Uther and Igraine by Warwick Deeping

It was early and a clear dewy morning when Uther rode down alone from the palace by a narrow track that curled through the shrubberies clothing the palace hill. A generous sky piled its blue dome with mountainous clouds that billowed up above the horizon. The laurels in the shrubbery flickered their leaves like innumerable scales of silver in the sun; amber sun rays slanted through the dense branches of the yews, and flashed on the red harness that burnt down the winding track. The wind sang, the green larches tossed their 'kerchiefs, in the distance the sea glimmered to the white frescoes of the sky.

Uther -- Pelleas once more -- tossed his spear to the tall trees, and burst into the brave swing of a _chant d'amour_. With caracole and flapping mane his horse took his lord's humour. It was weather to live and love in, weather for red lips and the clouding down of perfumed hair. God and the Saints -- what a grand thing to be strong, to have a clean heart to show to a woman's eyes! What were all the baser fevers of life balanced against the splendid madness of a great passion!