She was almost clamorous. Pelleas plunged on.
“Gorlois told me how his wife was faithless to him, how she had fled with Brastias, the knight who had ward over her at Caerleon. I never knew her name until this hour.”
The words might have fallen like the strokes of a lash. Igraine stood and stared at the man, her open mouth a black circle, her eyes expressionless for the moment, like the eyes of one smitten blind. The full meaning of the words numbed her and hindered her understanding. A babel of shame sounded in her ears. The sinister intent of the man’s accusation rose gradual before her reason like the distorted image of a dream. She felt cold to the core; a strange terror possessed her.
“Pelleas, what have you said to me?”
Her voice was a mere whisper. Pelleas hung his head and said never a word. His silence seemed to fling sudden fire into Igraine’s eyes, and her face flamed like a sunset. It might have been Gorlois who stood and challenged the honour of her soul.
“Man, tell me what is in your heart.”
Her voice was shrill—even imperious. Pelleas hung his head.
“Gorlois keeps poison for his wife,” were his words.
Igraine’s lips curled.
“A sword for Brastias.”