“Yes,” he said, as though half-ashamed.
Igraine hung her head and sighed.
“Perhaps,” she said, growing suddenly shy and out of countenance, "perhaps you may have learnt the lesson of the froward heart, the heart that comes by love when it is in peril of great loss."
Brastias drew a quick, deep breath.
“By the Virgin, that’s true,” he said.
Igraine turned to the fire and hid her face from the man. There was a pathetic droop about her shoulders, a listless curving of her neck, that made Brastias picture her as burdened with some immoderate sorrow. He was an impressionable man, not in any amorous sense, but in the matter of sympathy towards his fellows. He thought he heard a catch in the girl’s breathing that boded tears. Her hair looked very soft and lustrous as it curved over her ears and neck.
“Madame Igraine.”
No answer. Brastias went a step nearer.
“Listen to me.”
A slight turning of the head in response.