the old face, the yellow pallor of the wizen skin, which usually wore the bright tint of a russet apple.
The Prioress took a portion of the broth; then pushed the bowl from her, and turned to the fruit.
"There, Antony," she said. "The broth is excellent; but I have enough.
Finish it thyself. It will pleasure me to see thee enjoy it."
Faint and thankful, old Antony seized the bowl. And as she drank the broth, her shrewd eyes twinkled. For had not the Devil said she would sup on it herself; knowing that much, yet not knowing that she would receive it from the hand of the Reverend Mother?
It has been ever so, from Eden onwards, when the Devil tries his hand at prophecy.
For a while the Prioress talked lightly, of flowers and birds; of the garden and the orchard; of the gift of three fine salmon, sent to them by the good monks of the Priory at Worcester.
But, presently, when the broth was finished and a faint colour tinted the old cheeks, she passed on to the storm and the sunset, the rolling thunder and the torrents of rain. Then of a sudden she said:
"By the way, Antony, hast thou made mention, to any, of thy fearsome tale of the walking through the cloisters, in line with the White Ladies, of the Spectre of the saintly Sister Agatha?"
"Nay, Reverend Mother," said Mary Antony. "Did not you forbid me to speak of it?"
"True," said the Prioress. "Well, Antony, I went in the storm, to look for her; but—I found not Sister Agatha."
"That I already knew," said Mary Antony, nodding her head sagaciously.
The Prioress cast upon her a quick, anxious look.
"What mean you, Antony?"
Then old Mary Antony fell upon her knees, and kissed the hem of the Prioress's robe. "Oh, Reverend Mother," she stammered, "I have a confession to make!"
"Make it," said the Prioress, with white lips.
"Reverend Mother, when you sent me from you, after making my report, I went first, as commanded, to the kitchens. But afterward, in my cell, I found these."
Mary Antony opened her wallet and drew out the linen bag in which she kept her peas. Shaking its contents into the palm of her hand, she held out six peas to view.
"Reverend Mother," she said, "there were twenty-five in the bag. I thought I had counted twenty out into my hand; so when all the peas had dropped and yet another holy Lady passed, I thought that made twenty-one. But when I found six peas in my bag, I became aware of my folly. I had but counted nineteen, and had no pea to let fall for the twentieth holy Lady. Yet I ran in haste with my false report, when, had I but thought to look in my wallet, all would have been made clear. Will the Reverend Mother forgive old Mary Antony?"
She shot a quick glance at the Prioress; and, at sight of the immense relief on that loved face, felt ready for any punishment with which it might please Heaven to visit her deceit.
"Dear Antony," began the Reverend Mother, smiling.
"Dear Antony—" she said, and laughed aloud.
Then she placed her hand beneath the old woman's arm, and gently raised her. "Mistakes arise so easily," she said. "With the best of intentions, we all sometimes make mistakes. There is nothing to forgive, my Antony."
"I am old, and dim, and stupid," said the lay-sister, humbly; "but I have begged of our sweet Lady to sharpen the old wits of Mary Antony."
After which statement, made in a voice of humble penitence, Mary Antony, unseen by the thankful Prioress, did give a knowing wink with the eye next to the Madonna. Our blessèd Lady smiled. The sweet Babe looked merry. The Prioress rose, a great light of relief illumining her weary face.
"Let us to bed, dear Antony; then, with the dawn of a new day we shall all arise with hearts refreshed and wits more keen. So now—God rest thee."
Left alone, the Prioress knelt long in prayer before the shrine of the
Madonna. Once, she reached out her right hand to the empty space where
Hugh had knelt, striving to feel remembrance of his strong clasp.
At length she sought her couch. But sleep refused to come, and presently she crept back in the white moonlight, and kneeling pressed her lips to the stone on which Hugh had kneeled; then fled, in shame that our Lady should see such weakness; and dared not glance toward the shadowy form of the dead Christ, crucified. For with the coming of Love to seek her, Life had come; and where Life enters, Death is put to flight; even as before the triumphant march of the rising sun, darkness and shadows flee away.
Yet, even then, our Lady gently smiled, and the Babe on her knees looked merry.
CHAPTER XVIII
IN THE CATHEDRAL CRYPT
On the day following, in the afternoon, shortly before the hour of Vespers, a stretcher was carried through the streets of Worcester, by four men-at-arms wearing the livery of Sir Hugh d'Argent.
Beside it walked the Knight, with bent head, his eyes upon the ground.
The body of the man upon the stretcher was covered by a fine linen sheet, over which lay a blue cloak, richly embroidered with silver. His head was swathed in a bandage of many folds, partially concealing the face.
The little procession passed through the Precincts; then entered the
Cathedral by the great door leading into the nave.
Here a monk stood, taking careful note of all who passed in or out of the building. As the stretcher approached, he stepped forward with hand upraised.
There was a pause in the measured tramp of the bearers' feet.
The Knight lifted his eyes, and seeing the monk barring the way, he drew forth a parchment and tendered it.
"I have the leave of the Lord Bishop, good father," he said, "to carry this man upon the stretcher daily into the crypt, and there to let him lie before the shrine of Saint Oswald, during the hour of Vespers; from which daily pilgrimage and prayer, we hope a great recovery and restoration."
At sight of the Lord Bishop's signature and seal, the monk made deep obeisance, and hastened to call the Sacristan, bidding him attend the Knight on his passage to the crypt and give him every facility in placing the sick man there where he might most conveniently lie before the holy altar of the blessèd Saint Oswald.
So presently, the stretcher being safely deposited, the men-at-arms stood each against a pillar, and the Knight folded back the coverings, in order that the man who lay beneath, might have sight of the altar and the shrine.
As the Knight stood gazing through the vista of many columns, he found the old Sacristan standing at his elbow.
"Most worshipful Knight," said the old man, with deference, "our Lord Bishop's mandate supersedes
