“Some high deed must have been in your heart,” she said, “or probably you would not have risked so much.”
The man Pelleas did not even look at her. She felt the bridle-arm that half held her tighten unconsciously, as though he were steeling himself against her curiosity.
“Madame,” he said very gravely, “every man’s business should be for his own heart, and I do not know that I have any need to share the right or wrong of mine with others. It is a grand thing to be able to keep one’s own counsel. It is enough for you to know my name.”
Igraine none the less was not a bit abashed.
“There is one thing I would hear,” she said, “and that is how you came to know of the abbess Gratia.”
For the moment the man looked black, and his lips were stern—
“You may know if you wish,” he said.
“Well?”
“Madame, the Lady Gratia was my mother.”
Igraine felt a flood of sudden shame burst redly into her heart. Gratia was the man’s mother, and she had been plying him with questions, cruelly curious. She caught a short, shallow breath, and hung her head, shrinking like a prodigal.