Uther, his eyes lit as with a lustre of recollection, turned from Merlin and the ken of his impenetrable face. He leant against a tree trunk, and looked far away into the dwindling vistas of the woods. His voice won emphasis from the absolute silence of the place, and he spoke with the level deliberation of one reading aloud from some antique book.
“A woman befriended a knight who was smitten of a dread wound. It was summer, and a sweet season full of the scent of flowers,—odours of grass knee deep in dreamy meadows. The woman had red-gold hair, and eyes like a summer night; her mouth was more wistful than an opening rose; her voice was like a flute over moonlit waters. And the knight lost his soul to the woman. But the woman was a nun, and so, to save his vows, he battled down his love and left her.”
Merlin’s eyes took a sudden glitter.
“A nun, sire?”
“A nun.”
“With hair of red gold and eyes of amethyst. Her convent, sire?”
“Avangel. Burnt by the heathen on the southern shores.”
“And the nun’s name?”
“Igraine, Igraine.”
Merlin gave a shrill, short cry; badges of colour had stolen into his cheeks, and he looked like a Bacchanal for the moment.