“What would you with me, knight of the red shield?”
“There is a lady whose name is Igraine; I seek her. I have been forewarned that a knight lodging in this valley has knowledge of her, and you, messire, seem to be that knight.”
“That is the truth,” quoth the cracked, husky voice from the helmet.
Pelleas considered a moment and held his peace. There was something strange about this knight, something tragical, something that touched the heart. Pelleas’s instinct for superb miseries took hold of him with a queer, twisting grip that made him shudder. His dark eyes smouldered as he watched the strange knight, and gave voice to the grim thought that lay heavy on his mind.
“The lady is not dead?”
“No,” said the husky voice with blunt brevity.
“And she is well fortuned?”
“Passably.”
“Thank God,” said Pelleas.
There was a dry sob in the brazen helmet, but Pelleas never heard the sound. He was staring into the woods with large, luminous eyes, and a half smile on his lips, as though his thoughts pleased him.