“Sire, sire, the woman is no nun.”
Uther still leant against the tree, and looked into the distance with his hand shadowing his eyes. It might have seemed that he had not heard the words spoken by Merlin, or at least had not understood their meaning, so unmoved was his look, so motionless his figure. Unutterable thoughts were moving in his mind. There was a grandeur of self-suppression on his face as he turned and fronted Merlin with the quiet of a great strength.
“Man, what words are these?”
Merlin had recoiled suddenly within himself. He was silent again, subtle as steel, and very debonair.
“My lord, I swear she is no nun.”
“Give me fact, not assertion.”
“The woman is but a novice. I had the whole tale from one who knew her well at Radamanth’s in Winchester, where she found a home. She had grieved, sire, for Pelleas.”
“Pelleas—Igraine! My heart is great in me, Merlin; where saw you her last?”
“Wandering in a wood by Winchester.”