And into his mind there came, as clearly as if that moment uttered, the words of Father Gervaise: "He ever liveth to make intercession for us."

The Knight raised his right arm. "Oh, if Thou livest," he said, "and living, knowest; and knowing, carest; grant me a sign of Thy nearness--a Vision of Life and of Love, which shall make clear this mist of uncertainty."

Turning back to his work, so great a load seemed lifted from his heart, that he found himself singing as he put a keener edge on his weapons.

Presently he went over to the corner where stood the silver shield.

Hitherto he had kept his eyes turned from it. It called up thoughts which he had striven to beat back. Now, he set to work and polished it until its surface shone clear as a mirror.

And as he worked, he thought within himself: "What said the Bishop?

That I saw reflected in my silver shield naught save mine own proud face? But I told my wife that I see there the face of G.o.d, or the nearest I know to His face; and, behind Him, her face--the face of my beloved; for, had I not put reverence and honour first, my very love for her would have been tarnished."

Hugh stood the silver shield at such an angle as that it reflected the sunset, yet as he kneeled upon one knee before it he could not see his own reflection.

The sun, round and blood red, almost dipping below the horizon, shone out in crimson glory from the deepest heart of the silver.

Hugh remembered two verses of a Hebrew poem which the Rabbi used to recite at sunset. "The Lord G.o.d is a Sun and Shield: The Lord will give Grace and Glory; No good thing will He withhold from them that walk uprightly. O Lord of Hosts, blessed is the man that trusteth in Thee."

His eyes upon the shield, his hands clasped around his knee, Hugh said, softly: "The face of G.o.d, my beloved, or the nearest I know to His face: and behind Him, thy face"----

And then his voice fell of a sudden silent; his heart beat in his throat, his fingers gripped his knee; for something moved softly in the shining surface, and there looked out at him from his own silver shield, the face of the woman he loved.

How long he kneeled and gazed without stirring, Hugh could not tell.

At that moment life paused suspended, and he ceased to be conscious of time. But, at length, pressing nearer, his own dark head appeared in the shield, and above him, bending toward him, Mora, shimmering in softest white, as on her wedding morn, her hands outstretched, her eyes full of a tender yearning, gazing into his.

"The Vision for which I prayed!" cried the Knight. "O, my G.o.d! Is this the sign of Thy nearness? Is this a promise that my wife will come to me?"

He hid his face in his hands.

A gentle touch fell lightly on his hair.

"Not a promise, Hugh," came a tender whisper close behind him. "A sign of G.o.d's nearness; a proof of mine. Hugh, my own dear Knight, lift up your head and look. Your wife has come home."

Leaping to his feet, he turned; still dazzled, incredulous.

No shadowy reflection this. His wife stood before him, fair as on her wedding morning, a jewelled circlet clasping the golden glory of her hair. But his eyes saw only the look in hers.

Yet he kept his distance.

"Mora?" he whispered. "Home? To stay? Hath a true vision then been granted thee?"

"Oh, Hugh," she answered, "I have seen deep into the heart of a true man. I have seen myself unworthy, in the light of thy great loyalty.

I have seen all others fail, but my Knight of the Silver Shield stand faithful. I have been shewn this by so strange a chance, that I humbly take it to be the Finger of G.o.d pointing out the pathway of His will.

My pride is in the dust. My self-will lies slain. But my love for thee has become as great a thing as the heart of a woman may know. Thy faithfulness shames my poor doubts of thee. The richness of thy giving, beggars my yearning to bestow. Yet now at last thy wife can come to thee without a doubt, without a tremor, all hesitancy gone, all she is, and all she has, quite simply, thine. Oh, Hugh, thine own--to do with as thou wilt. All these years--kept for thee. Take me--Ah! . . . Oh, Hugh, thy strength! Is this love, or is there some deeper, more rapturous word? Oh, dear man of mine, how strong must have been the flood-gates, if this was the pent-up force behind them!"

He carried her to the hearth in the great hall, and placed her in the chair in which his mother used to sit.

Then, his arms still around her, he kneeled before her, lifting his face in which the dark eyes glowed with a deeper light than pa.s.sion's transient fires.

"The Madonna!" he said. "The Madonna in my home."

He stooped and lifted the hem of her robe to his lips.

"Not as Prioress," he said, "but as my adored wife."

Again he stooped and pressed it to his lips.

"Not as Reverend Mother to a score of nuns," he said, "but as----"

She caught his head between her hands, hiding his glowing eyes against her breast.

Presently: "And did thy people come with thee, my sweetheart? And how could a three hours' ride be accomplished in this bridal array? Oh, Heaven help me, Mora! Thou art so beautiful!"

"Hush," she said, "thou dear, foolish man! Heaven hath helped thee through worse straits than that! Nay, I rode alone, and in my riding dress of green. Arrived here, I changed, in mine own chamber, to these marriage garments."

"In thine own chamber?" He looked at her, with bewildered eyes.

"Here--here, in thine own chamber, Mora?"

The mother in her thrilled with tenderness, as she bent and looked into those bewildered eyes. For once, she felt older than he, and wiser.

The sense of inexperience fell from her. For very joy she laughed as she made answer.

"Dear Heart," she said, "I could scarce come home unless I had a chamber to which to come! Martin shewed me which had been thy mother's, and daily in thine absence he and I rode over, and others with us, bringing all things needful, thus making it ready, against thy return."

"Ready?" he said. "Against my return?"

She laid her lips upon his hair.

"I hope it will please thee, my lord," she said. "Come and see."

She made for to rise, but with masterful hands he held her down. His great strength must have some outlet, lest it should overmaster the gentleness of his love. Also, perhaps, the primitive instincts of wild warrior forefathers arose, of a sudden, within him.

"I must carry thee," he said. "Not a step thither shalt thou walk.

Thine own feet brought thee to the crypt; others bore thee thence. Thy palfrey carried thee home; thy palfrey bore thee here. But to our chamber, my wife, I carry thee, alone."

She would sooner have gone on her own feet; but her joy this day, was to give him all he wished, and as he wished it.

As he bent above her, she slipped her arms around his neck. "Then carry me, dear Heart," she said, "but do not let me fall."

He laughed; and as he swung her out of the seat, and strode across the great hall to where the western glow still gleamed from the doorway of his mother's chamber, she knew of a sudden, why he had wished to carry her. His great strength gave him such easy mastery; helped her to feel so wholly his.

On the threshold of the chamber he paused.

Bending his face to hers, he touched her lips with exceeding gentleness. Then spoke in her ear, deep and low. "Say again what thou didst say ten nights ago when we parted in the dawning, on the battlements."

"I love thee," she whispered, and closed her eyes.

Then Hugh pa.s.sed within.