rode with loose bridle, looking straight\nahead into the darkness of the woods. He carried his naked sword\nslanted over his shoulder. Frequent streams of sunlight flashed down\nupon his harness and made it burn under the boughs, leaving his face\ncalm and solemn under the shadow of his helm. Gorlois held some\npaces away, stiff and arrogant, watching the man on his flank with\nrestless, smouldering eyes. It was a silent pilgrimage for them both,\na pilgrimage to a shrine whence, for one of them, there might be no\nreturn.\n\nA shimmering curtain of sunlight spread itself suddenly before them\namong the pines. The two men rode out into an oval glade palisaded by\nthe innumerable pillars of the wood, bowered in by rolling heights of\ndusky green. On all sides the spires made a jagged circle of the sky.\nA pool, black as obsidian, slept in the sun. Heather bloomed there,\ngirdling the confines of wood and water with a blaze of purple.\n\nUther dismounted and tied his horse to a tree. His deliberation in no\nway pandered to Gorlois's self-esteem; there was to be no flurry or\nbombast in the event. No one was to witness this judgment of the sword;\nchivalry and malice alike were to be locked up in the heart of the\nforest. A smooth circle of grass lay on the northern side of the pool,\npromising well to the two who moved thither with nothing more eloquent\nthan an exchange of gestures.\n\nThe heather swept away, a purple dirge to the black sounding of the\npines, and a whorl of storm-laden clouds swam towards the sun. Uther,\nwith a face strong as a god's, swung his sword from his shoulder and\ngrounded the point in the sod. His destiny waxed great in him in that\nhour. There was something inevitable in the quiet of his eyes.\n\n\"You are ready,\" he said very simply.\n\nGorlois jerked a quick glance at him, and licked his lips. He, too, was\nin no mood for words or matters ethical. Temporal lusts ran strong in\nhis blood.\n\n\"For a woman's honour!\"\n\n\"As you will, sire,\" with a shrug.\n\n\"We have no need of courtesies.\"\n\n\"Over a harlot!\"\n\n\"Guard, and God pardon you.\"\n\nBoth swords flickered up hotly in the sunlight. Gorlois, sinewy and\nfull of fettle, gave a half-shout and sprang to engage. He had vast\nfaith in himself, having come scatheless out of many such tussles; nor\nhad he ever been humbled by man or beast. Vigorous as a March morning\nhe launched the first blow, a grim cut laid in with both hands, a cut\nthat rattled home half-parried on the other's shoulder. Uther, quick\nfor all his calmness, gave the point in retort, a lunge that slid\nunder the Cornishman's sword and made the muscles gape in Gorlois's\nneck. There was blood to both.\n\nThe swords began to leap and sing in the sunlight, and the forest\nechoed to the clangour of arms. Both men fought without shields, and\nfor a season well within themselves, and there was much craft on either\npart. Cut and counter-cut rang through the pine alleys like the cry of\naxes whirled by woodmen's hands. As yet there was no bustle, no wild\nsmiting. Every stroke came clean and true, lashed home with the weight\nof arms and body.\n\nHate overset mere swordsmanship anon, and reason grew less and less\nas the men waxed warm. Gorlois, running in with a swinging buffet,\nstumbled over a heather tuft and caught a counter full in the face.\nThe smart of it and a split lip quickened him immeasurably. The\nblades began to whirl with more malice, less precision. Matters grew\ntumultuous as leaves in a whirlwind. For some minutes there seemed\nnothing but a tangle of swords in the sun, a staggering chaos of red\nand gold.\n\nSuch fighting burnt itself to a standstill in less than three minutes.\nUther drew back like a boar pressed by hounds. There was no whit of\nweakening in his mood, only a reassertive reason that would trust\nnothing to the fortune of a moment. The muscles stood out in his strong\nthroat, blood ran from his slashed tunic, and he was breathing hard;\nbut his manhood burnt strong and true. Gorlois, with mouth awry, eyed\nhim with sword half up, and drew back in turn. His face streamed. He\nspat blood upon the heather.\n\n\"God! what work.\"\n\nIt was Gorlois's testimony, wrung from him by the stress of sheer\nhard fighting. The storm-cloud crept across the sun and overcharged\nthe world with gloom. The pool grew more black in its purple bed; the\nforest began to weave the twilight into its columned halls.\n\n\"You lack breath, sire.\"\n\n\"I wait for you,\" Uther said.\n\nBut the man of Tintagel was in a sinister mood for the moment. Genius\nmoved his sweating brain. He dropped into philosophic brevities as he\nspat blood from his bruised lips.\n\n\"All for a woman,\" he said thickly.\n\n\"True.\"\n\n\"Are you much in love, sire?\"\n\nUther answered him nothing, but waited with his sword over his shoulder.\n\n\"She made fuss enough.\"\n\nStill silence.\n\n\"I never knew a woman so obstinate in making an end. And we buried her\nin the sand, where the waves roll at flood. Now, you and I lose our\nbrains over a corpse.\"\n\nUther's sword shone again.\n\n\"Guard,\" he said quietly.\n\nA sudden gust came clamouring through the wood. The darkening boughs\ntossed and jerked against the sky, breathing out a multitudinous moan,\na hoarse cry as of a smitten host. The east piled thunder over the\nworld. It was the same storm that swept the battlements of Tintagel.\n\nBy the pool swords rang; red and gold strove and staggered over the\nheather. It was the death tussle and a sharp one at that. Destiny or\nnot, matters were going all against Gorlois; his blows were out of\nluck; he was rent time on end and gave little in return. Rabid, dazed,\nhe began making blind rushes that boded ill for him. More than once he\nstumbled, and was mired to the knees in the pool.\n\nThe end came suddenly enough as the light failed. Both men smote\ntogether; both swords met with a sound that seemed to shake the woods,\nGorlois's blade snapped at the hilt.\n\nHe stood still a moment, then plucked out his poniard and made a\nspring. A merciless down-cut beat him back. The fine courage, the\nstrenuous self-trust, seemed to ebb from him on a sudden as though the\nblow had broken his soul. He fell on his knees and held his hands up\nwith a thick, choking cry.\n\n\"Mercy! God's mercy!\"\n\n\"Curse you! Had you pity on the woman?\"\n\n\"Sire, sire!\"\n\nThunder rolled overhead, and the girdles of the sky were loosed. A\ntorrent of rain beat upon the man's streaming face; he tottered on his\nknees, and still held his hands to the heavens.\n\n\"I lied,\" he said. \"God witness, I lied.\"\n\n\"Ah--!\"\n\n\"The woman lives--is at Tintagel.\"\n\n\"Man--\"\n\n\"Give me life, sire, give me life; you shall have her.\"\n\nUther looked at him and heaved up his sword. Gorlois saw the King's\nface, gave a great cry, and cowered behind his hands. It was all ended\nin a moment. The rain washed his gilded harness as he lay with his\nblood soaking into the heather.\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\n\nAs the world grew grey with waking light Uther the King came from the\nwoods, and heard the noise of the sea in the hush that breathed in the\ndawn. The storm had passed over the ocean, and a vast quiet hung upon\nthe lips of the day. In the east a green streak shone above the hills.\nThe sky was still aglitter with sparse stars, and an immensity of gloom\nbrooded over the sea.\n\nGaunt, wounded, triumphant, he rode up beneath the banners of the dawn,\neager yet fearful, inspired and strong of purpose. Wood and hill slept\nin a haze of mist; the birds were only beginning in the thickets, like\nthe souls of children yet unborn calling to eternity. Beyond, on the\ncliffs, Tintagel, wrapped round with night, stood silent and sombre\nathwart the west.\n\nUther climbed from the valley as the day came with splendour, a glow\nas of molten gold streaming from the east. Wood and hillside glimmered\nin a smoking mist, dew-brilliant, wonderful. As the sun rose the sea\nstretched sudden into the arch of the west--a great pavement of gold.\nA mysterious lustre hovered over the cliffs; waves of light beat like\nsaffron spray upon Tintagel.\n\nThe dawn-light found an echo on Uther's face. He came that morning the\nransomer, the champion, a King indeed; Spring bursting the thongs of\nWinter; Day thrusting back the Night. His manhood smote in him like the\ndeep-throated cry of a great bell, voluminous and solemn. The towers on\nthe cliff were haloed with magic hues. Life, glory, joy, lay locked in\nthe grey stone walls. His heart sang in him, and his eyes were afire.\n\nAs he walked his horse with a hollow thunder of hoofs over the bridge,\nhe took his horn and blew a blast thereon. There was a quiet, a\nlifelessness, about the place that smote his senses, bodying forth\nmystery. The walls were void against the sky. At the sound of the\nhorn there came no stirring of armed men, no answering fanfare, no\nglimmering of faces at the casements. Only the gulls circled from the\ncliffs, and the sea made its moan along the strand.\n\nUther sat in the saddle and looked from tower to battlement, from\nbattlement to gate. There was something tragic about the place, the\nsilence of a sacked town, the ghostliness of a ship sailing the seas\nwith a dead crew upon her deck. Uther's glance rested on the open\npostern, an empty streak in the great gate. His face darkened somewhat;\nhis eyes lost their sanguine glow. There was something betwixt death\nand treachery in all this quiet.\n\nHe dismounted and left his horse on the bridge. The postern beckoned\nhim. He went in like a man nerved for peril, with sword drawn and\nshield above his head, ready for blows in dark corners. Again he blew\nhis horn. The blast rang and resounded under the arch of the gate. No\nman came to answer or avenge it.\n\nThe guard-room door stood ajar; Uther thrust it open with the point\nof his sword and looked in. A grey light filtered through the narrow\nwindows. The place was like the cave of the Seven Sleepers. Men, women,\nguards, servants, were huddled on the benches and on the floor. Some\nlay fallen across the settles; others sat with their heads fallen\nforwards upon the table; a few had crawled towards the door. They were\ncast in every posture, every attitude, bleak, stiff, and motionless.\nSome had froth upon their lips, glistening eyes, clenched fingers. The\nshadow of death was over the whole.\n\nThe King's face was as grey as the faces of the dead. He had looked for\nhuman throes, perils, strong hands, and the vehemence of man. There\nwas something here, a calm horror, a mystery that hurled back the warm\ncourage of the heart. Prophecy lurked open-mouthed in the shadows.\nUther shouldered his sword, passed out, and drew to the door.\n\nIn the great court he looked round him like a traveller who has\nstumbled upon a city wrapped in a magic sleep. Urged on by manifold\nforebodings, and knowing the place of old, he went first to the State\nquarters and hunted the rooms through and through. The same silence met\nhim everywhere. In the great hall he came upon a ring of corpses round\na table, a ring of men in armour, stiff and rigid as stone, with wine\nand fruit mocking their staring eyes. In the lodging of the women he\nfound a lady laid on a couch by an open window. Her fair hair swept the\npillow; her eyes were wide and glazed; an open casket lay on the bed,\nand strings of jewels were scattered on the coverlet. The woman's face\nwas white as apple blossom; she had a half-eaten pomegranate in her\nhand.\n\nUther passed from the death-chamber of Morgan la Blanche to the garden.\nThe shadows of the place, the staring faces, the stiff hands clawing\nat things inanimate, were like phantasms of the night. He took the sea\nair into his nostrils, and looked into the blue realism of the sky.\nAll about him the garden glistened in the dawn, the cypresses shimmered\nwith dew, the pool was like a steel buckler on cloth of green. Here was\nthe placid life of flowers making very death the more apparent to his\nsoul.\n\nAs he stood in deep thought, half dreading what he still half knew,\na voice called to him, breaking suddenly the ponderous silence of\nthe place. A face showed overhead at the upper window in the tower;\na hand beckoned and pointed towards the tower's entry. Here at last\nwas something quick and tangible in the flesh, something that could\nspeak of the handicraft of death. Uther climbed the stairs and found\nMalmain's body by the well. When he had looked at the woman's face and\nseen blood he paid no more heed to her. She was only one among many.\n\nGuided by a voice, Uther unlatched the door and passed in with sword\ndrawn. A man met him on the threshold, a man with the face of a Dante,\nand shaven lip and chin. It was the face of Merlin.\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\n\nWithout the gate of Tintagel stood Uther the King looking out towards\nthe eastern hills clear against the calm of the sky. He stood\nbare-headed, like one in prayer; his face was strong, yet wistful and\npatient as a sick child's. At his elbow waited Merlin, silent and\ninscrutable. Much had passed between them in that upper room, that room\nmore hallowed to Uther than the rock tomb of the Christ.\n\n\"Ever, ever night,\" he said, stretching out his hands as to an eternal\nvoid.\n\nMerlin's eyes seemed to look leagues away over moor, hill, and valley.\nA strange tenderness played upon his lips, and there was a radiance\nupon his face impossible to describe. It was like the face of a lover,\na dreamer of dreams.\n\n\"A man is a mystery to himself,\" he said.\n\n\"But to God?\"\n\n\"I know no God, save the god my own soul. Let me live and die, nothing\nmore. Why curse one's life with a 'to be'?\"\n\nUther sighed heavily.\n\n\"It is a kind of fate to me,\" he said, \"inevitable as the setting of\nthe sun, natural as sleep. Not for myself do I fear it.\"\n\n\"Let Jehovah follow Jupiter into the chaos of fable. Sire, look yonder.\"\n\nMerlin's eyes had caught life on the distant hillsides, life surging\nfrom the valleys, life, and the glory of it. Harness, helm, and shield\nshone in the sun. Gold, azure, silver, scarlet, were creeping from the\nbronzed green of the wilds. Silent and solemn the host rolled gradual\ninto the full splendour of the day.\n\nUther's eyes beheld them through a mist of tears.\n\n\"King Nentres, King Urience, and the host,\" he said.\n\n\"Even so, sire.\"\n\n\"They were bidden to follow.\"\n\n\"Loyal to their king.\"\n\nUther watched them with a great pride stealing into his eyes; he smiled\nand held his head high.\n\n\"All these are mine,\" he said.\n\nMerlin's face had kindled.\n\n\"Grapple the days to come,\" he said; \"let Scripture and old ethics rot.\nYou have a thousand knights; let them ride by stream and forest, moor\nand mere. Let them ride out and sunder like the wind.\"\n\n\"The quest of a King's heart!\"\n\n\"Sire, like a golden dawn shall she rise out of the past. Blow thy\nhorn. Let us not tarry.\"\n\n\n\n\nX\n\n\nSix days had passed. Once more the sun had tossed night from the sky,\nand kindled hope in the hymning east. The bleak wilderness barriered by\nsea and crag had mellowed into the golden silence of autumnal woods.\nThe very trees seemed tongued with prophetic flame. The world like a\nyoung lover leapt radiant out of the dawn.\n\nThrough the reddened woods rode Uther the King with Merlin silent at\nhis side. Gloom still reigned on the gaunt, strong face, and there was\nno lustre in the eyes that challenged ever the lurking shade of death.\nSix nights and six days had the quest been baffled. Near and far armour\nglimmered in the reddened sanctuaries of the woods. Not a trumpet\nbrayed, though the host had scattered in search of a woman's face.\n\nAt the seventh dawn the trees drew back before the King, where the\nshimmering waters of a river streaked the meads. Peace dwelt there, and\na calm eternal, as of the Spirit that heals the throes of men. Rare and\ngolden lay the dawn-light on the valley. The song of birds came glad\nand multitudinous as in the burgeoning dawn of a glorious May.\n\nUther had halted under a great oak. His head was bare in the\nsun-steeped shadows; his face was as the face of one weary with long\nwatching under the voiceless stars. Hope, like a dewless rose, drooped\nshaken and thirsty with desire. Great dread possessed him. He dared not\nquestion his own soul.\n\nA horn sounded in the woods, wild, clamorous and exultant. It was as\nthe voice of a prophet cleaving the despair of a godless world. Even\nthe trees stood listening. Far below in the green shadows of the valley\na horseman moved brilliant as a star that portents the conception of a\nking.\n\nUther's eyes were on the horseman in the valley.\n\n\"I am even as a child,\" he said.\n\nMerlin's lips quivered.\n\n\"The dawn breaks, sire, the night is past. Tidings come to us. Let us\nride on.\"\n\nUther seemed sunk in thought; he bowed his head, and looked long into\nthe valley.\n\n\"Am I he who slew Gorlois?\"\n\n\"Courage, sire.\"\n\n\"My blood is as water, my heart as wax. Death and destiny are over my\nhead.\"\n\n\"Speak not of destiny, sire, and look not to the skies. In himself is\nman's power. Thou hast broken the crucifix. Now trust thine own soul.\nSo long as thou didst serve a superstition, thou didst lose thy true\nheaven.\"\n\n\"And yet--\"\n\n\"Thou hast played the god, sire, and the Father in heaven must love\nthee for thy strength. God loves the strong. He will let thee rule\ndestiny, and so prosper.\"\n\n\"Strange words!\"\n\n\"But true. Were I God, should I love the priest puling prayers in a\nden? Nay, that man should be mine who moved godlike in the world, and\nstrangled fate with the grip of truth. Great deeds are better than\nprayers. See! it is young Tristan who comes.\"\n\nThe horseman in the valley had swept at a gallop through a sea of\nsun-bronzed fern. He was a young knight on a black horse, caparisoned\nin green and gold. A halo of glistening curls aureoled his boyish face;\nhis eyes were full of a restless radiance, the eyes of a man whose\nheart was troubled. He sprang from the saddle, and leading his horse by\nthe bridle, kissed the scabbard of Uther's sword.\n\n\"Tidings, sire.\"\n\n\"Tristan, I listen.\"\n\nThe knight looked for a moment into the King's face, but dared not\nabide the trial. There was such a stare of desperate calm in the dark\neyes, that the lad's courage whimpered, and quailed from the truth. He\nhung his head, and stood mute.\n\n\"Tristan, I listen.\"\n\n\"Sire--\"\n\n\"My God, man, speak out!\"\n\n\"Sire--\"\n\n\"The truth.\"\n\n\"She lives, sire!\"\n\nA great silence fell within the hearts of the three, an ecstasy of\nsilence such as comes after the wail of a storm. Merlin stroked his\nlip, and smiled, the smile of one who dreams. The King's face was as\nthe face of one who thrusts back hope out of his soul. He sat rigid\non his horse, a scarlet image fronting Fate, grim-eyed and steadfast.\nThere were tears in the eyes of Tristan the knight.\n\n\"What more?\"\n\nTristan leant against his horse, his arm hooked over the brute's neck.\n\n\"In the valley, sire, is a sanctuary; you can see it yonder by the\nford. Two holy women dwell therein. To them, sire, I commend you.\"\n\n\"You know more!\"\n\n\"Sire, spare me. The words are for women's lips, not for mine.\"\n\n\"So be it.\"\n\nThe three rode on in silence; Merlin and Tristan together, looking\nmutely in each other's faces. Uther's chin was bowed on his breast. The\nreins lay loose on his horse's neck.\n\nA grey cell of unfaced stone showed amid the green boughs beyond the\nwater. At its door stood a woman in a black mantle. A cross hung from\nher neck, and a white kerchief bound her hair. She stood motionless,\nhalf in the shadow, watching the horsemen as they rode down to the\nrippling ford.\n\nAutumn had touched the sanctuary garden, and the King's eyes beheld\nruin as he climbed the slope. The woman had come from the cell, and\nnow stood at the wicket-gate, with her hands folded as in prayer.\nTristan took Uther's bridle. The King went on foot alone to speak with\nthe anchoress.\n\n\"Sire,\" she said, kneeling at his feet, \"God save and comfort you.\"\n\nThe man's brow was twisted into furrows. His right hand clasped his\nleft wrist. He looked over the woman's head into the woods, and\nbreathed fast through clenched teeth.\n\n\"Speak,\" he said.\n\n\"Sire, the woman lives.\"\n\n\"I can bear the truth.\"\n\nThe anchoress made the sign of the cross.\n\n\"She came to us, sire, here in this valley, a tall lady, with golden\nhair loose upon her neck. Her feet were bare and bleeding, her robe\nrent with thorns. And as she came, she sang wild snatches, such as\ntell of love. We took her, sire, and gave her meat and drink, bathed\nher torn feet, and gave her raiment. So, she abode with us, gentle and\nlovely, yet speaking like one who had suffered, even to death. And yet,\neven as we slept, she stole away from us last night, and now is gone.\"\n\nThe woman had never so much as lifted her eyes to the man's face. Her\nhands held her crucifix, and she was pale as new-hewn stone.\n\n\"And is this all?\"\n\nThe man's voice trembled in his throat; his face shone in the sun.\n\n\"Not all, sire.\"\n\n\"Say on.\"\n\nThe anchoress had buried her face in her black mantle; her voice was\nhusky as with tears.\n\n\"Sire, you seek one bereft of reason.\"\n\n\"Mad!\"\n\n\"Alas!\"\n\n\"My God, this then is the end!\"\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\n\nAn indefinite melancholy overshadowed the world. Autumn breathed in the\nwind; the year was rushing red-bosomed to its doom.\n\nOn the summit of a wood-crowned hill, rising like a pyramid above moor\nand forest, two men stood silent under the shadow of an oak. In the\ndistance the sea glimmered; and by a rock upon the hillside, armed\nknights, a knot of spears, shone like spirit sentinels athwart the\nwest. Mists were creeping up the valleys as the sun went down into the\nsea. A few stars, dim and comfortless, gleamed out like souls still\ntortured by the platitudes of Time. An inevitable pessimism seemed to\nchallenge the universe, taking for its parable the weird afterglow in\nthe west.\n\nDeep in the woods a voice was singing, wild and solitary in the\ngathering gloom. Like the cry of a ghost, it seemed to set the silence\nquivering, the leaves quaking with a windless awe. The men who looked\ntowards the sea heard it, a song that echoed in the heart like woe.\n\n\"Sire, there is yet hope.\"\n\n\"Life grows dim, and dreams elapse in fire.\"\n\nMerlin pointed into the darkening woods. His eyes shone crystal bright,\nand there was a great radiance upon his face.\n\n\"Sire, trust thine own heart, and the god in thee. Through superstition\nthou hast been brought nigh unto death and to despair. Trust not in\npriestcraft, grapple God unto thy soul. The laws of men are carven upon\nstone, the laws of heaven upon the heart. Be strong. From henceforth\nscorn mere words. Trample custom in the dust. Trust thyself, and the\ngod in thy heart.\"\n\nThe distant voice had sunk into silence. Uther listened for it with\nhand aloft.\n\n\"Yonder--heaven calls,\" he said.\n\n\"Go, sire.\"\n\n\"I must be near her--through the night.\"\n\n\"And lo!--the moon stands full upon the hills. You shall bless me yet.\"\n\nDim were the woods that autumn evening, dim and deep with an ecstasy of\ngloom. Stars flickered in the heavens; the moon came, and broidered the\ntrees with silver flame. A prim\u00e6val calm lay heavy upon the bosom of\nthe night. The spectral branches of the trees were rigid and prayerful\ntowards the sky.\n\nUther had left Merlin gazing out upon the shimmering sea. The voice\ncalled him from the woods with plaintive peals of song. The man\nfollowed, holding to a grass-grown track that curled purposeless into\nthe gloom. Moonlight and shadow were alternate upon his armour. Hope\nand despair were mimicked upon his face. His soul leapt voiceless and\ninarticulate into the darkened shrine of prayer.\n\nThe voice came to him clearer in the forest calm. The gulf had\nnarrowed; the words flew as over the waters of death. They were pure,\nyet reasonless, passionate, yet void, words barbed with an utter pathos\nthat wounded desire.\n\nFor an hour the King followed in the woods, drawing ever nearer, waxing\ngreat with prayer. Anon the voice failed him by a little stream that\nquivered dimly through the grass. A stillness that was ghostly held\nthe woods. The moonlight seemed to shudder on the trees. A stupendous\nstupor weighed upon the world.\n\nA hollow glade opened sudden in the woods, a white gulf in the forest's\ngloom. Water shone there, a mere, rush-ringed, and full of mysterious\nshadows, girded by the bronzed foliage of stately beeches. Moss grew\nthick about the roots; dead leaves covered the grass.\n\nThe man knelt in a patch of bracken, and looked out over the glade.\nA figure went to and fro by the water's brim, a figure pale in the\nmoonlight, with a glimmering flash of unloosed hair. The man kneeling\nin the bracken pressed his hands over his breast; his face seemed to\nstart out of the gloom like the face of one who struggles in the sea,\nsubmerged, yet desperate.\n\nUther saw the woman halt beside the mere. He saw her bend, take water\nin her palms, and dash it in her face. Standing in the moonlight she\nsmoothed her hair between her fingers, her hands shining white against\nthe dark bosom of her dress. She seemed to murmur to herself the while,\nwords wistful and full of woe. Once she thrust her hands to the sky and\ncried, \"Pelleas! Pelleas!\" The man kneeling in the shadow quivered like\na wind-shaken reed.\n\nThe moon climbed higher, and the woman by the mere spread her cloak\nupon a patch of heather, and laid herself thereon. Not a sound\nravaged the silence; the woods were mute, the air rippleless as the\nsteel-surfaced water. An hour passed. The figure on the heather lay\nstill as an effigy upon a tomb. The man in the bracken cast one look at\nthe stars, crossed himself, and crept out into the moonlight.\n\nHolding the scabbard of his sword, he skirted the mere with shimmering\narmour, went down upon his knees, and crawled slowly over the grass.\nHours seemed to elapse before the black patch of heather spread crisp\nand dry beneath his hands. Breathing through dilating nostrils, he\ntrembled like a craven who creeps to stab a sleeping friend. The\nmoonlight showered vivid as with a supernatural glory. Tense anguish\ncrowded the night with sound.\n\nTwo more paces, and he was close at the woman's side. The heather\ncrackled beneath his knees. He held his breath, crept nearer, and\nknelt so near that he could have kissed the woman's face. Her head lay\npillowed on her arm, her hair spread in a golden sheet beneath it. Her\nbosom moved with the rhythmic calm of dreamless sleep. Her lips were\nparted in a smile. One hand was hid in the dark folds of her robe.\n\nUther knelt with upturned face, his eyes shut to the sky. He seemed\nlike one faint with pain; his lips moved as in prayer. A hundred\ninarticulate pleadings surged heavenwards from his heart.\n\n[Illustration: \"SHALL I NOT BE YOUR WIFE\"]\n\nAgain he bowed himself and watched the woman as she slept. A strange\ncalm fell for a season upon his face; his eyes never wavered from the\nwhite arm and the glimmering hair. Vast awe possessed him. He was like\na child who broods tearless and amazed over the calm face of a dead\nmother.\n\nHours passed, and the man found no sustenance save in prayer. The\nunuttered yearnings of a world seemed molten in his soul. The moon\nwaned; the stars grew dim. Sounds oracular were moving in the forest,\nthe mysterious breathing of a thousand trees. Life ebbed and flowed\nwith the sigh of a moon-stupored sea. Visions blazed in the night sky.\nThe portals of heaven were open; the sound of harping fell like silver\nrain out of the clouds; the faces of saints shone radiant through\npurple gloom.\n\nHours passed, and neither sleeper nor watcher stirred. The night grew\nfaint, the water flickered in the mere. The very stars seemed to gaze\nupon the destinies of two wearied souls. Death hid his countenance.\nChrist walked the earth.\n\nA sudden sound of light, and the stirring of a wind. Far and faint came\nthe quaver of a bird's note. Grey and mysterious stood the forest's\nspires. Light! Spears of amber darting in the east. A shudder seemed to\nshake the universe. The vault kindled. The sky grew great with gold.\n\nIt was the dawn.\n\nEven as the light increased the man knelt and lifted up his face unto\nthe heavens. Hope, glorious, seemed to fall sudden out of the east, a\nradiant faith begotten of spirit power. Banners of gold were streaming\nin the sky. The gloom elapsed. A vast expectancy hung solemn upon the\nred lips of the day.\n\nIgraine sighed in her sleep. Her mouth quivered, her hair stirred\nsudden in the heather, tendrils of gold that shivered in the sun.\nUther, kneeling, lifted up his hands with one long look to heaven.\nPrayer burnt upon his face. He strove, Jacob-like, with God.\n\nA second sigh, and the long lashes quivered. The lips moved, the eyes\nopened.\n\n\"Igraine! Igraine!\"\n\nSudden silence followed, a vast hush as of hope. The woman's eyes were\nsearching silently the man's face. He bent and cowered over her like\none who weeps. His hands touched her body, yet she did not stir.\n\n\"Igraine! Igraine!\"\n\nIt was a hoarse, passionate cry that broke the golden stupor of the\ndawn. Sudden light leapt lustrous in the woman's eyes; her face shone\nradiant amid her hair.\n\n\"Pelleas!\"\n\nThe man's arms circled her. She half crouched in his bosom, her face\npeering into his.\n\n\"Pelleas!\"\n\n\"At last!\"\n\nA great shudder passed through her; her eyes grew big with fear.\n\n\"Speak!\"\n\n\"Igraine.\"\n\n\"Gorlois?\"\n\n\"Gorlois is dead.\"\n\nGreat silence held for a moment. The woman's head sank down upon the\nman's shoulder; madness had passed; her eyes were fixed on his with a\nwonderful earnestness, a splendid calm.\n\n\"Is this a dream?\"\n\n\"It is the truth.\"\n\nPresently she gave a great sigh, and looked strangely at the sun. Her\nvoice came soft as music over water.\n\n\"I have dreamed a dream,\" she said, \"and all was dark and fearful.\nDeath seemed near, and shadows, and things from hell. I knew not what\nI did, nor where I wandered, nor what strange stupor held my soul. All\nwas dark about me, horrible midnight peopled with foul forms. It has\npassed; now, I behold the dawn.\"\n\nThe man lifted up his voice and wept.\n\n\"My God! my God! out of hell hast thou brought my soul. Never again\nshall my vile lips blaspheme.\"\n\nAnd Igraine comforted him.\n\n\"Shall I not be your wife?\" she said.\n\n\nTHE END\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTranscriber's Notes:\n\nItalic text is denoted by _underscores_.\n\nMinor punctuation and printer errors repaired.\n\nEvery effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as\npossible, including obsolete and variant spellings, inconsistent\nhyphenation, and other inconsistencies.","title":"Uther and Igraine","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":125001}