She smiled at him and shook her head.
“No, no, Pelleas.”
“Would to God you had told me that a year ago.”
“Would to God I had.”
“It would have saved much woe.”
Igraine hung her head. The man’s words were prophetic in their honest ignorance, and the whole tale had almost rushed from her that moment but for a certain selfishness that held her mute, a fear that overpowered her. She knew the fibre of Pelleas’s soul. To tell him the truth would mean to call his honour to arms against his love, and she dreaded that thought as she dreaded death.
“I was a fool, Pelleas,” she said, with a queer intensity of tone that made the man look quickly into her eyes.
“You did not know.”
“Pardon, Pelleas, I knew your soul, how true and strong it was. God knows I tried you to the end, and bitter truth it proved to me. If you had only waited.”
“Ah, Igraine.”