XII
Igraine stood and watched Pelleas as he knelt in the grass at her feet with his face hidden from her by his hands. She saw the curve of his strong neck, the sweep of his great shoulders. She even counted the steel plates in his shoulder pieces, and marked the tinge of grey in his coronal of hair.
Calm had come upon her with the trust won by the confessional of the sword. She felt sure of the man in her heart, and eased of a double burden since she had told him the truth and brought him to a declaration of his faith. She knew well from instinct that her honour stood sure in Pelleas’s heart.
Going to him, she bent and touched his head with her hand.
“Pelleas,” she said very softly.
The man groaned and would not look at her.
“Mea culpa, mea culpa!” was his cry.
Igraine smiled like a young mother as she put his hands from his face with a gradual insistence. It was right that he should kneel to her, but it was also right that she should forgive and forget like a woman. Yet as she stood and held his hands in hers, Pelleas hung his head and would not so much as look into her face. He was convicted in his own heart, and contrite according to the deep measure of his manhood.
Igraine touched his hair softly with her fingers, and there was a great light in her eyes as she bent over him.