“Then I have slept the night through? You must be tired to death, and stiff with holding me.”
“Not so,” said Pelleas.
“I am sorry that I have been selfish,” she said. “I was asleep before I could think. Have you ridden all night?”
“Of course,” quoth he, with a smile, “and not a soul have I seen. I have been watching your face and the moon.”
Igraine coloured slightly, and looked sideways at him from under her long lashes. Her sleep had chastened her, and she felt blithe as a bird, and ready to sing. Putting the man’s scarlet cloak from her, she shook her hair from her shoulders, and sprang lightly from her seat to the grass.
“I will run at your side awhile,” she said, “and so rest you. Perhaps you will halt presently, and sleep an hour or two under a tree. I can watch and keep guard with your sword.”
Pelleas smiled down at her like the sun from behind a cloud.
“Not yet,” he said; “a soldier needs no sleep for a week, and I feel lusty as Christopher. We will go awhile before breakfast, if it please you. There is a stream near where I can water my horse, and we can make a meal from such stuff as I have. When you are tired, tell me, and I will mount you here again.”
She nodded at him gravely. Grass and flowers were well-nigh to her waist. Her gown shook showers of dew from the feathery hay. Foxgloves rose like purple rods amid the snow webs of the wild daisy. Tangled domes of dogrose and honeysuckle lined the white track, and there were countless harebells lying like a deep blue haze under the green shadows of the grass.