“My Lord Gorlois trusts you?”
“He has said so, madame.”
“And am I not his wife?”
Brastias put the scroll aside with a constrained deliberation. He felt himself wholly in the wrong, as he always did before a woman, and his wit ran clumsily on such occasions. It had needed but the observation of a child to mark the gulf between Gorlois and his wife. Gorlois had spoken few words on the matter, had given commands and nothing more. Brastias was not the man to tamper officiously with the confidences of others. He thought much, said little, and bided quiet for Igraine to speak.
She stood half-turned towards the fire, with her face in profile, and her hands hanging limply at her side. Looking for all the world like a penitent, she spoke with a certain unconscious pathos, as though she touched on a matter that was heavy upon her heart.
“Brastias, I may call you a friend?”
“I trust so, madame.”
“Then there is no reason for me to be backward in speaking of the truth?”
The man bowed and said nothing.
“Come then, Brastias, tell me honestly, have I seemed to you like a woman who loved her husband?”