“Then for Sir Pelleas I will pray,” she said, “and may my gratitude avail him.”
There was silence for a space, broken by the rhythmic play of hoofs upon the road, and the dull jar of steel. Igraine was meditating further catechism, adapting her questions for the knowledge she wished for.
“You ride errant,” she said presently.
“I ride alone, madame.”
“The wold is a rude region set thick with perils.”
“Very true,” quoth the man.
“Perhaps you are a venturesome spirit.”
“I believe that I am often as careful as death.”
Igraine made her culminating suggestion.