“Up the valley to the dead oak tree where herbs grow. I must make a stew to-morrow.”
“It will soon be dark.”
Garlotte swung her basket and laughed from her cloud of hair.
“You gathered herbs on Sunday, Igraine.”
“You squirrel!”
“Renan was here; you came home after dusk; good-by, good-by.”
They heard her go singing through the garden, a soft chant d’amour that would have gone wondrously to flute and cithern. It died away slowly amid the trees like an elf’s song coming from woodlands in the moonlight. Pelleas drew a deep breath and listened in the shadow of the room with his hands clasped before him on the table. He looked as though he were praying. Igraine’s eyes were glooms of violet mystery as she watched him, her hands folded over a breast that rose and fell as with the restless motion of a troubled sea. She called the man softly by name; her body bent to him like a bow, her hair bathed his face with dim ripples of gold as mouth touched mouth.
They went out into the garden together and stood under the cedar tree.
“Pelleas, my love, my own.”