“Kneel not to me.”
“Igraine.”
“Pelleas.”
“Let me touch you.”
“There, there, you have my hand.”
“My God, my God!”
Igraine gave a low cry, half knelt, half fell before him. Pelleas’s arms caught her, his face hung over hers, her hair fell down and trailed a golden pool upon the grass. She put her hands up and touched his hair, smiled wonderfully, and looked at him as though she were dying.
“Kiss me, Pelleas.”
Pelleas drew a deep breath; his body seemed to quake; his whole soul was sucked up by the girl’s lips.
“Igraine,” was all he said.