“Ah, Igraine, am I a king!”
“My king, sire. And oh! how long it was before I could get news of you; yet in time tidings came. Then it was that I left Winchester, went on foot through the land, and hearing again of you I set out for Wales and Caerleon with rumours of war in my ears. Even from Caerleon I followed you, even to the western sea, where I saw the great battle with Gilomannius, and the noble deeds you did there for Britain.”
Pelleas’s dark eyes flashed up to hers. A man loves to be noble in deed before the face of the woman he serves, a species of divine vanity that begets heroes. The girl’s staunch faith was a thing that proffered the superbest flattery.
“You are very wonderful, Igraine.”
“It was all for my own heart; and what greater joy could I have than to see you a king before the thundering swords of your knights.”
“You saw that, Igraine?”
“Do you remember a hillock by the pine forest on the ridge, where you reined in after the charge and uncovered your head to the sun?”
“As it were yesterday.”
“I stood on that hillock, Pelleas, and saw your face after many months.”