“Am I a scullion?”
“You should know, my lord.”
“I have not bled for nothing.”
“As you will.”
“What have you to say to me?”
Igraine lost all patience, tossed her embroidery aside, and simply flashed out at him with all her soul.
“Say!” she said; “I have somewhat to say, and that bitter; listen if you will. You, Gorlois of Cornwall, who bade you make my name a byword in Winchester? Listen to me,—hear the truth, and profit—you who pestered me with mad tricks till I hated it all and held it insolence. Who asked you to make me gossip for a city, did I? Who took your presents? Who told you the truth? Who threw your token under the hoofs of your horse to shame you? I have mocked you enough, now leave me in peace, or rue it.”
“By God, madame—”
“Don’t echo me. Go, get out of my sight; I hate you!”
Gorlois flushed to the temples in this wind of passion. The girl looked splendid to him in her great anger, her head thrown back and her eyes steady on him as stars. The scorn of her beauty leapt over him like crimson light, and he was more a sensation than a man. He had a great thirst in him to grip her with his hands, to bend her straight body as he would bend a bow, to strangle up the scorn in her throat with his own breath. He went near her, stooping and staring in her face.