Gorlois took a deep breath, and smiled at the dark yews, sombre and mysterious behind their belt of glowing roses. Igraine was watching his face in some uneasiness. It gave the profile of a strong, stark man, whose every feature spelt alert daring and great hardihood of mind. There was a keen, half-cruel look about the tight lips and impatient eyes. She was contrasting him with Pelleas in her heart, and the dark, brooding face of lion-like mould that so haunted her left little glory for Gorlois's lighter, leaner countenance. They were both strong men, but she guessed instinctively which was the stronger. Gorlois turned suavely again, with his courage strung like a steel bow. "I am a queer fellow," he said. Igraine began to bind her hair. "If I ever loved a woman--" "Well, my lord?" "She could be ambitious to her heart's content. The more her pride flamed, the better I should like her." Igraine frowned. "She would be intolerable." Gorlois arched his eyebrows, and covered his convictions with a laugh. "Shall I tell how I should win her?" "It would be a quaint tale." "In the beginning, I should half-kill any man who braved it out that she was not the comeliest woman in Britain." "Somewhat harsh, my lord, but emphatic." "I should make her the envy of every lady, dame, and damoselle in the land." "Not wise." "Like a golden Helen should she rise in the east; blood should flow about her feet like water; I would tear down kingdoms to pile her up a throne. Such should be my wooing." Igraine looked at her lap, and said never a word for a minute or more. All these heroics were rather hollow to her ear, though she did not doubt the man's sincerity towards himself, and his earnest mind to please her. Then she asked Gorlois a very simple question. "Imagine, my lord, that the woman loved some other man?" Gorlois's answer came swift off his tongue. "I should meet him in open field, sword to sword, and shield to shield, and kill him." Igraine started suddenly, grave and grey as any beadswoman. She did not think Pelleas would have taught any such doctrine. "To you, that is love?" she asked. "What else!" Igraine thrust her silver bodkin into her hair with some vigour; there was no mirth or patience in her. "I name it murder." "Madame!" "Stark, selfish murder." Gorlois spread his hands and laughed. "What is love?" he asked. "Should I know!" "Stark selfishness,--nothing more." Igraine thought of Pelleas, and the way he had left her for knowledge of her imagined vows. Something in her heart told her that that was love indeed that had clasped thorns in the struggle to embrace truth. Therewith she wished Gorlois a very formal good-morning, refused his escort, and went straight home with the clear conviction that she had learnt something to her credit. Her talk with Gorlois had set a brighter halo about Pelleas's head.