“Then?”
“Man, man, don’t drag it out of me; don’t you see? are you blind?”
Brastias invoked a certain saint by the name of Christopher, and straightway emphasised his words by falling down on his knees beside Igraine. She had contrived to conjure up tears as she bent over the fire. Brastias found one of her hands and held it.
“This will be my lord’s salvation.”
“Think you so?”
“On my soul, my dear lady, I thank our Lord Jesu from my heart. For I know my Lord Gorlois, and the bitterness that weighed him down, though he spoke little to me on this matter, being staunch to you, and to his courtesy. And by our Lord’s Passion, madame, I love peace in a house, and quiet looks, and words like laughing water, for there is never a home where temper rules.”
“Brastias, you shame me.”
“God forbid, dear lady, there’s no gospel vanity in my heart. I speak but out.”
The man’s quaint outburst of gladness touched Igraine’s honesty to the core, but she had no thought of recantation, for all the pricking of her conscience. She passed back to the open window and leant against the mullion, while Brastias rose from his knees and followed her.