Warwick Deeping

“ Men went to every wind, some to the gates, some to the market, others to the religious houses and the inns, all bent on striking the trail of a nun's grey gown. The men knew their master's mood, and the measure of his pulse on such occasions. Gorlois bided quiet in his garden, more like a leopard than a lover. He had made up his mind to catch Igraine, and to win mastery of her, hook or by crook, since she chose to play the shrew and mar his wooing. It was not likely that one of the first men in Britain should be baffled by the temper of a goldsmith's niece. ”

“ The art of medicine is the art of hypocrisy, and the sage apothecary is often a broken reed trembling in the wind of ignorance. Eudol, having no reputation at stake, pronounced Igraine's hurt to be a mere strain of the ankle-joint, and, as it happened, he was right. He swathed her foot in wet linen and set it on a pillow, while the woman who kept house for him, a red-cheeked piece of buxomness, brought wine and food-stuff on a tray. Seeing a nun's habit the good woman was comforted, and indulged Igraine with many smiles and much motherly care. ”

“ Then he turned past Radamanth to go, hitching up his sword belt, a significant habit he had learnt long ago.
"I shall find her," he said.
"Good, my lord."
"I have your countenance."
"Be kind to the girl, sir."
"I could go to hell for her."
"My lord, why not try heaven?"
"A good jest."
"Men always go to hell for things," said the goldsmith.
There was life and stir enough in Gorlois's great house when its master came back that morning. Gorlois's orders were like a torch to tinder. ”