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, hoa.r.s.ely, "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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sured--why, then----

He sounded the silver gong.

His servant entered.

"What hors.e.m.e.n 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 n.o.ble 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?