In a narrow part of the track Mark stopped suddenly, and stood leaning on his spear. Jehan nearly blundered into him, but saved himself by the help of a tuft of grass. The man’s face was on a level with the lad’s, and his eyes seemed to look into Jehan’s soul.
He pointed to the distant headland, where the towers of Tintagel rose against the sky.
“Death waits yonder,” he said.
“For whom?”
“Igraine,—Gorlois’s wife.”
Jehan looked at him with all his soul. The man was no longer the quaint, vapouring soldier, but a being of different mould, keen, solemn, even magnificent. Jehan felt himself on the verge of romance; the man’s face seemed to stare down fear.
“And Pelleas!” he said.
“Pelleas?”
“Art thou not Pelleas?”