He made a sign with his hand, and the birds went wheeling in circles above him. The dog crept up and thrust his snout into the old man’s palm. The garden lay above them, ripe with an autumn mellowness; yet there was no regret though winter would soon be piping, and the man’s hair was grey.
“What think you of life?” said Igraine.
“You should know, sister, as well as I.”
“But you see, father, I am not a nun,—only a novice.”
He stared at her a moment with a slight smile.
“Remain a novice,” he said.
“You advise me so!”
“Why subordinate your soul to chains forged of men.”
“These seem strange words.”
He patted his dog’s head, and, half stooping, looked at her with keen grey eyes.