Igraine was very white. There seemed a race of thoughts in her as she played the statue with her eyes at gaze, and her lips drawn into a line of red. Her hands hung limply over the edge of the bed, and she seemed stiffened into musings. Lilith sidled close to her, and put her warm arms round her neck, her soft cheek to Igraine’s.
“We may learn yet,” she said.
“Uther,” said Igraine as in a dream.
“Can it be?”
Igraine drew a long breath and sighed like one waking.
“I must see him,” was all she said.
Lilith kissed her.
“I will go to the King’s house to-morrow,” she said; “the girl may tell us something of use. I have heard it said that Uther has not been in Winchester for many a week. Ah, Igraine, if it should be he.”
They looked deep in each other’s eyes, and smiled as only women can smile when their hearts are fast in sympathy. Then they went to bed in Igraine’s bed, and slept the night through in each other’s arms.