Eudol shook his finger with most earnest expression.
“My dear lady, it is duty, duty,” he said.
They had not been so very long in the garden when Igraine’s quick ear caught the sharp and rhythmic smite of hoofs on the stony track across the meadows. The sound disquieted her, for she was in the mood for dreads and suspicions. Listening to make sure that the sound approached, she appealed to Eudol and asked him to look and see who rode for the manor. There was a little wicket-gate some way down the laurel hedge carefully screened by shrubs. Eudol went to it, and scanned the meadows under his hand. He came back somewhat flustered to Igraine, and told her that a knight in gilded armour mounted on a white horse was riding up the track to the house.
Igraine started up on her bed with her eyes very big and suspicious.
“It is Gorlois,” she said.
“Heavens, my dear!”
“You have not been lying to me?”
“On my soul—no.”
Igraine touched her forehead with her hand, and looked askance at the sun.