A second and larger cloud of dust had appeared, a mile or less beyond the first. Pelleas watched it awhile, and then turned and began riding at a trot towards the west, so that the three fugitives should overtake him. He bade Igraine keep watch over his shoulder while he scanned the meadows before them for sign of peril or of friendly harbour.
“Have no fear, child,” he said; “I could vow, by these fields, that there is a manor near. I trust confidently that we shall find refuge.”
Igraine smiled at him.
“I am no coward,” she said.
“That is well spoken.”
“I would, though, that you would give me your dagger, so that, if things come to an evil pass, I shall know how to quit myself.”
“My dagger!” he said, with a sudden stare. “I left it in the man’s heart in Andredswold.”
“Ah!” said Igraine; “then I must do without.”
The dull thunder of the nearing gallop came up to them—a stirring sound, full of terse life and eager hazard. Pelleas spurred to a canter, while Igraine’s hair blew about his face and helmet as they began to meet the kiss of the wind. She clung fast to him with both hands, and told what was passing on the road in their rear.
“How they ride,” she said; “a tangle of dust and whirling hoofs. There is a lady in blue on a white horse, with an armed man on either flank. They are very near now. I can see the heathen far away over the meadows. They are galloping, too, in a smoke of dust. Our folk will be with us soon.”