Still no retort.
“By the saints, sister, you are very silent. I hope you were not kept long on that island?”
Igraine arched her eyebrows and gave the girl a stare. She knew what a coward Morgan was, and guessed she was in a holy panic, despite her cool impudence and seeming ease of mind. Woman-like, she conceived a sudden strong desire to have Morgan whimpering and grovelling at her feet, for there is some satisfaction in terrorising an enemy, even if one can do no more.
“I presume, madame,” she said, “you thought me safely packed away in that island, and likely to die of hunger, or be taken by heathen.”
Morgan forced a smile, and began to bind her hair for the sake of having something to do in the full glare of Igraine’s great eyes.
“You did not think I could swim.”
“Madame, I could think anything of you. Nuns are so clever.”
“After all, I am not a nun.”
“Of course not. You could not be bothered with vows in summer-time. I turned nun myself once for a month, it being convenient.”