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 cas.e.m.e.nts.

"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 n.o.ble and gracious lady who, by the blessing of G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 h.e.l.l, 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 h.e.l.l 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.