“It is strange to me after Avangel.”
“Perhaps more beautiful.”
“Ah,” she said, with a sudden kindling; "I think my whole soul was made for beauty, my whole desire born for fair and lovely things. You will smile at me for a dreamer, but often my thoughts seem to fly through forests—marvellous green glooms all drowned in moonlight. I love to hear the wind, to watch the great oaks battling, to see the sea one laugh of gold. Every sunset harrows me into a moan of woe. I can sing to the stars at night—songs such as the woods weave from the voice of a gentle wind, dew-ladened, green and lovely. Sometimes I feel faint for sheer love of this fair earth."
Pelleas’s eyes were on her with a strange deep look. His dark face was aglow with a new wonder, as though his soul had flashed to hers. The great sword lay naked and idle in his hands.
“Often have I felt thus,” he said, “but my lips could never say it. Thoughts are given to some without words.”
“But the joy is there,” she answered, with a quiet smile.
“Joy in beauty?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, girl, a beautiful face, or a blaze of gold and scarlet over the western hills, are like strange wine to my heart.”
“Yes, yes, it is grand to live,” said Igraine.