Igraine found lodging that night in the great abbey of St. Helena that Pelleas had spoken of on their ride from the island manor. Posing to the portress as one who had wandered long after her escape from Avangel, she was taken to the refectory, where supper was being spread by the juniors. The women of the place gathered round her, and Igraine inquired with some qualms for any chance news of Malt, Claudia, and the rest, but getting nothing she felt more confident. She told them her name was Melibœa, and she recounted at length the burning of Avangel and her subsequent wanderings, carefully purging the tale of all that might seem strange to their virgin ears, or set their tongues a-clacking. The women were very kind to her, partly for her own sake, and partly for the interesting gossip she had brought them. At supper she sat next a young and merry nun who shared her misericords with her. The good women of the place were suffered to talk between vespers and complines, and Igraine, sly at heart, edged the talk to a tone for which she thirsted, and began to speak to her neighbours of Gratia, Abbess of Avangel. "Did any of you know her?" she asked. "Only by fame," said a fat nun opposite Igraine. "I have heard she was near of kin to the King," said another, who drooped her lids in very modest fashion. Igraine started in thought. "Aurelius?" she said. The nun nodded. "How were they related?" "I have heard Gratia was his aunt." "And aunt to Uther also?" "Of course, seeing they are brothers." Igraine looked at her wooden platter, and pressed the little gold cross to her bosom with her hand. And now a strange thing happened. The old nun opposite Igraine, who was the Mistress of the Novices, brought out news that she had heard in the Abbess's parlour that very morning. "Uther has been seen again," she said. "Uther?" The word snapped out like a bolt from a bow, and brought the nuns' eyes on Igraine across the table. "The man comes and goes like a shadow. He is ever riding alone to do some great deed against the beasts, or against the heathen. A great soul is Uther." Here were tidings dropped like dew out of heaven at the very hour she stood in need of them. Igraine felt the mist lighten appreciably in her brain. She popped an olive into her mouth and spoke almost carelessly. "Where is Uther?" "At Sarum town. He rode, they say, to the great camp there looking like a ghost, or as though he had been playing Simeon on a pillar." Igraine merely nodded. "Uther always looks a serious soul. Have you ever seen him, sister?" "Never. A dark man?" "With a face like a sun and a thunder-cloud rolled into one." "A good man!" "So they say; he has a clean look."