“Morgan and her men,” she said presently, “fled across the mere in the barge just after you had been stabbed. I saw them go in the moonlight. It was your cry that woke me in bed. I came and found you senseless in the corner, and the woman and her rascals making off in the boat. One of the men must have smitten you while you slept.”
Pelleas kept silence for a while, as though he were thinking hard.
“Show me the knife,” he said anon.
Igraine had washed away the stains, and laid it aside in a corner. She held it up now before Pelleas’s eyes as he lay in bed. He took it from her with trembling hands, and handled it, his face darkening.
“This is my own poniard,” he said, “the poniard I left in the heart of the man in Andredswold. Look, girl, look! Search and see, mayhap you may find a cross.”
Igraine did his bidding, and searched the pavement, but found nothing. Then she came back to the bed, and began to turn the cushions up here and there, and to scan the tiled floor. Sure enough, under the foot of the bed, she found a small gold cross lying, smeared lightly with dried blood. She took it up and gave it to Pelleas. He caught and held it with a terse cry.