“You are sad, Pelleas,” she said.
“I am only thinking, Igraine.”
“I am sorry to leave this place.”
Pelleas sighed for answer. With a contradictory spirit, born of pain, he longed for night and the peace it would not bring. Something swore to him that he was more to the girl than man had ever been, and yet she seemed happy when he compared her humour with his own. The possibility that she could dream of broken vows was never in his thought. He could only believe that her heart was less deep than his, and the thought only added bitterness to his mead of sorrow.
“Igraine,” he said anon.
She turned to him.
“You love life?”
“Truth, Pelleas, I do.”
“Then love it not, girl.”
“Ah!”