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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble Knight, seeing me fall, wheeled his horse and, riding back, hewn his way through to me, scattering mine a.s.sailants 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 grat.i.tude, in cleaner, better days.

Left alone, Mora pa.s.sed 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 amus.e.m.e.nt.

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 att.i.tude 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.