Morgan, with her face as white as her bosom, drew the comb from her hair, and flourished it uneasily betwixt her fingers. She was frightened as a mouse at the tall girl standing big and imperious so near, and her eyes were furtive for chance of flight. Igraine in her heart was in no less quandary than was dead Madan's wife. She could prove nothing against the woman, for Pelleas was lost and away, and even the man's name might be a myth likely to involve further mystery. She had as much to fear too from Morgan's tongue, as Morgan had from her knowledge of that night in the island manor. Morgan, too flurried for sudden measures, sat biting her lips, while her blue eyes were fixed on Igraine with a restless caution. Neither woman said a word for fully a minute, but eyed each other like a couple of cats, each waiting for the other to move. The shrubs around were so still that you might imagine they were listening, while Cupid, poised on one foot, drew his bow very much at a venture. "Good-morning, holy sister." Igraine said never a word. "I am glad to see you so improved in dress, that olive-green gown looks so well on you." 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." Igraine began to fret and to lose patience. "You are over venturesome, madame," she said, "in coming to Winchester." "So!" "I believe they hang folk here at times; they might even break your slim white neck." Morgan's lips twitched, but she did not blench from the argument. "You speak of hanging," she said, "and the inference is rather peculiar. Listen a moment, my good convent saint: your knight on the black horse would most certainly have needed the rope, if my man had not mended vengeance with that poniard." "Pelleas and the gallows! You're a fool!" Morgan smiled back at her very prettily. "After all, your man did first murder," she said. "On a traitor cur in Andredswold!" "Madame, my husband."