"Then I mistake," said the Knight. "But I felt certain I had heard the name, and that the owner thereof had some knowledge of my movements. Now, I pray thee, dear Heart, tell me all."

So sitting there on the ramparts of her old home, the stillness of the fragrant summer night all around, Mora told from the beginning the wondrous history of the trance of Mary Antony, and the blessed vision then vouchsafed to her.

The Knight listened with glowing eyes. Once he interrupted to exclaim: "Oh, true! Most true! More true than thou canst know. Left alone in thy cell, I kneeled to our Lady, saying those very words: 'Mother of God, send her to me! Take pity on a hungry heart, a lonely home, a desolate hearth, and send her to me.' I was alone. Only our Lady whom I besought, heard those words pass my lips."

Again Hugh kneeled, kissed the medallion, and lifted to heaven eyes luminous with awe and worship.

Continuing, Mora told him all, even to each detail of her long night vigil and her prayer for a sign which should be given direct to herself, so soon granted by the arrival and flight of the robin. But this failed to impress Hugh, wholly absorbed in the vision, and unable to see where any element of hesitation or of uncertainty could come in. Hearing it from Mora, he was spared the quaint turn which was bound to be given to any recital, however sacred, heard direct from old Mary Antony.

The Knight was a Crusader. Many a fight he had fought for that cause representing the highest of Christian ideals. Also, he had been a pilgrim, and had visited innumerable holy shrines. For years, his soul had been steeped in religion, in that Land where true religion had its birth, and all within him, which was strongest and most manly, had responded with a simplicity of faith, yet with a depth of ardent devotion, which made his religion the most vital part of himself. This it was which had given him a noble fortitude in bearing his sorrow. This it was which now gave him a noble exultation in accepting his great happiness. It filled him with rapture, that his wife should have been given to him in direct response to his own earnest petition.

When at length Mora stood up, stretching her arms above her head and straightening her supple limbs:

"My beloved," he said, "if the vision had not been given, wouldst thou not have come to me? Should I have had to ride away from Worcester alone?"

Standing beside him, she answered, tenderly:

"Dear Hugh, my most faithful and loyal Knight, being here—and oh so glad to be here—how can I say it? Yet I must answer truly. But for the vision, I should not have come. I could not have broken my vows. No blessing would have followed had I come to you, trailing broken vows, like chains behind me. But our Lady herself set me free and bid me go. Therefore I came to you; and therefore am I here."

"Tell me again the words our Lady said, when she put thy hand in mine."

"Our Lady said: 'Take her. She hath been ever thine. I have but kept her for thee.'"

Then she paled, her heart began to beat fast, and the colour came and went in her cheeks; for he had come very near, and she could hear the sharp catch of his breath.

"Mora, my beloved," he said, "every fibre of my being cries out for thee. Yet I want thy happiness before my own; and, above and beyond all else, I want the Madonna in my home. Even at our Lady's bidding I cannot take thee. Not until thine own sweet lips shall say: 'Take me! I have been ever thine.'"

She lifted her eyes to his. In the moonlight, her face seemed almost unearthly, in its pure loveliness; and, as on that night so long ago, he saw her eyes, brighter than any jewels, shining with love and tears.

"Dear man of mine," she whispered, "to-night we are betrothed. But to-morrow I will ride home with thee. To-morrow shall be indeed our bridal day. I will say all—I will say anything—I will say everything thou wilt! Nay, see! The dawn is breaking in the east. Call it 'to-day'—TO-DAY, dear Knight! But now let me flee away, to fathom my strange happiness alone. Then, to sleep in mine own chamber, and to awake refreshed, and ready to go with thee, Hugh, when and where and how thou wilt."

The Knight folded his arms across his breast.

"Go," he said, softly, "and our Lady be with thee. Our spirits to-night have had their fill of holy happiness. I ask no higher joy than to watch the breaking of the day which gives thee to me, knowing thee to be safely sleeping in thy chamber below."

"I love thee!" she whispered; and fled.

Hugh d'Argent watched the dawn break—a silver rift in the purple sky.

His heart was filled with indescribable peace and gladness.

It meant far more to him that his bride should have come to him in obedience to a divine vision, than if his love had mastered her will, and she had yielded despite her own conscience.

Also he knew that at last his patient self-restraint had won its reward. The heart of a nun feared him no longer. The woman he loved was as wholly his as she had ever been.

As the sun began to gild the horizon, flecking the sky with little rosy clouds, Hugh turned into the turret archway, went down the steps, and sought his chamber. No sooner was he stretched upon his couch, than, for very joy, he fell asleep.

But—beyond the dark fir woods, and over the hills on the horizon, four horsemen, having ridden out from a wayside inn before the dawn, watched, as they rode, the widening of that silver rift in the sky, and the golden tint, heralding the welcome appearance of the sun.

So soundly slept Hugh d'Argent that, three hours later, be did not wake when a loud knocking on the outer gates roused the porter; nor, though his casement opened on to the courtyard, did he hear the noisy clatter of hoofs, as Brother Philip, with his escort of three mounted men, rode in.

Not until a knocking came on his own door did the Knight awake and, leaping from his bed, see—as in a strange, wild dream—Brother Philip, dusty and haggard, standing on the threshold, the Bishop's letter in his hand.



CHAPTER XLV

THE SONG OF THE THRUSH

The morning sun already poured into her room, when Mora opened her eyes, waking suddenly with that complete wide-awakeness which follows upon profound and dreamless slumber.

Even as she woke, her heart said: "Our bridal day! The day I give myself to Hugh! The day he leads me home."

She stretched herself at full length upon the couch, her hands crossed upon her breast, and let the delicious joy of her love sweep over her, from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head.

The world without lay bathed in sunshine; her heart within was flooded by the radiance of this new and perfect realisation of her love for Hugh.

She lay quite still while it enveloped her.

Ten days ago, our Lady had given her to Hugh.

Eight days ago, the Bishop, voicing the Church, had done the same.

But to-day she—she herself—was going to give herself to her lover.

This was the true bridal! For this he had waited. And the reward of his chivalrous patience was to be, that to-day, of her own free will she would say; "Hugh, my husband, take me home."

She smiled to remember how, riding forth from the city gates of Warwick, she had planned within herself that, once safely established in her own castle, she would abide there days, weeks, perhaps even, months!

She stretched her arms wide, then flung them above her head.

"Take me home," she whispered. "Hugh, my husband, take me home."

A thrush in the coppice below, whistled in liquid notes: "Do it now! Do it now! Do it now!"

Laughing joyously, Mora leapt from her bed and looked out upon a sunny summer's day, humming with busy life, fragrant with scent of flowers, thrilling with songs of birds.

"What a bridal morn!" she cried. "All nature says 'Awake! Arise!' Yet I have slept so late. I must quickly prepare myself to find and to greet my lover."

"Do it now!" sang the thrush.

Half an hour later, fresh and fragrant as the morn, Mora left her chamber and made her way to the great staircase.

Hearing shouting in the courtyard, and the trampling of horses' feet, she paused at a casement, and looked down.

To her surprise she saw the well-remembered figure of Brother Philip, mounted; with him three other horsemen wearing the Bishop's livery, and Martin Goodfellow leading Hugh's favourite steed, ready saddled.

Much perplexed, she passed down the staircase, and out on to the terrace where she had bidden them to prepare the morning meal.

From the terrace she looked into the banqueting hall, and her perplexity grew; for there Hugh d'Argent, booted and spurred, ready for a journey, strode up and down.

For two turns she watched him, noting his knitted brows, and the heavy forward thrust of his chin.

Then, lifting his eyes as he swung round for the third time, he saw her, outside in the sunlight; such a vision of loveliness as might well make a man's heart leap.

He paused in his rapid walk, and stood as if rooted to the spot, making no move toward her.

For a moment, Mora hesitated.

"Do it now!" sang the thrush.



CHAPTER XLVI

"HOW SHALL I LET THEE GO?"

Mora passed swiftly into the banqueting hall.

"Hugh," she said, and came to him. "Hugh, my husband, this is our bridal day. Will you take me to our home?"

His eyes, as they met hers, were full of a dumb misery.

Then a fierce light of passion, a look of wild recklessness, flashed into them. He raised his arms, to catch her to him; then let them fall again, glancing to right and left, as if seeking some way of escape.

But, seeing the amazement on her face, he mastered, by a mighty effort, his emotion, and spoke with calmness and careful deliberation.

"Alas, Mora," he said, "it is a hard fate indeed for me on this day, of all days, to be compelled to leave thee. But in the early morn there came a letter which obliges me, without delay, to ride south, in order to settle a matter of extreme importance. I trust not to be gone longer than nine days. You, being safely established in your own home, amongst your own people, I can leave without anxious fears. Moreover, Martin Goodfellow will remain here representing me, and will in all things do your bidding."

"From whom is this letter, Hugh, which takes you from me, on such a day?"

"It is from a man well known to me, dwelling in a city four days' journey from here."

"Why not say at once: 'It is from the Bishop, written from his Palace in the city of Worcester'?"

Hugh frowned.

"How knew you that?" he asked, almost roughly.

"My dear Knight, hearing much champing of horses in my courtyard, I looked down from a casement and saw a lay-brother well known to me, and three other horsemen wearing the Bishop's livery. What can Symon of Worcester have written which takes you from me on this day, of all days?"

"That I cannot tell thee," he made answer. "But he writes, without much detail, of a matter about which I must know fullest details, without loss of time. I have no choice but to ride and see the Bishop, face to face. It is not a question which can be settled by writing nor could it wait the passing to and fro of messengers. Believe me, Mora, it is urgent. Naught but exceeding urgency could force me from thee on this day."

"Has it to do with my flight from the Convent?" she asked.

He bowed his head.

"Will you tell me the matter on your return, Hugh?"

"I know not," he answered, with face averted. "I cannot say." Then with sudden violence: "Oh, my God, Mora, ask me no more! See the Bishop, I must! Speak with him, I must! In nine days at the very most, I will be back with thee. Duty takes me, my beloved, or I would not go."

Her mind responded instinctively to the word "duty," "Go then, dear Knight," she said. "Settle this business with Symon of Worcester. I have no desire to know its purport. If it concerns my flight from the Convent, surely the Pope's mandate is all-sufficient. But, be it what it may, in the hands of my faithful Knight and of my trusted friend, the Bishop, I may safely leave it. I do but ask that, the work accomplished, you come with all speed back to me."

With a swift movement he dropped on one knee at her feet.

"Send me away with a blessing," he said. "Bless me before I go."

She laid her hands on the bowed head.

"Alas!" she cried, "how shall I let thee go?"

Then, pushing her fingers deeper into his hair and bending over him, with infinite tenderness: "How shall thy wife bless thee?" she whispered.

He caught his breath, as the fragrance of the newly gathered roses at her bosom reached and enveloped him.

"Bless me," he said, hoarsely, "as the Prioress of the White Ladies used to bless her nuns, and the Poor at the Convent gate."

"Dear Heart," she said, and smiled. "That seems so long ago!" Then, as with bent head he still waited, she steadied her voice, lifting her hands from off him; then laid them back upon his head, with reverent and solemn touch. "The Lord bless thee," she said, "and keep thee; and may our blessed Lady, who hath restored me to thee, bring thee safely back to me again."

At that, Hugh raised his head and looked up into her face, and the misery in his eyes stirred her tenderness as it had never been stirred by the vivid love-light or the soft depths of passion she had heretofore seen in them.

Her lips parted; her breath came quickly. She would have caught him to her bosom; she would have kissed away this unknown sorrow; she would have smothered the pain, in the sweetness of her embrace.

But bending swiftly he lifted the hem of her robe and touched it with his lips; then, rising, turned and left her without a word; without a backward look.

He left her standing there, alone in the banqueting hall. And as she stood listening, with beating heart, to the sound of his voice raised in command; to the quick movements of his horse's hoofs on the paving stones, as he swung into the saddle; to the opening of the gates and the riding forth of the little cavalcade, a change seemed to have come over her. She ceased to feel herself a happy, yielding bride, a traveller in distant lands, after long journeyings, once more at home.

She seemed to be again Prioress of the White Ladies. The calm fingers of the Cloister fastened once more upon her pulsing heart. The dignity of office developed her.

And wherefore?

Was it because, when her lips had bent above him in surrendering tenderness, her husband had chosen to give her the sign of reverent homage accorded to a prioress, rather than the embrace which would have sealed her surrender?

Or was it because he had asked her to bless him as she had been wont to bless the Poor at the Convent gate?

Or was it the unconscious action of his mind upon hers, he being suddenly called to face some difficulty which had arisen, concerning their marriage, or the Bishop's share in her departure from the Nunnery?

The clang of the closing gates sounded in her ears as a knell.

She shivered; then remembered how she had shivered at sound of the turning of the key in the lock of the crypt-way door. How great the change wrought by eight days of love and liberty. She had shuddered then at being irrevocably shut out from the Cloister. She shuddered now because the arrival of a messenger from the Bishop, and something indefinable in Hugh's manner, had caused her to look back.

She stood quite still. None came to seek her. She seemed to have turned to stone.

It was not the first time this looking back had had a petrifying effect upon a woman. She remembered Lot's wife, going forward led by the gentle pressure of an angel's hand, yet looking back the moment that pressure was removed.

She had gone forward, led by the sweet angel of our Lady's gracious message. Why should she look back? Rather would she act upon the sacred precept: "Forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before"—this, said the apostle Saint Paul, was the one thing to do. Undoubtedly now it was the one and only thing for her to do; leaving all else which might have to be done, to her husband and to the Bishop.

"This one thing I do," she said aloud; "this one thing I do." And moving forward, in the strength of that resolve, she passed out into the sunshine.

"Do it now!" sang the thrush, in the rowan-tree.



CHAPTER XLVII

THE BISHOP IS TAKEN UNAWARES

Symon of Worcester, seated before a table in the library, pondered a letter which had reached him the evening before, brought by a messenger from the Vatican.

It was a call to return to the land he loved best; the land of sunshine and flowers, of soft speech and courteous ways; the land of heavenly beauty and seraphic sounds; and, moreover, to return as a Cardinal of Holy Church.

His acceptance or refusal must be penned before night. The messenger expected to start upon his return journey early on the morrow.

Should he go? Or should he stay?

Was all now well for Mora? Or did she yet need him?

Surely never had Cardinal's hat hung poised for such a reason! How little would the Holy Father dream that a question affecting the happiness or unhappiness of a woman could be a cause of hesitancy.

Presently, with a quick movement, the Bishop lifted his head. The library was far removed from the courtyard; but surely he heard the clatter of horses' hoofs upon the raving stones.

He had hardly hoped for Brother Philip's return until after sunset; yet—with fast riding——

If the Knight's answer were in all respects satisfactory—If Mora's happiness was assured—why, then——

He sounded the silver gong.

His servant entered.

"What horsemen have just now ridden into the courtyard, Jasper?"

"My lord, Brother Philip has this moment returned, and with him——"

"Bid Brother Philip to come hither, instantly."

"May it please you, my lord——"

"Naught will please me," said the Bishop, "but that my commands be obeyed without parley or delay."

Jasper's obeisance took him through the door.

The Bishop bent over the letter from Rome, shading his face with his hand.

He could scarcely contain his anxiety; but he did not wish to give Brother Philip occasion to observe his tremulous eagerness to receive the Knight's reply.

He heard the door open and close, and a firm tread upon the floor. It struck him, even then, that the lay-brother had not been wont to enter his presence with so martial a stride, and he wondered at the ring of spurs. But his mind was too intently set upon Hugh d'Argent's letter, to do more than unconsciously notice these things.

"Thou art quickly returned, my good Philip," he said, without looking round. "Thou has done better than my swiftest expectations. Didst thou give my letter thyself into the hands of Sir Hugh d'Argent, and hast thou brought me back an answer from that most noble Knight?"

Wherefore did Brother Philip make no reply?

Wherefore did his breath come sharp and short—not like a stout lay-brother who has hurried; but, rather, like a desperate man who has clenched his teeth to keep control of his tongue?

The Bishop wheeled in his chair, and found himself looking full into the face of Hugh d'Argent—Hugh, haggard, dusty, travel-stained, with eyes, long strangers to sleep, regarding him with a sombre intensity.

"You!" exclaimed the Bishop, surprised out of his usual gentle calm. "You? Here!"

"Yes, I," said the Knight, "I! Does it surprise you, my Lord Bishop, that I should be here? Would it not rather surprise you, in view of that which you saw fit to communicate to me by letter, that I should fail to be here—and here as fast as horse could bring me?"

"Naught surprises me," said the Bishop, testily. "I have lived so long in the world, and had to do with so many crazy fools, that human vagaries no longer have power to surprise me. And, by our Lady, Sir Knight, I care not where you are, so that you have left safe and well, her peace of mind undisturbed, the woman whom I—acting as mouthpiece of the Pope and Holy Church—gave, not two weeks ago, into your care and keeping."

The Knight's frown was thunderous.

"It might be well, my Lord Bishop, to leave our blessed Lady's name out of this conversation. It hath too much been put to shameful and treacherous use. Mora is safe and well. How far her peace of mind can be left undisturbed, I am here to discover. I require, before aught else, the entire truth."

But the Bishop had had time to recover his equanimity. He rose with his most charming smile, both hands out-stretched in gracious welcome.

"Nay, my dear Knight, before aught else you require a bath! Truly it offends my love of the beautiful to see you in this dusty plight." He struck upon the gong. "Also you require a good meal, served with a flagon of my famous Italian wine. You did well to come here in person, my son. If naught hath been said to Mora, no harm is done; and together we can doubly safeguard the matter. I rejoice that you have come. But the strain of rapid travelling, when anxiety drives, is great. . . . Jasper, prepare a bath for Sir Hugh d'Argent in mine own bath-chamber; cast into it some of that fragrant and refreshing powder sent to me by the good brethren of Santa Maria Novella. While the noble Knight bathes, lay out in the ante-chamber the complete suit of garments he was wearing on the day when the sudden fancy seized him to have a swim in our river. I conclude they have been duly dried and pressed and laid by with sweet herbs? . . . Good. That is well. Now, my dear Hugh, allow Jasper to attend you. He will give his whole mind to your comfort. Send word to Brother Philip, Jasper, that I will speak with him here."

The Bishop accompanied the Knight to the door of the library; watched him stride along the gallery, silent and sullen, in the wake of the hastening Jasper; then turned and walked slowly back to the table, smiling, and gently rubbing his hands together as he walked.

He had gained time, and he had successfully regained his sense of supremacy. Taken wholly by surprise, he had not felt able to cope with this gaunt, dusty, desperately determined Knight. But the Knight would leave more than mere travel stains behind, in the scented waters of the bath! He would reappear clothed and in his right mind. A good meal and a flagon of Italian wine would further improve that mind, mellowing it and rendering it pliable and easy to convince; though truly it passed comprehension why the Knight should need convincing, or of what! Even more incomprehensible was it, that a man wedded to Mora, not two weeks since, should of his own free will elect to leave her.

The Bishop turned.

Brother Philip stood in the doorway, bowing low.

"Come in, my good Philip," said the Bishop; "come in, and shut the door. . . . I must have thy report with fullest detail; but, time being short, I would ask thee to begin from the moment when the battlements of Castle Norelle came into view."



CHAPTER XLVIII

A STRANGE CHANCE

On the fourth day of her husband's absence, Mora climbed to the battlements to watch the glories of a most gorgeous sunset.

Also she loved to find herself again there where she and Hugh had spent that wonderful hour in the moonlight, when she had told him of the vision, and afterwards had given him the promise that on the morrow he should take her to his home.

She paused in the low archway at the top of the winding stair, remembering how she had turned a moment there, to whisper: "I love thee." Ah, how often she had said it since: "Dear man of mine, I love thee! Come back to me safe; come back to me soon; I love thee!"

That he should have had to leave her just as her love was ready to respond to his, had caused that love to grow immeasurably in depth and intensity.

Also she now realised, more fully, his fine self-control, his chivalrous consideration for her, his noble unselfishness. From the first, he had been so perfect to her; and now her one desire was that, if her love could give it, he should have his reward.

Ah, when would he come! When would he come!

She could not keep from shading her eyes and looking along the road to the point where it left the fir wood, though this was but the fourth day since Hugh's departure—the day on which, by fast riding and long hours, he might arrive at Worcester—and the ninth was the very earliest she dared hope for his return.

How slowly, slowly, passed the days. Yet they were full of a quiet joy and peace.

From the moment when she had stepped out into the sunshine, resolved to go steadily forward without looking back, she had thrown herself with zest and pleasure into investigating and arranging her house and estate.

Also, on the second day an idea had come to her with her first waking thoughts, which she had promptly put into execution.

Taking Martin Goodfellow with her she had ridden over to Hugh's home; had found it, as she expected, greatly needing a woman's hand and mind, and had set to work at once on those changes and arrangements most needed, so that all should be in readiness when Hugh, returning, would take her home.

Under her direction the chamber which should be hers was put into perfect order; her own things were transported thither, and all was made so completely ready, that at any moment she and Hugh could start, without need of baggage or attendants, and ride together home.

This chamber had two doors, the one leading down a flight of steps on to a terrace, the other opening directly into the great hall, the central chamber of the house.

Mora loved to stand in this doorway, looking into the noble apartment, with its huge fireplace, massive carved chairs on either side of the hearth, weapons on the walls, trophies of feats of arms, all those things which made it home to Hugh, and to remember that of this place he had said in his petition to our Lady: "Take pity on a lonely home, a desolate hearth . . . and send her to me."

No longer should it be lonely or desolate. Aye, and no longer should his faithful heart be hungry.

On this day she had been over for the third time, riding by the road, because she and Martin both carried packages of garments and other things upon their saddles; but returning by a shorter way through the woods, silent and mossy, most heavenly cool and green.

This journey had served to complete her happy preparations. So now, should Hugh arrive, even at sunset, and be wishful to ride on without delay, she could order the saddling of Icon, and say: "I am ready, dear Knight; let us go."

She stood on the Castle wall, gazing at the blood-red banners of the sunset, flaming from the battlements of a veritable city of gold; then, shading her eyes, turned to look once again along the road.

And, at that moment, out from the dark fir wood there rode a horseman, alone.

For one moment only did her heart leap in the wild belief that Hugh had returned. The next instant she knew this could not be he; even before her eyes made out a stranger.

She watched him leave the road, and turn up the winding path which led to the Castle gate; saw the porter go to the grating in answer to a loud knocking without; saw him fetch old Zachary, who in his turn sent for Martin Goodfellow; upon which the gates were opened wide, and the stranger rode into the courtyard.

Whereupon Mora thought it time that she should descend from the battlements and find out who this unexpected visitor might be.

At the head of the great staircase, she met Martin.

"Lady," he said, "there waits a man below who urgently desires speech with Sir Hugh. Learning from us that the Knight hath ridden south, and is like to be away some days longer, he begs to have word with you, alone; yet refuses to state his business or to give his name. Master Zachary greatly hopeth that it may be your pleasure that we bid the fellow forthwith depart, telling him—if he so will—to ride back in six days' time, when the worshipful Knight, whom he desires to see, will have returned."

Mora knitted her brows. It did not please her that Zachary and Martin Goodfellow should arrange together what she should do.

"Describe him, Martin," she said. "What manner of man is he?"

"Swarthy," said Martin, "and soldierly; somewhat of a dare-devil, but on his best behaviour. Zachary and I would suggest——"

"I will see him," said Mora, beginning to descend the stairs. "I will see him in the banqueting hall, and alone. You, Martin, can wait without, entering on the instant if I call. Tell Zachary to bid them prepare a meal of bread and meat, with a flagon of wine, or a pot of good ale, which I may offer to this traveller, should he need refreshment."

She was standing in the banqueting hall, on the very spot where Hugh had kneeled at their parting, when the swarthy fellow, soldierly, yet somewhat of a dare-devil, entered.

Most certainly he was on his best behaviour. He doffed his cap at first sight of her, advanced a few paces, then stood still, bowing low; came forward a few more paces, then bowed again.

She spoke.

"You wished to see my husband, Friend, and speak with him? He is away and hardly can return before five days, at soonest. Is your business with Sir Hugh such as I can pass on to him for you, by word of mouth?"

She hoped those bold, dark eyes did not perceive how she glowed to speak for the first time, to another, of Hugh as her husband.

He answered, and his words were blunt; his manner, frank and soldierly.

"Most noble Lady, failing the Knight, whom I have ridden far to find, my business may most readily be told to you.

"Years ago, on a Syrian battle-field it was my good fortune, in the thick of the fray, to find myself side by side with Sir Hugh d'Argent. The Infidels struck me down; and, sorely wounded, I should have been at their mercy, had not the noble Knight, seeing me fall, wheeled his horse and, riding back, hewn his way through to me, scattering mine assailants right and left. Then, helping me to mount behind him, galloped with me back to camp. Whereupon I swore, by the holy Cross at Lucca, that if ever the chance came my way to do a service to Sir Hugh of the Silver Shield, I would travel to the world's end to do it.

"Ten nights ago, I chanced to be riding through a wood somewhere betwixt Worcester and Warwick. A band of lawless fellows coming by, I and my steed drew off the path, taking cover in a thicket. But a solitary horseman, riding from Worcester, failed to avoid them. Within sight of my hiding-place he was set upon, made to dismount, stripped and bidden to return on foot to the place from whence he came. I could do naught to help him. We were two, to a round dozen. The robbers took the money from his wallet. Within it they found also a letter, which they flung away as worthless. I marked where it fell, close to my hiding-place.

"When the affray was over, their victim having fled and the lawless band ridden off, I came forth, picked up the letter and slipped it into mine own wallet. So soon as the sun rose I drew forth the letter, when, to my amaze, I found it addressed to my brave rescuer, the Knight of the Silver Shield and Azure Pennant. It appeared to be of importance as, failing Warwick Castle, six halting places, all on the northward road, were named on the outside; also it was marked to be delivered with most urgent haste.

"It seemed to me that now had come my chance, to do this brave Knight service. Therefore have I ridden from place to place, following; and, after some delay, I find myself at length at Castle Norelle, only to hear that he to whom I purposed to hand the letter has ridden south by another road. Thus is my endeavour to serve him rendered fruitless."

"Nay, Friend," said Mora, much moved by this recital. "Not fruitless. Give me the letter you have thus rescued and faithfully attempted, to deliver. My husband returns in five days. I will then hand him the letter and tell him your tale. Most grateful will he be for your good service, and moved by your loyal remembrance."

The swarthy fellow drew from his wallet a letter, heavily sealed, and inscribed at great length. He placed it in Mora's hands.

Her clear eyes dwelt upon his countenance with searching interest. It was wonderful to her to see before her a man whose life Hugh had saved, so far away, on an Eastern battle-field.

"In my husband's name, I thank you, Friend," she said. "And now my people will put before you food and wine. You must have rest and refreshment before you again set forth."

"I thank you, no," replied the stranger. "I must ride on, without delay. I bid you farewell, Lady; and I do but wish the service, which a strange chance has enabled me to render to the Knight, had been of greater importance and had held more of risk or danger."

He bowed low, and departed. A few moments later he was riding out at the gates, and making for the northward road.

Had Brother Philip chanced to be at hand, he could not have failed to note that the swarthy stranger was mounted upon the fastest nag in the Bishop's stable.

For a life of lawlessness, rapine, and robbery, does not debar a man from keeping an oath sworn, out of honest gratitude, in cleaner, better days.

Left alone, Mora passed on to the terrace and, in the clearer light, examined this soiled and much inscribed missive.

To her amazement she recognised the well-known script of Symon, Bishop of Worcester. How many a letter had reached her hands addressed in these neat characters.

Yet Hugh had left her, and gone upon this ride of many days to Worcester in order to see the Bishop, because he had received a letter telling him, without sufficient detail, a matter of importance. Probably the letter she now held in her hands should have reached him first. Doubtless had he received it, he need not have gone.

Pondering this matter, and almost unconscious that she did so, Mora broke the seals. Then paused, even as she began to unfold the parchment, questioning whether to read it or to let it await Hugh's return.

But not long did she hesitate. It was upon a matter which closely concerned her. That much Hugh had admitted. It might be imperative to take immediate action concerning this first letter, which by so strange a mishap had arrived after the other. Unless she mastered its contents, she could not act.

Ascending the turret stairway, Mora stepped again on to the battlements.

The golden ramparts in the west had faded; but a blood-red banner still floated above the horizon. The sky overhead was clear.

Sitting upon the seat on which she had sat while telling Hugh of old Mary Antony's most blessed and wondrous vision, Mora unfolded and read the Bishop's letter.



CHAPTER XLIX

TWICE DECEIVED

The blood-red banner had drooped, dipped, and vanished.

The sky overhead had deepened to purple, and opened starry eyes upon the world beneath. Each time the silent woman, alone upon the battlements, lifted a sorrowful face to the heavens, yet another bright eye seemed to spring wide and gaze down upon her.

At length the whole expanse of the sky was studded with stars; the planets hung luminous; the moon, already waning, rose large and golden from behind the firs, growing smaller and more silvery as she mounted higher.

Mora covered her face with her hands. The summer night was too full of scented sweetness. The stars sang together. The moon rode triumphant in the heavens. In this her hour of darkness she must shut out the brilliant sky. She let her face sink into her hands, and bowed her head upon her knees.

Blow after blow had fallen upon her from the Bishop's letter.

First that the Bishop himself was plotting to deceive her, and seemed to take Hugh's connivance for granted.

Then that she had been hoodwinked by old Mary Antony, on the evening of Hugh's intrusion into the Nunnery; that this hoodwinking was known to the Bishop, and appeared but to cause him satisfaction, tempered by a faint amusement.

Then the overwhelming news that Mary Antony's vision had been an imposition, devised and contrived by the almost uncannily shrewd wits of the old woman; and that the Bishop advised the Knight to praise heaven for those wits, and to beware lest any chance word of his should lead her—Mora—to doubt the genuineness of the vision, and to realise that she had been hocussed, hoodwinked, outwitted! In fact the Bishop and her husband were to become, and to continue indefinitely, parties to old Antony's deception.

She now understood the full significance of the half-humorous, half-sceptical attitude adopted by the Bishop, when she recounted to him the history of the vision. No wonder he had called Mary Antony a "most wise and prudent babe."

But even as her anger rose, not only against the Bishop, but against the old woman she had loved and trusted and who had so deceived her, she came upon the news of the death of the aged lay-sister and the account of her devoted fidelity, even to the end.

Mary Antony living, was often a pathetic figure; Mary Antony dead, disarmed anger.

And, after all, the old lay-sister and her spurious vision faded into insignificance in view of the one supreme question: What course would Hugh take? Would he keep silence and thus tacitly become a party to the deception; or would he, at all costs, tell her the truth?

It was evidence of the change her love had wrought in her, that this one point was so paramount, that until it was settled, she could not bring herself to contemplate other issues.

She remembered, with hopeful comfort, his scrupulous honesty in the matter of Father Gervaise. Yet wherefore had he gone to consult with the Bishop unless he intended to fall in with the Bishop's suggestions?

Not until she at last sought her chamber and knelt before the shrine of the Madonna, did she realise that her justification in leaving the Convent was gone, if there had been no vision.

"Blessed Virgin," she pleaded, with clasped hands uplifted; "I, who have been twice deceived—tricked into entering the Cloister, and tricked into leaving it—I beseech thee, by the sword which pierced through thine own soul also, grant me now a vision which shall be, in very deed, a VISION OF TRUTH."



CHAPTER L

THE SILVER SHIELD

The Bishop sat at the round table in the centre of the banqueting hall, sipping water from his purple goblet while the Knight dined.

They were not alone. Lay-brethren, with sandalled feet, moved noiselessly to and fro; and Brother Philip stood immovable behind the Reverend Father's chair.

The Bishop discoursed pleasantly of many things, watching Hugh the while, and blessing the efficacy of the bath. It had, undoubtedly, cleansed away much beside travel-stains.

The thunder-cloud had lifted from the Knight's brow; his eyes, though tired, were no longer sombre; his manner was more than usually courteous and deferential, as if to atone for the defiant brusquerie of his first appearance.

He listened in absolute silence to the Bishop's gentle flow of conversation; but this was a trait the Bishop had observed in him before; and, after all, a lapse into silence could be easily understood when a man had travelled far, on meagre fare, and found himself seated at a well-spread board.

Yet the Knight ate but sparingly of the good cheer, so lavishly provided; and the famous Italian wine, he scarce touched at all.

The meal over, the Bishop dismissed Brother Philip and the attendant monks, and, rising, went to his chair near the hearth, motioning the Knight to the one opposite.

Thus they found themselves seated again as they had sat on the night of the arrival of the Pope's messenger; save that now no fire burned upon the hearth; no candles were lighted on the table. Instead, the summer sunshine poured in through open casements.

"Well, my dear Hugh," said the Bishop, "suppose you now tell me the reason which brings you hither. It must surely be a matter of grave importance which could cause so devoted a lover and husband to leave his bride, and go a five days' journey from her, within two weeks of the bridal day."

"I have come, my lord," said the Knight, speaking slowly and with evident effort, "to learn from your lips the entire truth concerning that vision which caused the Prioress of the White Ladies to hold herself free to renounce her vows, leave her Nunnery, and give herself in marriage where she had been betrothed before entering the Cloister."

"Tut!" said the Bishop. "The White Ladies have no Prioress. Mother Sub-Prioress doth exercise the functions of that office until such time as the Prior and myself shall make a fresh appointment. We are not here to talk of prioresses, my son, but of that most noble and gracious lady who, by the blessing of God and our Lady's especial favour, is now your wife. See to it that you continue to deserve your great good fortune."

The Knight made no protest at the mention of our Lady; but his left hand moved to the medallion hanging by a gold chain from his neck, covered it and clasped it firmly.

The Bishop paused; but finding that the Knight had relapsed into silence, continued:

"So you wish the entire history of the inspired devotion of the old lay-sister, Mary Antony—may God rest her soul." Both men crossed themselves devoutly, as the Bishop named the Dead. "Shall I give it you now, my son, or will you wait until the morrow, when a good night's rest shall fit you better to enjoy the recital?"

"My lord," said Hugh, "ere this sun sets, I hope to be many miles on my homeward way."

"In that case," said the Bishop, "I must tell you this moving story, without further delay."

So, beginning with her custom of counting the White Ladies by means of the dried peas, the Bishop gave the Knight the whole history of Mary Antony's share in the happenings in the Nunnery on the day of his intrusion, and those which followed; laying especial stress on her devotion to Mora, and her constant prayers to our Lady to sharpen her old wits.

The Bishop had undoubtedly intended to introduce into the recital somewhat more of mysticism and sublimity than the actual facts warranted. But once launched thereon, his sense of humour could not be denied its full enjoyment in this first telling of the entire tale. Full justice he did to the pathos, but he also shook with mirth over the ludicrous. As he quoted Mary Antony, the old lay-sister's odd manner and movements could be seen; her mumbling lips, and cunning wink. And here was Mother Sub-Prioress, ferret-faced and peering; and here Sister Mary Rebecca, long-nosed, flat-footed, eager to scent out and denounce wrong doing. And at last the Bishop told of his talk with Mora in the arbour of golden roses; and lo, there was Mora, devout, adoring, wholly believing. "Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent and hast revealed them unto babes"; and here, the Bishop himself, half amused, half incredulous: "An ancient babe! Truly, a most wise and prudent babe." Then the scene outside the Prioress's cell when the Bishop unlocked the door; the full confession and the touching death of old Mary Antony.

To it all the Knight listened silently, shading his face with his right hand.

"Therefore, my son," concluded Symon of Worcester, "when on a sudden I remembered our conversation on the lawn, and that I had told you of my belief that the old lay-sister knew of your visit to the Convent and had seen you in Mora's cell, I hastened to send you a warning, lest you should, unwittingly, mention this fact to Mora, and raise a doubt in her mind concerning the genuineness of the vision, thus destroying her peace, and threatening her happiness and your own. Hath she already told you of the vision?"

Still shielding his face the Knight spoke, very low:

"The evening before the messenger arrived, bringing your letter, my lord, Mora told me of the vision."

"Said you aught concerning my words to you?"

"So soon as she mentioned the name of Mary Antony, I said that I seemed to recall that you, my lord, had told me she alone knew of my visit to the Convent. But Mora at once said nay, that it was she herself who had told me so, even while I stood undiscovered in her cell; but that afterward the lay-sister had confessed herself mistaken. This seemed to me to explain the matter, therefore I said no more; nor did I, for a moment, doubt the truth and wonder of the vision."

"For that, the saints be praised," said the Bishop. "Then no harm is done. You and I, alone, know the entire story; and you and I, who would safeguard Mora's happiness with our lives, must see to it that she never has cause for misgivings."

Hugh d'Argent lifted his head, and looked full at the Bishop.

"My lord," he said, "had there been no vision, no message from our Lady, no placing by her of Mora's hand in mine, think you she would have left the Nunnery and come to me?"

"Nay, dear lad, that I know she would not. On that very morning, as I told you, she set her foot upon the Pope's mandate, and would accept no absolving from her vows. Naught would suffice, said she, but a direct vision and revelation from our Lady herself."

"But," said the Knight, slowly, "was there a vision, my lord? Was there a revelation? Was there a spoken message or a given sign?"

The Bishop met the earnest eyes, full of a deep searching. He stirred uneasily; then smiled, waving a deprecatory hand.

"Between ourselves, my dear Hugh—though even so, it is not well to be too explicit—between ourselves of course nothing—well—miraculous happened, beyond the fact that our Lady most certainly sharpened the wits of old Antony. Therefore is it, that you undoubtedly owe your wife to those same wits, and may praise our Lady for sharpening them."

Then it was that the Knight rose to his feet.

"And I refuse," he said, "to owe my wife to sacrilege, fraud, and falsehood."

The Bishop leaned forward, gripping with both hands the arms of his chair. His face was absolutely colourless; but his eyes, like blue steel, seemed to transfix the Knight, who could not withdraw his regard from those keen points of light.

The Bishop's whisper, when at length he spoke, was more alarming than if he had shouted.

"Fool!" he said. "Ungrateful, unspeakable fool! What mean you by such words?"

"Call me fool if you will, my Lord Bishop," said the Knight, "so long as I give not mine own conscience cause to call me knave."

"What mean you by such words?" persisted the Bishop. "I mean, my lord, that if the truth opened out an abyss which plunged me into hell, I would sooner know it than attempt to enter Paradise across the flimsy fabric of a lie."

Now during many days, Symon of Worcester had worked incessantly, suffered much, accomplished much, surrendered much, lost much. Perhaps it is hardly to be wondered at, that, at this juncture, he lost his temper.

"By Saint Peter's keys!" he cried, "I care not, Sir Knight, whether you drop to hell or climb to Paradise. But it is my business to see to it that you do not disturb the peace of mind of the woman you have wed. Therefore I warn you, that if you ride from here set upon so doing, you will not reach your destination alive."

The Knight smiled. The film of weariness lifted as if by magic from his eyes, and they shone bright and serene.

"I cannot draw my sword upon threats, my Lord Bishop; but let those threats take human shape, and by Saint George, I shall find pleasure in rendering a good account of them. With this same sword I once did hew my way through a score of Saracens. Think you a dozen Worcester cut-throats could keep me from reaching my wife?"

Something in the tone with which the Knight spoke these final words calmed the Bishop; something in the glance of his eye quelled the angry Prelate. In the former he recognised a depth of love such as he had not hitherto believed possible to Hugh d'Argent; in the latter, calm courage, nay, a serene joy at the prospect of danger, against which his threats and fury could but break themselves, even as stormy waves against the granite rocks of the Cornish coast.

The Bishop possessed that somewhat rare though valuable faculty, the ability to recognise instantly, and instantly to accept, the inevitable. Also when he had made a false move, he knew it, and was preparing to counteract it almost before his opponent had perceived the mistake.

So rarely was the Bishop angry, that his anger now affected him physically, with a sickening sense of faintness. With closed eyes, he leaned his head against the back of the chair. His face, always white and delicate, now appeared as if carved in ivory. His lips fell apart, but no breath issued from them. Except for a slight twitching of the eyelids, the Bishop's countenance was lifeless.

Startled and greatly alarmed, Hugh looked around for some means whereby he might summon help, but could see none.

Hastening to the table, he poured wine into the Venetian goblet, brought it back, and moistened the Bishop's lips. Then kneeling on one knee loosed the cold fingers from their grip.

Presently the Bishop opened his eyes—no longer points of blue steel, but soft and dreamy like a mist of bluebells on distant hills. He looked, with unseeing gaze, into the anxious face on a level with his own; then turned his eyes slowly upon the ruby goblet which the Knight had lifted from the floor and was trying to hold to his lips.

Waving it away, the Bishop slipped the finger and thumb of his left hand into his sash, and drew out a small gold box of exquisite workmanship, set with emeralds.

At this he gazed for some time, as if uncertain what to do with it; then touched a spring and as the lid flew open, sat up and took from the box a tiny white tablet. This he dropped into the wine.

The Knight, watching with anxious eyes, saw it rapidly dissolve as it sank to the bottom.

But all consciousness of the tablet, the wine, or the kneeling Knight, appeared to have instantly faded from the Bishop's mind. He lay back gazing dreamily at a banner which, for no apparent reason, stirred and wafted to and fro, as it hung from an oaken beam, high up among the rafters.

"Wherefore doth it waft?" murmured the Bishop, thereby adding greatly to the Knight's alarm. "Wherefore?—Wherefore?—Wherefore doth it waft?"

"Drink this, Reverend Father," urged the Knight. "I implore you, my dear lord, raise yourself and drink."

"Methinks there must be a draught," mused the Bishop.

"Yea, truly," said the Knight, "of your famous Italian wine. Father, I pray you drink."

"Among the rafters," said the Bishop. But he sat up, took the goblet from the Knight's hand, and slowly sipped its contents.

Almost at once, a faint tinge of colour shewed in his cheeks and on his lips; his eyes grew bright. He smiled at the Knight, as he placed the empty goblet on the table beside him.

"Ah, my dear Hugh," he said, extending his hand; "it is good to find you here. Let us continue our conversation, if you are sufficiently rested and refreshed. I have much to say to you."

In the reaction of a great relief, Hugh d'Argent seized the extended hand and fervently kissed the Bishop's ring.

It was the reverent homage of a loyal heart. Symon of Worcester, as with a Benedicite he graciously acknowledged it, suffered a slight twinge of conscience; almost as unusual an experience as the ebullition of temper. He took up the conversation exactly at that point to which it best suited him to return, namely, there where he had made the first false step.

"Therefore, my dear Hugh, I have now given you in detail the true history of the vision, making it clear that we owe it, alas! to earthly devotion, rather than to Divine interposition—though indeed the one may well be the means used by the other. It remains for us to consider, and to decide upon, the best line to take with Mora in order to safeguard most surely her peace of mind, and permanently to secure her happiness."

"I have considered, Reverend Father," said the Knight, simply; "and I have decided."

"What have you decided to do, my son?" questioned Symon of Worcester, in his smoothest tones.

"To make known to Mora, so soon as I return, the entire truth."

The Bishop cast his eyes upward, to see whether the banner still waved.

It did.

Undoubtedly there must be a current of air among the rafters.

"And what effect do you suppose such a communication will have, my son, upon the mind of your wife?"

"I am not called to face suppositions, Reverend Father; I am simply confronted by facts."

"Precisely, my son, precisely," replied the Bishop, pressing his finger-tips together, and raising them to his lips. "Yet even while dealing with causes, it is well sometimes to consider effects, lest they take us wholly unawares. Do you realise that, as your wife felt justified in leaving the Nunnery and wedding you, solely by reason of our Lady's miraculously accorded permission, when she learns that that permission was not miraculous, she will cease to feel justified?"

"I greatly fear it," said the Knight.

"Do you yourself now consider that she was not justified?"

"Nay!" answered the Knight, with sudden vehemence. "Always, since I learned how we had been tricked by her sister, I have held her to be rightfully mine. Heaven knew, when she made her vows, that I was faithful, and she therefore still my betrothed. Heaven allowed me to discover the truth, and to find her—alive, and still unwed. To my thinking, no Divine pronouncement was required; and when the Holy Father's mandate arrived bringing the Church's sanction, why then indeed naught seemed to stand between us. But Mora thought otherwise."

A tiny gleam came into the Bishop's eyes; an exceedingly refined edition of the look of cunning which used to peep out of old Mary Antony's.

"Have you ever heard tell, my son, that two negatives make an affirmative? Think you not that, in something the same way, two deceptions may make a truth. Mora was deceived into entering the Convent, and deceived into leaving it; but from out that double deception arises the great truth that she has, in the sight of Heaven, been all along yours. The first deception negatives the second, and the positive fact alone remains that Mora is wedded to you, is yours to guard and shield from sorrow; and those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder."

Hugh d'Argent passed his hand across his brow.

"I trust the matter may appear thus to Mora," he said.

The banner still wafted, gently. The Bishop gave himself time to ponder whence that draught could come.

Then: "It will not so appear," he said. "My good Hugh, when your wife learns from you that she was tricked by Mary Antony, she will go back in mind to where she was before the spurious vision, and will feel herself to be still Prioress of the White Ladies."

"I have so felt her, since the knowledge reached me," agreed the Knight.

The efficacy of the soothing drug taken by the Bishop was strained to its utmost.

"And what then do you propose to do, my son, with this wedded Prioress? Do you expect her to remain with you in your home, content to fulfil her wifely duties?"

"I fear," said the Knight sadly, "that she will leave me."

"And I am certain she will leave you," said the Bishop.

"It was largely this fear for the future which brought me at once to you, my lord. If Mora desires, as you say, to consider herself as she was, before she was tricked into leaving the Convent, will you arrange that she shall return, unquestioned, to her place as Prioress of the White Ladies of Worcester?"

"Impossible!" said the Bishop, shortly. "It is too late. We can have no Madonna groups in Nunneries, saving those carven in marble or stone."

To which there followed a silence, lasting many minutes.

Then the Knight said, with effort, speaking very low: "It is not too late."

Instantly the keen eyes were searching his face. A line of crimson leapt to the Bishop's cheek, as if a whip-lash had been drawn across it.

Presently: "Fool!" he whispered, but the word savoured more of pitying tenderness than of scorn. Alas! was there ever so knightly a fool, or so foolish a knight! "What was the trouble, boy? Didst find that after all she loved thee not?"

"Nay," said Hugh, quickly, "I thank God, and our Lady, that my wife loves me as I never dreamed that such as I could be loved by one so perfect in all ways as she. But—at first—all was so new and strange to her. It was wonder enough to be out in the world once more, free to come and go; to ride abroad, looking on men and things. I put her welfare first. . . . Nay, it was easy, loving her as I loved, also greatly desiring the highest and the best. Father, I wanted what you spoke of as the Madonna in the Home. Therefore—'twas I who made the plan—we agreed that, the wedding having of necessity been so hurried, the courtship should follow, and we would count ourselves but betrothed, even after reaching Castle Norelle, for just so many days or weeks as she should please; until such time as she herself should tell me she was wishful that I should take her home. But—each day of the ride northward had been more perfect than that which went before; each hour of each day, sweeter than the preceding. Thus it came to pass that on the very evening of our arrival at Mora's home, after parting for the night at the door of her chamber, we met again on the battlements, where years before we had said farewell; and there, seated in the moonlight, she told me the wonder of our Lady's grace in the vision; and, afterwards, in words of perfect tenderness, the even greater wonder of her love, and that she was ready on the morrow to ride home with me. So we parted in a rapture so deep and pure, that sleep came, for very joy of it. But early in the morning I was wakened by a rapping at my door, and there stood Brother Philip, holding your letter, Reverend Father."

"Alas!" said the Bishop. "Would that I had known she would have whereby to explain away thy memory of that which I had said."

Yet the Bishop spoke perfunctorily; he spoke as one who, even while speaking, muses upon other matters. For, within his secret soul, he was fighting the hardest temptation yet faced by him, in the whole history of his love for Mora.

By rapid transition of mind, he was back on the seat in the garden of the White Ladies' Nunnery, left there by Mary Antony while she went to fetch the Reverend Mother. He was looking up the sunny lawn toward the cloisters, from out the shade of the great beech tree. Presently he saw the Prioress coming, tall and stately, her cross of office gleaming upon her breast, her sweet eyes alight with welcome. And at once they were talking as they always talked together—he and she—each word alive with its very fullest meaning; each thought springing to meet the thought which matched it.

Next he saw himself again on that same seat, looking up the lawn to the sunlit cloisters; realising that never again would the Prioress come to greet him; facing for the first time the utter loneliness, the irreparable loss to himself, of that which he had accomplished for Hugh and Mora.

The Bishop's immeasurable loss had been Hugh's infinite gain. And now that Hugh seemed bent upon risking his happiness, the positions were reversed. Would not his loss, if he persisted, be the Bishop's gain?

How easy to meet her on the road, a few miles from Worcester; to proceed, with much pomp and splendour, to the White Ladies' Nunnery; to bid them throw wide the great gates; to ride in and, then and there, reinstate Mora as Prioress, announcing that the higher service upon which the Holy Father had sent her had been duly accomplished. Picture the joy in the bereaved Community! But, above and beyond all, picture what it would mean to have her there again; to see her, speak with her, sit with her, when he would. No more loneliness of soul, no more desolation of spirit; and Mora's conscience at rest; her mind content.

But at that, being that it concerned the woman he loved, the true soul of him spoke up, while his imaginative reason fell silent.

Never again could the woman who had told Hugh d'Argent, in words of perfect tenderness, the wonder of her love, and that she was ready on the morrow to ride home with him, be content in the calm of the Cloister.

If Hugh persisted in this folly of frankness and disturbed her peace, she might leave him.

If the Bishop made the way easy, she might return to the Nunnery.

But all the true life of her would be left behind with her lover.

She would bring to the Cloister a lacerated conscience, and a broken heart.

Surely the two men who loved her, if they thrust away all thought of self, and thought only of her, could save her this anguish.

At once the Bishop resolved to do his part.

"My dear Hugh," he said, "you did well to come to me in order to consult over these plans before taking the irrevocable step which should set them in motion. I, alone, could reinstate your wife as Prioress of the White Ladies; moreover my continued presence here would be essential, to secure her comfort in that reinstatement. And I shall not be here. I am shortly leaving Worcester, leaving this land and returning to my beauteous Italy. The Holy Father has been pleased to tell me privately of high preferment shortly to be offered me. I have to-day decided to accept it. I return to Italy a Cardinal of Holy Church."

Hugh rose to his feet and bowed. An immense scorn blazed in his eyes.

"My Lord High Cardinal, I congratulate you! That a cardinal's hat should tempt you from your cathedral, from this noble English city, from your people who love you, from the land of your birth, may perhaps be understood. But that, for the sake of Church preferment, however high, you should willingly depart, leaving Mora in sorrow, Mora in difficulty, Mora needing your help——"

The Knight paused, amazed. The Bishop, who seldom laughed aloud, was laughing. Yet no! The Bishop, who never wept, seemed near to weeping.

The scales fell from Hugh's eyes, even before the Bishop spoke. He realised a love as great as his own.

"Ah, foolish lad!" said Symon of Worcester; "bent upon thine own ways, and easy to deceive. When I spoke of going, I said it for her sake, hoping the prospect of my absence might hold you from your purpose. But now truly am I convinced that you are bent upon risking your own happiness, and imperilling hers. Therefore will I devise some means of detaining the Holy Father's messenger, so that my answer need not be given until two weeks are past. You will reach Mora, at longest, five days from this. As soon as she decides what she will do, send word to me by a fast messenger. Should she elect to return to the Nunnery, state when and where, upon the road, I am to meet her. Her habit as Prioress, and her cross of office, I have here. The former you returned to me, from the hostel; the latter I found in her cell. You must take them with you. If she returns, she must return fully robed. If, on the other hand, she should decide to remain with you; if—as may God grant—she is content, and requires no help from me, send me this news by messenger. I can then betake myself to that fair land to which I first went for her sake; left for her sake, and to which I shall most gladly return, if her need of me is over. The time I state allows a four days' margin for vacillation."

"My lord," said the Knight, humbly, "forgive the wrong I did you. Forgive that I took in earnest that which you meant in jest; or rather, I do truly think, that which you hoped would turn me from my purpose. Alas, I would indeed that I might rightly be turned therefrom."

"Hugh," said the Bishop, eagerly, "you deemed her justified in coming to you, apart from any vision."

"True," replied the Knight, "but I cannot feel justified in taking her, and all she would give me, knowing she gives it, with a free heart, because of her faith in the vision. Moments of purest joy would be clouded by my secret shame. Being aware of the deception, I too should be deceiving her; I, whom she loves and trusts."

"To withhold a truth is not to lie," asserted the Bishop.

"My lord," replied Hugh d'Argent, rising to his feet and standing erect, his hand upon his sword, "I cannot reason of these things; I cannot define the difference between withholding a truth and stating a lie. But when mine Honour sounds a challenge, I hear; and I ride out to do battle—against myself, if need be; or, if it must so be, against another. On Eastern battle-fields, in Holy War, I won a name known throughout all the camp, known also to the enemy: 'The Knight of the Silver Shield.' Our name is Argent, and we ever have the right to carry a pure silver shield. But I won the name because my shield was always bright; because not once in battle did it fall in the dust; because it never was allowed to tarnish. So bright it was, that as I rode, bearing it before me, reflecting the rays of the sun, it dazzled and blinded the enemy. My lord, I cannot tarnish my silver shield by conniving at falsehood, or keeping silence when mine Honour bids me speak."

Looking at the gallant figure before him, the Bishop's soul responded to the noble words, and he longed to praise them and applaud. But he thought of Mora's peace of mind, Mora's awakened heart and dawning happiness. For her sake he must make a final stand.

"My dear Hugh," he said, "all this talk, of a silver shield and of the challenge of honour, is well enough for the warrior on the battle-field. But the lover has to learn the harder lesson; he has to give up Self, even the Self which holds honour dear. When you polished your silver shield, keeping it so bright, what saw you reflected therein? Why, your own proud face. Even so, now, you fear the faintest tarnish on your sense of honour, but you will keep that silver shield bright at Mora's expense, riding on proudly alone in your glory, reflecting the sun, dazzling all beholders, while your wife who loved and trusted you, Mora, who told you the sweet wonder of her love in words of deepest tenderness, lies desolate in the dark, with a shattered life, and a broken heart. Hugh, I would have you think of the treasure of her golden heart, rather than of the brightness of your own selfish, silver shield."

"Selfish!" cried the Knight. "Selfish! Is it selfish to hold honour dear? Is it selfish to be ashamed to deceive the woman one loves? Have I, who have so striven in all things to put her welfare first, been selfish towards my wife in this hour of crisis?"

He sat down, heavily; leaned his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands.

This attitude of utter dejection filled the Bishop with thankfulness. Was he, in the very moment when he had given up all hope of winning, about to prove the victor?

"Perilously selfish, my dear Hugh," he said. "But, thank Heaven, no harm has yet been done. Listen to me and I will shew you how you may keep your honour safely untarnished, yet withhold from Mora all knowledge which might cause her disquietude of mind, thus securing her happiness and your own."



CHAPTER LI

TWO NOBLE HEARTS GO DIFFERENT WAYS

On that same afternoon, an hour before sunset, the two men who loved Mora faced one another, for a final farewell.

The Bishop had said all he had to say. Without interruption, his words had flowed steadily on; eloquent, logical, conciliatory, persuasive.

At first he had talked to the top of the Knight's head, to the clenched hands, to the arms outstretched across the table.

He had wondered what thoughts were at work beneath the crisp thickness of that dark hair. He had wished the rigid attitude of tense despair might somewhat relax. He had used the most telling inflexions of his persuasive voice in order to bring this about, but without success. He had wished the Knight would break silence, even to rage or to disagree. To that end he had cast as a bait an intentional slip in a statement of facts; and, later on, a palpable false deduction in a weighty argument. But the Knight had not risen to either.

After a while Hugh had lifted his head, and leaned back in his chair; fixing his eyes, in his turn, upon the banner hanging from the rafters.

It had ceased to wave gently to and fro. Probably Father Benedict had closed the trap-door, concealed behind an upright beam, through which he was wont to peer down into the banqueting hall below, in order to satisfy himself that all was well and that the Reverend Father needed naught.

Let it be here recorded that this exceeding vigilance, on the part of Father Benedict, met with but scant reward. For, having deduced a draught, and its reason, from the slight stirring of the banner during his conversation with the Knight, the Bishop gave certain secret instructions to Brother Philip, with the result that the next time the Chaplain peered down upon a private conference he found, at its close, the door by which he had gained access to the roof chamber barred on the outside, and, forcing it, he was in no better case, the ladder which connected it with another disused chamber below having been removed. Thereafter Father Benedict watched the Bishop, and his guest, partake of three meals, before he could bring himself to make known his predicament, and beg to be released. And, even then, the Bishop was amazingly slow in locating the place from which issued the agitated voice imploring assistance. Several brethren were summoned to help; so that quite a little crowd stood gazing up at the pallid countenance of Father Benedict, framed in the trap-door as, lying upon his very empty stomach, he called down replies to the Bishop's questions; vainly striving to give a plausible reason for the peculiar situation in which he was discovered.

But, to return to the interview which brought about this later development.

The Knight had lifted his head, yet had still remained silent and impassive.

Where at length the Bishop had paused, awaiting comment of some kind, Hugh d'Argent, removing his eyes from the rafters, had asked:

"When, my lord, do you propose to meet the Prioress, should my wife, upon learning the truth, elect to return to the Nunnery?"

Thus had the Bishop been forced to realise that the flow of his eloquence, the ripple of his humour, the strong current of his arguments, the gentle lapping of his tenderness, the breakers of his threats, and the thunderous billows of his denunciations, had alike expended themselves against the rock of the Knight's unshakable resolve, and left it standing.

Whereupon, in silence, the Bishop had risen, and had led the way to the library.

Here they now faced one another in final farewell.

Each knew that his loss would be the other's gain; his gain, the other's irreparable loss.

Yet, at that moment, each thought only of Mora's peace of soul. They did but differ in their conception of the way in which that peace might best be preserved and maintained.

"I must take her cross of office, my Lord Bishop," said the Knight, with decision.

The Bishop went to a chest, standing in one corner of the room, opened it, and bent over it, his back to Hugh d'Argent; then, slipping his hand into his bosom drew therefrom a cross of gold gleaming with emeralds. Shutting down the massive lid of the chest, he returned, and placed the cross in the outstretched hand of the Knight.

"I entrust it to you, my dear Hugh, only on one condition: that it shall without fail return to me in two weeks' time. Should you decide to tell your wife the true history of the vision, I must see this cross of office upon her breast when I meet her riding back to Worcester, once more Prioress of the White Ladies. If, on the other hand, wiser counsel prevails, and you decide not to tell her, you must, by swift messenger, at once return it to me in a sealed packet."

"I shall tell her," said the Knight. "If she elects to leave me, you will see the cross upon her breast, my lord. If she elects to stay, you shall receive it by swift messenger."

"She will leave you," said the Bishop. "If you tell her, she will leave you."

"She loves me," said the Knight; and he said it with a tender reverence, and such a look upon his face, as a man wears when he speaks of his faith in God.

"Hugh," said the Bishop, sadly; "Hugh, my dear lad, you have but little experience of the heart of a nun. The more she loves, the more determined will she be to leave you, if you yourself give her reason to think her love unjustified. The very thing which is now a cause of bliss will instantly become a cause for fear. She will flee from joy, as all pure hearts flee from sin; because, owing to your folly, her joy will seem to her to be sinful. My son!"—the Bishop stretched out his hands; a passion of appeal was in his voice—"God and Holy Church have given you your wife. If you tell her this thing, you will lose her."

"I must take with me the dress she left behind," said the Knight, "so that, should she decide to go, she may ride back fully robed."

The Bishop went again to the chest, raised the heavy lid, and lifted out the white garments rolled together. At sight of them both men fell silent, as in presence of the dead; and the Knight felt his heart grow cold with apprehension, as he received them from the Bishop's hand.

They passed together through the doorway leading to the river terrace, and so down the lawn, under the arch, and into the courtyard.

There Brother Philip waited, mounted, while another lay-brother held the Knight's horse.

As they came in sight of the horses: "Philip will see you a few miles on your way," said the Bishop.

"I thank you, Father," replied the Knight, "but it is not needful. The good Brother has had many long days in the saddle."

"It is most needful," said the Bishop. "Let Philip ride beside you until you have passed through the Monk's Wood, and are well on to the open ground beyond. There, if you will, you may bid him turn back."

"Is this to ensure the safety of the Worcester cut-throats, my lord?"

The Bishop smiled.

"Possibly," he said. "Saracens may be hewn in pieces, with impunity. But we cannot allow our Worcester lads rashly to ride to such a fate. Also, my dear Hugh, you carry things of so great value that we must not risk a scuffle. These are troublous times, and dangers lurk around the city. Three miles from here you may dismiss Brother Philip, and ride forward alone."

Arrived at the horses, the Knight put away safely, that which he carried, into his saddle-bag. Then he dropped on one knee, baring his head for the Bishop's blessing.

Symon of Worcester gave it. Then, bending, added in low tones: "And may God and the blessed Saints aid thee to a right judgment in all things."

"Amen," said Hugh d'Argent, and kissed the Bishop's ring.

Then he mounted; and, without one backward look, rode out through the Palace gates, closely followed by Brother Philip.



CHAPTER LII

THE ANGEL-CHILD

Symon of Worcester turned, walked slowly across the courtyard, made his way to the parapet above the river, and stood long, with bent head, watching the rapid flow of the Severn.

His eyes rested upon the very place where the Knight had cleft the water in his impulsive dive after the white stone, made, by the Bishop's own words, to stand to him for his chances of winning the Prioress.

Yet should that sudden leap be described as "impulsive"? The Bishop, ever a stickler for accuracy in descriptive words, considered this.

Nay, not so much "impulsive" as "prompt." Even as the warrior who, having tested his trusty sword, knowing its readiness in the scabbard and the strength of his own right arm, draws, on the instant, when surprised by the enemy. Prompt, not impulsive. A swift action, based upon an assured certainty of power, and a steadfast determination, of long standing, to win at all costs.

The Bishop's hand rested upon the parapet. The stone in his ring held neither blue nor purple lights. Its colour had paled and faded. It shone—as the Prioress had once seen it shine—like a large tear-drop on the Bishop's finger.

Deep dejection was in the Bishop's attitude. With the riding away of the Knight, something strong and vital seemed to have passed out of his life.

A sense of failure oppressed him. He had not succeeded in bending Hugh d'Argent to his will, neither had he risen to a frank appreciation of the loyal chivalry which would not enjoy happiness at the expense of honour.

While his mind refused to accept the Knight's code, his soul yearned to rise up and acclaim it.

Yet, working to the last for Mora's peace of mind, he had maintained his tone of scornful disapproval.

He would never again have the chance to cry "Hail!" to the Silver Shield. The deft fingers of his sophistry had striven to loosen the Knight's shining armour. How far they had succeeded, the Bishop could not tell. But, as he watched the swiftly moving river, he found himself wishing that his task had been to strengthen, rather than to weaken; to gird up and brace, rather than subtly to unbuckle and disarm. Yet by so doing, would he not have been ensuring his own happiness, bringing back the joy of life to his own heart, at the expense of the two whom he had given to be each other's in the Name of the Divine Trinity?

If Hugh persisted in his folly, he would lose his bride, yet would the Bishop meet and reinstate the Prioress with a clear conscience, having striven to the very last to dissuade the Knight.

If, on the other hand, Hugh, growing wiser as he rode northward, decided to keep silence, why then the sunny land he loved, and the Cardinal's office, for Symon, Bishop of Worcester.

But meanwhile, two weeks of uncertainty; and the Bishop could not abide uncertainty.

He turned from the river and began to pace the lawn slowly from end to end, his head bent, his hands clasped behind him.

Each time he reached the wall between the garden and the courtyard, he found himself confronted by two rose trees, a red and a white, climbing so near together that their branches intertwined, crimson blooms resting their rich petals against the fragrant fairness of their white neighbours.

Presently these roses became symbolic to the Bishop—the white, of the fair presence of the Prioress; the red, of the high honour awaiting him in Rome.

He was seized by the whimsical idea that, were he to close his eyes, beseech the blessed Saint Joseph to guide his hand, take three steps forward, and pluck the first blossom his fingers touched, he might put an end to this tiresome uncertainty.

But he smiled at the childishness of the fancy. It savoured of the old lay-sister, Mary Antony, playing with her peas and confiding in her robin. Moreover the Bishop never did anything with his eyes shut. He would have slept with them open, had not Nature decreed otherwise.

Once again he paced the full length of the lawn, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes looking beyond the river to the distant hills.

"Will she come, or shall I go? Shall I depart, or will she return?"

As he turned at the parapet, a voice seemed to whisper with insistence: "A white rose for her pure presence in the Cloister. A red rose for Rome."

And, as he reached the wall again, the bright eyes of a little maiden peeped at him through the archway.

He stood quite still and looked at her.

Never had he seen so lovely an elf. A sunbeam had made its home in each lock of her tumbled hair. Her little brown face had the soft bloom of a ripe nectarine; her eyes, the timid glance of a startled fawn.

The Bishop smiled.

The bright eyes lost their look of fear, and sparkled responsive.

The Bishop beckoned.

The little maid stole through the archway; then, gaining courage flew over the turf, and stood between the Bishop and the roses.

"How camest thou here, my little one?" questioned Symon of Worcester, in his softest tones.

"The big gate stood open, sir, and I ran in."

"And what is thy name, my little maid?"

"Verity," whispered the child, shyly, blushing to speak her own name.

"Ah," murmured the Bishop. "Hath Truth indeed come in at my open gate?"

Then, smiling into the little face lifted so confidingly to his: "Dost thou want something, Angel-child, that I can give thee?"

One little bare, brown foot rubbed itself nervously over the other. Five little brown, bare toes wriggled themselves into the grass.

"Be not afraid," said the Bishop. "Ask what thou wilt and I will give it thee, unto the half of my kingdom. Yea, even the head of Father Benedict, in a charger."

"A rose," said the child, eagerly ignoring the proffered head of Father Benedict and half the Bishop's kingdom. "A rose from that lovely tree! Their pretty faces looked at me over the wall."

The Bishop's lips still smiled; but his eyes, of a sudden, grew grave.

"Blessed Saint Joseph!" he murmured beneath his breath, and crossed himself.

Then, bending over the little maid, he laid his hand upon the tumbled curls.

"Truly, my little Verity," he said, "thou shalt gather thyself a rose, and thou shall gather one for me. I leave thee free to make thy choice. See! I clasp my hands behind me—thus. Then I shall turn and walk slowly up the lawn. So soon as my back is turned, pluck thou two roses. Fly with those little brown feet after me, and place one of the roses—whichever thou wilt—in my hands. Then run home thyself, with the other. Farewell, little Angel-child. May the blessing of Bethlehem's purple hills be ever thine."

The Bishop turned and paced slowly up the lawn, head bent, hands clasped behind him.

The small bare feet made no sound on the turf. But before the Bishop was half-way across the lawn, the stem of a rose was thrust between his fingers. As they closed over it, a gay ripple of laughter sounded behind him, fading fleetly into the distance.

The Angel-child had made her choice, and had flown with her own rose, leaving the Bishop's destiny in his clasped hands.

Without pausing or looking round, he paced onward, gazing for a while at the sparkling water; then beyond it, to the distant woods through which the Knight was riding.

Presently he turned, still with his hands behind him, passed to the garden-door, left standing wide, and entered the library.

But not until he kneeled before the shrine of Saint Joseph did he move forward his right hand, and bring into view the rose placed therein by Verity.

It was many years since the Bishop had wept. He had not thought ever to weep again. Yet, at sight of the rose, plucked for him by the Angel-child, something gave way within him, and he fell to weeping helplessly.

Saint Joseph, bearded and stalwart, seemed to look down with compassion upon the bowed head with its abundant silvery hair.

Even thus, it may be, had he himself wept when, after his time of hard mental torture, the Angel of the Lord appeared unto him, saying: "Fear not."

After a while the Bishop left the shrine, went over to the deed chest, and laid the rose beside the white stone.

"There, my dear Hugh," he murmured; "thy stone, and my rose. Truly they look well together. Each represents the triumph of firm resolve. Yet mine will shortly fade and pass away; while thine, dear lad, will abide forever."

The Bishop seated himself at his table, and sounded the silver gong.

A lay-brother appeared.

"Benedicite," said the Bishop. "Request Fra Andrea Filippo at once to come hither. I must have speech with him, without delay."



CHAPTER LIII

ON THE HOLY MOUNT

On the ninth day since Hugh's departure, the day when fast riding might make his return possible before nightfall, Mora rose early.

At the hour when she had been wont to ring the Convent bell, she was walking swiftly over the moors and climbing the heather-clad hills.

She had remembered a little chapel, high up in the mountains, where dwelt a holy Hermit, held in high repute for his saintliness of life, his wisdom in the giving of spiritual counsel, and his skill in ministering to the sick.

It had come to Mora, as she prayed and pondered during the night, that if she could make full confession to this holy man, he might be able to throw some clear beam of light upon the dark tangle of her perplexity.

This hope was strongly with her as she walked.

"Lighten my darkness! Lead me in a plain path!" was the cry of her bewildered soul.

It seemed to her that she had two issues to consider. First: the question as to whether Hugh, guided by the Bishop, would keep silence; thus making himself a party to her deception. Secondly: the position in which she was placed by the fact that she had left the Convent, owing to that deception. But, for the moment the first issue was so infinitely the greater, that she found herself thrusting the second into the background, allowing herself to be conscious of it merely as a question to be faced later on, when the all-important point of Hugh's attitude in the matter should be settled.

She walked forward swiftly, one idea alone possessing her: that she hastened toward possible help.

She did not slacken speed until the chapel came into view, its grey walls glistening in the morning light, a clump of feathery rowan trees beside it; at its back a mighty rock, flung down in bygone centuries from the mountain which towered behind it. From a deep cleft in this rock sprang a young oak, dipping its fresh green to the roof of the chapel; all around it, in every crack and cranny, parsley fern, hare-bells on delicate, swaying stalks, foxgloves tall and straight, and glorious bunches of purpling heather.

Nearby was the humble dwelling of the Hermit. The door stood ajar.

Softly approaching, Mora lifted her hand, and knocked.

No voice replied.

The sound of her knock did but make evident the presence of a vast solitude.

Pushing open the door, she ventured to look within.

The Hermit's cell was empty. The remains of a frugal meal lay upon the rough wooden table. Also an open breviary, much thumbed and worn. At the further end of the table, a little pile of medicinal herbs heaped as if shaken hastily from the wallet which lay beside them. Probably the holy man, even while at an early hour he broke his fast, had been called to some sick bedside.

Mora turned from the doorway and, shading her eyes, scanned the landscape.

At first she could see only sheep, slowly moving from tuft to tuft as they nibbled the short grass; or goats, jumping from rock to rock, and suddenly disappearing in the high bracken.

But soon, on a distant ridge, she perceived two figures and presently made out the brown robe and hood of the Hermit, and a little, barefoot peasant boy, running to keep up with his rapid stride. They vanished over the crest of the hill, and Mora—alone in this wild solitude—realised that many hours might elapse ere the Hermit returned.

This check to the fulfilment of her purpose, instead of disappointing her, flooded her heart with a sudden sense of relief.

The interior of the Hermit's cell had recalled, so vividly, the austerities of the cloistered life.

The Hermit's point of view would probably have been so completely from within.

It would have been impossible that he should comprehend the wonder—the growing wonder—of these days, since she and Hugh rode away from Warwick, culminating in that exquisite hour on the battlements when she had told him of the vision, whispered her full surrender, and yet he—faithful and patient even then—had touched her only with his glowing eyes.

How could a holy Hermit, dwelling alone among great silent hills, realise the tremendous force of a strong mutual love, the glow, the gladness, the deep, sweet unrest, the call of soul to soul, the throb of hearts, filling the purple night with the soft beat of angels' wings?

How could a holy Hermit understand the shock to Hugh, how fathom the maddening torment of suspense, the abyss of hope deferred, into which the Bishop's letter must have plunged him, coming so soon after he had said: "I ask no higher joy, than to watch the breaking of the day which gives thee to my home"? But the breaking of the day had brought the stern necessity which took him from her.

Yet why? How much was in that second letter? Was it less detailed than the first? Had Hugh ridden south to learn the entire truth? Or had he ridden south to arrange with the Bishop for her complete and permanent deception?

Standing on this mountain plateau—the morning breeze blowing about her, the sun mounting triumphant in the heavens "as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber," and all around the scent of heather, the hum of bees, the joyful trill of the soaring lark; her own body bounding with life after the swift climb—it seemed to Mora impossible that Hugh should withstand the temptation to hold to his happiness, at all costs. And how could a saintly Hermit judge him as mercifully as she—the woman who loved him—knew that he should be judged?

She felt thankful for the good man's absence, yet baffled in her need for help.

Looking back toward the humble dwelling, she perceived a rough device of carved lettering on a beam over the doorway. She made out Latin words, and going nearer she, who for years had worked so continuously at copying and translating, read them without difficulty.

"WITH HIM, IN THE HOLY MOUNT," was inscribed across the doorway of the Hermit's dwelling.

Mora repeated the words, and again repeated them; and, as she did so there stole over her the sense of an Unseen Presence in this solitude.

"With Him, in the Holy Mount."

She turned to the chapel. Over that doorway also were carven letters. Moving closer, she looked up and read them.

"AND WHEN THEY HAD LIFTED UP THEIR EYES, THEY SAW NO MAN, SAVE JESUS ONLY."

Mora opened the door and entered the tiny chapel. At first, coming in from the outer brightness it seemed dark; but she had left the door standing wide, and light poured in behind her.

Then she lifted up her eyes and saw; and seeing, understood the meaning of the legend above the entrance.

In that little chapel was one Figure, and one Figure only. No pictured saints were there. No image of our Lady. No crucifix hung on the wall.

But, in a niche above the altar, stood a wondrous figure of the Christ; not dying, not dead; not glorified and ascending; but the Christ as very man, walking the earth in human form, yet calmly, unmistakably, triumphantly Divine. The marble form was carved by the same hand as the Madonna which the Bishop had brought from Rome, and placed in Mora's cell at the Convent. It had been his gift to his old friend the Hermit. At first sight of it, Mora remembered hearing it described by the Bishop himself. Then the beauty of the sculpture took hold upon her, and she forgot all else.

It lived! The face wore a look of searching tenderness; on the lips, a smile of loving comprehension; in the out-stretched hands, an attitude of infinite compassion.

Mora fell upon her knees. Instinctively she recalled the earnest injunction of Father Gervaise to his penitents that, when kneeling before the crucifix, they should repeat: "He ever liveth to make intercession for us." And, strangely enough, there came back with this the remembrance of the wild voice of Mary Seraphine, shrieking, when told to contemplate the dying Redeemer: "I want life—not death!"