"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. Pelleas's head went down over his sword as though in thought. "It would seem," he said presently, "that beauty is a closed book, save to the few. It is good to find a heart that understands." "Ah, that know I well," she chimed; "in Avangel they had souls like clay; they saw nothing, understood nothing. I think I would rather die than be soul blind." "So many folk," said the man, "seem to live as though they were ever scanning the bottom of a pot. They never get beyond reflections on appetite." As they talked, Morgan la Blanche came in from behind the looped curtains, with silks, samites, siclatons, and sarcanets in her arms. She had found some rich chest in the bower accomplice to her fingers, and had revelled gloriously. She sat herself down near Pelleas, and began to laugh and chatter like a pleased child. The dainty stuffs were tossed this way and that, gathered into scarves or frills, spread over her lap and eyed critically as to colour, before being bound in a bale for her journey. Vain and vapid as her behaviour seemed, there was more in this little woman's heart than either Pelleas or Igraine could have guessed. Her whole mood was false. Foolish as she seemed on the surface, she was more keen, more subtle by far than Igraine, whose whole soul spelt fire and courage.