“I have heard Gratia was his aunt.”
“And aunt to Uther also?”
“Of course, seeing they are brothers.”
Igraine looked at her wooden platter, and pressed the little gold cross to her bosom with her hand. And now a strange thing happened. The old nun opposite Igraine, who was the Mistress of the Novices, brought out news that she had heard in the Abbess’s parlour that very morning.
“Uther has been seen again,” she said.
“Uther?”
The word snapped out like a bolt from a bow, and brought the nuns’ eyes on Igraine across the table.
“The man comes and goes like a shadow. He is ever riding alone to do some great deed against the beasts, or against the heathen. A great soul is Uther.”
Here were tidings dropped like dew out of heaven at the very hour she stood in need of them. Igraine felt the mist lighten appreciably in her brain. She popped an olive into her mouth and spoke almost carelessly.