Symon, Bishop of Worcester, attended by his Chaplain, chanced to be walking through the Precincts on his way from the Priory to the Palace, just as the men-at-arms bearing the stretcher came through the great door of the Cathedral.

Father Benedict, cowled, and robed completely in black, a head and shoulders taller than the Bishop, walked behind him, a somewhat sinister figure.

The Bishop stopped. "Precede me to the Palace, Father Benedict," he said. "I wish to have speech with yonder Knight who, I think, comes this way."

The Chaplain stood still, made deep obeisance, jerked his cowl more closely over his face, and strode away.

The Bishop waited, a radiant figure, in the afternoon sunshine. His silken cassock, his silvery hair, his blue eyes, so vivid and searching, not only made a spot on which light concentrated, but almost seemed themselves to give forth light.

The steady tramp of the men-at-arms drew nearer.

Hugh d'Argent walked beside the stretcher, head erect, eyes shining, his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

When the Bishop saw the face of the Knight, he moved to meet the little procession as it approached.

He held up his hand, and the men-at-arms halted.

"Good-day to you, Sir Hugh," said the Bishop. "Hath your pilgrimage to the shrine of the blessèd Saint Oswald worked the recovery you hoped?"

"Aye, my lord," replied the Knight, "a great recovery and restoration.

We start for Warwick in an hour's time."

"Wonderful!" said the Bishop. "Our Lady and the holy Saint be praised! But you are wise to keep the patient well covered. However complete the restoration, great care is required at first, and over-exertion must be avoided."

"Your blessing for the patient, Reverend Father," said the Knight, uncovering.

The Bishop moved nearer. He laid his hand upon the form beneath the blue and silver cloak.

"Benedictio Domini sit vobiscum," he said. Then added, in a lower tone: "Be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed. . . . Go in peace."

The two men who loved the Prioress, looked steadily at one another.

The men-at-arms moved forward with their burden.

The Knight smiled as he walked on beside the stretcher.

The Bishop hastened to the Palace.

It was the Knight who had smiled, and there was glory in his eyes, and triumph in the squaring of his broad shoulders, the swing of his stride, and the proud poise of his head.

The Bishop was white to the lips. His hands trembled as he walked.

He feared—he feared sorely—this that they had accomplished.

It was one thing to theorize, to speculate, to advise, when the Prioress was safe in her Nunnery. It was quite another, to know that she was being carried through the streets of Worcester, helpless, upon a stretcher; that when that blue pall was lifted, she would find herself in a hostel, alone with her lover, surrounded by men, not a woman within call.

The heart of a nun was a thing well known to the Bishop, and he trembled at thought of this, which he had helped to bring about.

Also he marvelled greatly that the Prioress should have changed her mind; and he sought in vain to conjecture the cause of that change.

Arrived in the courtyard of the Palace, he called for Brother Philip.

"Saddle me Shulamite," he said. "Also mount Jasper on our fastest nag, with saddle-bags. We ride to Warwick; and must start within a quarter of an hour."

A portion of that time the Bishop spent writing in the library.

When he was mounted, he stooped from the saddle and spoke to Brother Philip.

"Philip," he said, "a very noble lady, betrothed to Sir Hugh d'Argent, has just arrived at the Star hostel, where for some days he has awaited her. She rides with the Knight forthwith to Warwick, where they will join me at the Castle. It is my wish to lend Iconoklastes to the lady. Therefore I desire thee to saddle the palfrey precisely as he was saddled when he went to the Convent of the White Ladies for their pleasuring and play. Lead him, without delay, to the hostel; deliver him over to the men-at-arms of Sir Hugh d'Argent, and see that they hand this letter at once to the Knight, that he may give it to his lady. Lose not a moment, my good Philip. Look to see me return to-morrow."

The Bishop gathered up the reins, and started out, at a brisk pace, for the Warwick road.

The letter he had intrusted to Brother Philip, sealed with his own signet, was addressed to Sir Hugh d'Argent. But within was written:

Will the Countess of Norelle be pleased to accept of the palfrey Iconoklastes as a marriage gift from her old friend Symon Wygorn.

CHAPTER XXXIII
MARY ANTONY HOLDS THE FORT

Mary Antony awaited in the cloisters the return of the White Ladies from Vespers.

The old lay-sister was not in the mood for gay chatter to the robin, nor even for quaint converse with herself.

She sat upon the stone seat, looking very frail, and wearing a wistful expression, quite unlike her usual alert demeanour.

As she sat, she slowly dropped the twenty-five peas from her right hand, to her left, and back again.

A wonderful thing had happened on that afternoon, just before the White Ladies set forth to the Cathedral.

All were assembling in the cloisters, when word arrived that the Reverend Mother wished to speak, in her cell, with Sister Mary Antony.

Hastening thither she found the Reverend Mother standing, very white and silent, very calm and steadfast, looking out from the oriel window.

At first she did not turn; and Mary Antony stood waiting, just within the doorway.

Then she turned, and said: "Ah, dear Antony!" in tones which thrilled the heart of the old lay-sister.

"Come hither, Antony," she said; and even as she said it, moved to meet her.

A few simple instructions she gave, concerning matters in the Refectory and kitchen. Then said: "Now I must go. The nuns wait."

Then of a sudden she put her arms about the old lay-sister.

"Good-bye, my Antony," she said. "Thy love and devotion have been very precious to me. The Presence of the Lord abide with thee in blessing, while we are gone."

And, stooping, she kissed her gently on the brow; then passed from the cell.

Mary Antony stood as one that dreamed.

It was so many years since any touch of tenderness had reached her.

And now—those gracious arms around her; those serene eyes looking upon her with love in their regard, and a something more, which her old heart failed to fathom; those lips, whose every word of command she and the whole Community hastened to obey, leaving a kiss upon her brow!

Long after the White Ladies had formed into procession and left the cloisters, Mary Antony stood as one that dreamed. Then, remembering her duties, she hurried to the cloisters, but found them empty; down the steps to the crypt passage; the door was locked on the inside; the key gone.

The procession had started, and Mary Antony had failed to be at her post. The White Ladies had departed uncounted. Mary Antony had not been there to count them.

Never before had the Reverend Mother sent for her when she should have been on duty elsewhere.

Hastening to remedy her failure, Mary Antony drew the bag of peas from her wallet, opened it, and hurrying from cell to cell, took out a pea at each, as she verified its emptiness; until five-and-twenty peas lay in her hand.

So now she waited, her error repaired; yet ever with her—then, as she ran, and now, as she waited—she felt the benediction of the Reverend Mother's kiss, the sense of her encircling arms, the wonder of her gracious words.

"The Presence of the Lord abide with thee in blessing."

Yes, a heavenly calm was in the cloisters. The Devil had stayed away. Heaven seemed very near. Even that little vain man, the robin, appeared to be busy elsewhere. Mary Antony was quite alone.

"While we are gone." But they would not now be long. Mary Antony could tell by the shadows on the grass, and the slant of the sunshine through a certain arch, that the hour of return drew near.

She would kneel beside the topmost step, and see the Reverend Mother pass; she would look up at that serene face which had melted into tenderness; would see the firm line of those beautiful lips–

Suddenly Mary Antony knew that she would not be able to look. Not just yet could she bear to see the Reverend Mother's countenance, without that expression of wonderful tenderness. And even as she realised this, the key grated in the lock below.

Taking up her position at the top of the steps, the five-and-twenty peas in her right hand, Mary Antony quickly made up her mind. She could not lift her eyes to the Reverend Mother's face. She would count the passing feet.

The young lay-sister who carried the light, stumped up the steps, and set down the lantern with a clatter. She plumped on to her knees opposite to Mary Antony.

"Sister Mary Rebecca leads to-day," she chanted in a low voice, "and all the way hath stepped upon my heels."

But Mary Antony took no notice of this information, which, at any other time, would have delighted her.

Head bowed, eyes on the ground, she awaited the passing feet.

They came, moving slow and sedate.

They passed—stepping two by two, out of her range of vision; moving along the cloister, dying away in the distance.

All had passed.

Nay! Not all? Another comes! Surely, another comes?

Sister Abigail, lifting the lantern, rose up noisily.

"What wait you for, Sister Antony? The holy Ladies have by now entered their cells."

Mary Antony lifted startled eyes.

The golden bars of sunlight fell across an empty cloister.

A few white figures in the passage, seen in the distance through the open door, were vanishing, one by one, into their cells.

Mary Antony covered her dismay with indignation.

"Be off, thou impudent hussy! Hold thy noisy tongue and hang thy rattling lantern on a nail; or, better still, hold thy lantern, and hang thyself, holding it, upon the nail. If I am piously minded to pray here until sunset, that is no concern of thine. Be off, I say!"

Left alone, Mary Antony slowly opened her right hand, and peered into the palm.

One pea lay within it.

She went over to the seat and counted, with trembling fingers, the peas from her left hand.

Twenty-four! One holy Lady had therefore not returned. This must be reported at once to the Reverend Mother. In her excitement, Mary Antony forgot the emotion which had so recently possessed her.

Bustling down the steps, she drew the key from the door, paused one moment to peep into the dank darkness, listening for running footsteps or a voice that called; then closed the door, locked it, drew forth the key, and hurried to the Reverend Mother's cell.

The door stood ajar, just as she had left it.

She knocked, but entered without waiting to be bidden, crying: "Oh, Reverend Mother! Twenty-five holy Ladies went to Vespers, and but twenty-four have"–

Then her voice died away into silence.

The Reverend Mother's cell was empty.

Stock-still stood Mary Antony, while her world crumbled from beneath her old feet and her heaven rolled itself up like a scroll, from over her head, and departed.

The Reverend Mother's cell was empty.

It was the Reverend Mother who had not returned.

"Good-bye, my Antony. The Presence of the Lord abide with thee in blessing, while we are gone." Ah, gone! Never to return!

Once again the old lay-sister stood as one that dreamed; but this time instead of beatific joy, there was a forlorn pathos in the dreaming.

Presently a door opened, and a step sounded, far away in the passage beyond the Refectory stairs.

Instantly a look of cunning and determination replaced the helpless dismay on the old face. She quickly closed the cell door, hung up the crypt key in its accustomed place; then kneeling before the shrine of the Madonna: "Blessèd Virgin," she prayed, with clasped hands uplifted; "be pleased to sharpen once again the wits of old Mary Antony."

Rising, she found the key of the Reverend Mother's cell, passed out, closing the door behind her; locked it, and slipped the key into her wallet.

The passage was empty. All the nuns were spending in prayer and meditation the time until the Refectory bell should ring.

Mary Antony appeared in the kitchen, only a few minutes later than usual.

"Prepare you the evening meal," she said to her subordinates. "I care not what the holy Ladies feed upon this even, nor how badly it be served. Reverend Mother again elects to spend the night in prayer and fasting. So Mother Sub-Prioress will spit out a curse upon the viands; or Sister Mary Rebecca will miaul over them like an old cat that sees a tom in every shadow, though all toms have long since fled at her approach. Serve at the usual hour; and let Abigail ring the Refectory bell. I am otherwise employed. And remember. Reverend Mother is on no account to be disturbed."

The porteress, at the gate, jumped well-nigh out of her skin when, turning, she found Mary Antony at her elbow.

"Beshrew me, Sister Antony!" she exclaimed. "Wherefore"–

"Whist!" said Mary Antony. "Speak not so loud. Now listen, Mary Mark. Saw you the great Lord Bishop yesterday, a-walking with Mary Antony? Ha, ha! Yea, verily! 'Worthy Mother,' his lordship called me. 'Worthy Mother,' with his hand upon his heart. And into the gardens he walked with Mary Antony. Wherefore, you ask? Wherefore should the great Lord Bishop walk in the Convent garden with an old lay-sister, who ceased to be a comely wench more than half a century ago? Because, Sister Mark, if you needs must know, the Lord Bishop is full of anxious fears for the Reverend Mother, and knoweth that Mary Antony, old though she be, is able to tend and watch over her. The Lord Bishop and the Worthy Mother both fear that the Reverend Mother fasts too often, and spends too many hours in vigil. The Reverend Father has therefore deputed the Worthy Mother to watch in this matter, and to let him know at once if the Reverend Mother imperils her health again, by too lengthy a fast or vigil. And, lo! this very day, the Reverend Mother purposes not coming to the evening meal, and intends spending the whole night in prayer and vigil, before our Lady's shrine. Therefore the Worthy Mother—I, myself—must start at once to fetch the great Lord Bishop; and you, Sister Mary Mark, must open the gate and let me be gone."

The porteress gazed, round-eyed and amazed.

"Nay, Sister Mary Antony, that can I not, without an order from the Reverend Mother herself. And even then, you could not walk so far as to the Lord Bishop's Palace. I doubt if you would even reach the Fore-gate."

"That I should, and shall!" cried Mary Antony. "And, if my old legs fail me, many a gallant will dismount and offer me his horse. Thus in fine style shall I ride into Worcester city. Didst thou not see me bestride the Lord Bishop's white palfrey on Play Day?"

Sister Mary Mark broke into laughter.

"Aye," she said, "my sides have but lately ceased aching. I pray you, Sister Antony, call not that sight again into my mind."

"Then open the door, Mary Mark, and let me go."

"Nay, that I dare not do."

"Then, if I fail to do as bidden by the great Lord Bishop, I shall tell his lordship that thou, and thine obstinacy, stood in the way of the fulfilment of my purpose."

The porteress wavered.

"Bring me leave from the Reverend Mother, Sister Antony."

"Nay, that can I not," said Mary Antony, "as any fool might see, when I go without the Reverend Mother's knowledge to report to the Lord Bishop by his private command. Even the Reverend Mother herself obeys the commands of the Lord Bishop."

Sister Mary Mark hesitated. She certainly had seen the Lord Bishop pass under the rose-arch, and enter the garden, in close converse with Sister Mary Antony. Yet her trust at the gate was given to her by the Reverend Mother.

"See here, Mary Mark," said Sister Antony. "I must send a message forthwith to Mother Sub-Prioress. You shall take it, leaving me in charge of the gate, as often I am left, by order of the Reverend Mother, when you are bidden elsewhere. If, on your return—and you need not to hurry—you find me gone, none can blame you. Yet when the Lord Bishop rides in at sunset, he will give you his blessing and, like enough, something besides."

Mary Mark's hesitation vanished.

"I will take your message, Sister Antony," she said meekly.

"Go, by way of the kitchens and the Refectory stairs, to the cell of Mother Sub-Prioress. Say that the Reverend Mother purposes passing the night in prayer and vigil, will not come to the evening meal, and desires Mother Sub-Prioress to take her place. Also that for no cause whatever is the Reverend Mother to be disturbed."

Sister Mary Mark, being thus given a legitimate reason for leaving her post and gaining the Bishop's favour without giving cause for displeasure to the Prioress, departed, by way of the kitchens, to carry Mary Antony's message.

No sooner was she out of sight, than Mary Antony seized the key, unlocked the great doors, pulled them apart, and left them standing ajar, the key in the lock; then hastened back across the courtyard, passed under the rose-arch, and creeping beneath the shelter of the yew hedge, reached the steps up to the cloisters; slipped unobserved through the cloister door, and up the empty passage; unlocked the Reverend Mother's cell, entered it, and softly closed and locked the door behind her.

Then—in order to make it impossible to yield to any temptation to open the door—she withdrew the key, and flung it through the open window, far out into the shrubbery.

Thus did Mary Antony prepare to hold the fort, until the coming of the Bishop.

CHAPTER XXXIV
MORA DE NORELLE

Symon, Bishop of Worcester, chid himself for restlessness. Surely for once his mind had lost control of his limbs.

No sooner did he decide to walk the smooth lawns around the Castle, than he found himself mounting to the battlements; and now, though he had installed himself for greatly needed repose in a deep seat in the hall chamber, yet here he was, pacing the floor, or moving from one window to another.

By dint of hard riding he had reached Warwick while the sun, though already dipped beneath the horizon, still flecked the sky with rosy clouds, and spread a golden mantle over the west.

The lord of the Castle was away, in attendance on the King; but all was in readiness for the arrival of the Bishop, and great preparations had been made for the reception of Sir Hugh d'Argent. His people, having left Worcester early that morning, were about in the courtyard, as the Bishop rode in.

As he passed through the doorway, an elderly woman, buxom, comely, and of motherly aspect, whom he easily divined to be the tire-woman of whom the Knight had spoken, came forward to meet him.

"Good my lord," she said, her eagerness allowing of scant ceremony, "comes Sir Hugh d'Argent hither this night?"

"Aye," replied the Bishop, looking with kindly eyes upon Mora's old nurse. "Within two hours, he should be here."

"Comes he alone, my lord?" asked Mistress Deborah.

"Nay," replied the Bishop, "the Countess of Norelle, a very noble lady to whom the Knight is betrothed, rides hither with him."

"The saints be praised!" exclaimed the old woman, and turned away to hide her tears.

Whilst his body-servant prepared a bath and laid out his robes, the Bishop mounted to the ramparts and watched the gold fade in the west. He glanced at the river below, threading its way through the pasture land; at the billowy masses of trees; at the gay parterre, bright with summer flowers. Then he looked long in the direction of the city from which he had come.

During his strenuous ride, the slow tramp of the men-at-arms, had sounded continually in his ears; the outline of that helpless figure, lying at full length upon the stretcher, had been ever before his eyes.

He could not picture the arrival at the hostel, the removal of the covering, the uprising of the Prioress to face life anew, enfolded in the arms of her lover.

As in a weary dream, in which the mind can make no headway, but returns again and yet again to the point of distress, so, during the entire ride, the Bishop had followed that stretcher through the streets of Worcester city, until it seemed to him as if, before the pall was lifted, the long-limbed, graceful form beneath it would have stiffened in death.

"A corpse for a bride! A corpse for a bride!" the hoofs of the black mare Shulamite had seemed to beat out upon the road. "Alas, poor Knight! A corpse for a bride!"

The Bishop came down from the battlements.

When he left his chamber an hour later, he had donned those crimson robes which he wore on the evening when the Knight supped with him at the Palace.

As he paced up and down the lawns, the gold cross at his breast gleamed in the evening light.

A night-hawk, flying high overhead and looking downward as it flew, might have supposed that a great scarlet poppy had left its clump in the flower-beds, and was promenading on the turf.

A steward came out to ask when it would please the Lord Bishop to sup.

To the hovering hawk, a blackbird seemed to have hopped out, confronting and arresting the promenading poppy.

The Bishop said he would await the arrival of Sir Hugh; but he turned and followed the man into the Castle.

And now he sat in the great hall chamber.

Two hours had passed since his arrival.

Unless something unforeseen had occurred the Knight's cavalcade must be here before long. He had planned to start within the hour; and, though the Bishop had ridden fast, they could scarcely have taken more than an hour longer to do the distance.

But supposing the Prioress had faltered at the last, and had besought to be returned to the Nunnery? Would the chivalry of the Knight have stood such a test? And, having left in secret, how could she return openly? Would the way through the crypt be possible?

The Bishop began to wish that he had ridden to the Star hostel and awaited developments there, instead of hastening on before.

The hall chamber was in the centre of the Castle. Its casements looked out upon the gardens. Thus it came about that he did not hear a cavalcade ride into the courtyard. He did not hear the shouting of the men, the ring of hoofs on the paving stones, the champing of horses.

He sat in a great carved chair beside the fireplace in the hall chamber, forcing himself to stillness, yet tormented by anxiety; half minded to order a fresh horse and to ride back to Worcester.

Suddenly, without any warning, the door, leading from the ante-chamber at the further end of the hall, opened.

Framed in the doorway appeared a vision, which for a moment led Symon of Worcester to question whether he dreamed, so beautiful beyond belief was the woman in a green riding-dress, looking at him with starry eyes, her cheeks aglow, a veil of golden hair falling about her shoulders.

Oh, Mora, child of delight! Has the exquisite promise of thy girlhood indeed fulfilled itself thus? Have the years changed thee so little–and yet so greatly?

"The captive exile hasteneth"; exile, long ago, for thy sake; seeking to be free, yet captive still, caught once and forever in the meshes of that golden hair.

Oh, Mora, child of delight! Must all this planning for thy full development and perfecting of joy, involve the poignant anguish of thus seeing thee again?

Symon of Worcester rose and stood, a noble figure in crimson and gold, at the top of the hall. But for the silver moonlight of his hair, he might have been a man in his prime—so erect was his carriage, so keen and bright were his eyes.

The tall woman in the doorway gave a little cry; then moved quickly forward.

"You?" she said. "You! The priest who is to wed us? You!"

He stood his ground, awaiting her approach.

"Yes, I," he said; "I."

Half-way across the hall, she paused.

"No," she said, as if to herself. "I dream. It is not Father Gervaise. It is the Bishop."

She drew nearer.

Earnestly he looked upon her, striving to see in her the Prioress of Whytstone—the friend of all these happy, peaceful, blessèd years.

But the Prioress had vanished.

Mora de Norelle stood before him, taller by half a head than he, flushed by long galloping in the night breeze; nerves strung to breaking point; eyes bright with the great unrest of a headlong leap into a new world. Yet the firm sweet lips were there, unchanged; and, even as he marked them, they quivered and parted.

"Reverend Father," she said, "I have chosen, even as you prayed I might do, the harder part." She flung aside the riding-whip she carried; and folding her hands, held them up before him. "For Christ's sake, my Lord Bishop, pray for me!"

He took those folded hands in his, gently parted them, and held them against the cross upon his heart.

"You have chosen rightly, my child," he said; "we will pray that grace and strength may be vouchsafed you, so that you may continue, without faltering, along the pathway of this fresh vocation."

She looked at him with searching gaze. The kind and gentle eyes of the Bishop met hers without wavering; also without any trace of the fire—the keen brightness—which had startled her as she stood in the doorway.

"Reverend Father," she said, and there was a strange note of bewildered question in her voice: "I pray you, tell me what you bid penitents to remember as they kneel in prayer before the crucifix?"

The Bishop looked full into those starry grey eyes bent upon him, and his own did not falter. His mild voice took on a shade of sternness as befitted the solemn subject of her question.

"I tell them, my daughter, to remember, the sacred Wounds that bled and the Heart that broke for them."

She drew her hands from beneath his, and stepped back a pace.

"The Heart that broke?" she said. "That broke? Do hearts break?" she cried. "Nay, rather, they turn to stone." She laughed wildly, then caught her breath. The Knight had entered the hall.

With free, glad step, and head uplifted, Hugh d'Argent came to them, where they stood.

"My Lord Bishop," he said, "you have been too good to us. I sent Mora on alone that she might find you here, not telling her who was the prelate who had so graciously offered to wed us, knowing how much it would mean to her that it should be you, Reverend Father."

"Gladly am I here for that purpose, my son," replied the Bishop, "having as you know, the leave and sanction of His Holiness for so doing. Shall we proceed at once to the chapel, or do you plan first to sup?"

"Nay, Father," said the Knight. "My betrothed has ridden far and needs food first, and then a good night's rest. If it will not too much delay your return to Worcester, I would pray you to wed us in the morning."

Knowing how determined Hugh had been, in laying his plans, to be wed at once on reaching Warwick, the Bishop looked up quickly, wishing to understand what had wrought this change.

He saw on the Knight's face that look of radiant peace which the Prioress had seen, when first the cloak was turned back in the crypt; and the Bishop, having passed that way himself, knew that to Hugh had come the revelation which comes but to the true, lover—the deepest of all joys, that of putting himself on one side, and of thinking, first and only, of the welfare of the belovèd.

And seeing this, the Bishop let go his fears, and in his heart thanked God.

"It is well planned, Hugh," he said. "I am here until the morning."

At which the Knight turning, strode quickly to the door, and beckoned.

Then back he came, leading by the hand the buxom, motherly old dame, seen on arrival by the Bishop. Who, when the Lady Mora saw, she gave a cry, and ran to meet her.

"Debbie!" she cried, "Oh, Debbie! Let us go home!"

And with that the tension broke all on a sudden, and with her old nurse's arms around her, she sobbed on the faithful bosom which had been the refuge of her childhood's woes.

"There, my pretty!" said Deborah, as best she could for her own sobs. "There, there! We are at home, now we are together. Come and see the chamber in which we shall sleep, just as we slept long years ago, when you were a babe, my dear."

So, with her old nurse's arms about her, she, who had come in so proudly, went gently out in a soft mist of tears.

The Bishop turned away.

"Love never faileth," he murmured, half aloud.

Hugh turned with him, and laughed; but in his laughter there was no vexation, no bitterness, no unrest. It was the happy laugh of a heart aglow with a hope amounting to certainty.

"There were two of us the other night, my dear lord," he said; "but now old Debbie has appeared, methinks there are three!"