after Vespers, I shall stand hidden among the pillars, close to the winding stair. One step aside—only one step—and my arm will be around thee. A new life of love and home will lie before us. I shall take thee, safely concealed, to the hostel where I and my men now lodge. There, horses will stand ready, and we shall ride at once to Warwick. At Warwick we shall find a priest—one in high favour, both in Church and State—who knows all, and is prepared to wed us without delay. After which, by easy stages, my wife, I shall take thee home."
He swung the lantern high. She saw the lovelight and the triumph, in his eyes. "I shall take thee home!" he said.
She stepped back a pace, lifting both hands toward him, palms outward, and stood thus gazing, with eyes full of sorrow.
"My poor Hugh," she whispered; "it is useless to wait. I shall not come."
"Yet five days," said the Knight, "I shall tarry in Worcester. Each day, after Vespers, I shall be here."
"Go to-day, dear Hugh. Ride to Warwick and tell thy priest, that which indeed he should know without the telling: that a nun does not break her vows. This is our final farewell, Hugh. Thou hadst best believe it, and go."
"Our last farewell?" he said.
"Our last."
"Here and now?"
"Here and now, dear Hugh."
Looking into that calm face, so lovely in its sadness, he saw that she meant it.
Of a sudden he knew he had lost her; he knew life's way stretched lonely before him, evermore.
"Yes," he said, "yes. It is indeed farewell—here and now—forever."
The dull despair in the voice which, but a few moments before, had vibrated with love and hope, wrung her heart.
She still held her hands before her, as if to ward him off.
"Ah, Hugh," she cried, sharply, "be merciful, and go! Spare me, and go quickly."
The Knight heard in her voice a tone it had not hitherto held. But he loved her loyally; therefore he kept his own anguish under strong control.
Placing the lantern on the ground, he knelt on one knee before her.
"Farewell, my Love," he said. "Our Lady comfort thee; and may Heaven forgive me, for that I have disturbed thy peace."
With which he lifted the hem of her robe, and pressed his lips upon it.
Thus he knelt, for a space, his dark head bent.
Slowly, slowly, the Prioress let drop her hands until, lightly as the fall of autumn leaves—sad autumn leaves—they rested upon his head, in blessing and farewell.
But feeling his hair beneath her hands, she could not keep from softly smoothing it, nor from passing her fingers gently in and out of its crisp thickness.
Then her heart stood still, for of a sudden, in the silence, she heard a shuddering sob.
With a cry, she bent and gathered him to her, holding his head first against her knees, then stooping lower to clasp it to her breast; then as his strong arms were flung around her, she loosed his head, and, as he rose to his feet, slipped her arms about his neck, and surrendered to his embrace.
His lips sought hers, and at once she yielded them. His strong hands held her, and she, feeling the force of their constraint, did but clasp him closer.
Long they stood thus. In that embrace a life-time of pain passed from them, a life-time of bliss was born, and came with a rush to maturity, bringing with it a sense of utter completeness. A world of sweetest trust and certainty filled them; a joy so perfect, that the lonely vista of future years seemed, in that moment, to matter not at all.
All about them was darkness, silence as of the tomb; the heavy smell of earth; the dank chill of the grave.
Yet theirs was life more abundant; theirs, joy undreamed of; theirs, love beyond all imagining, while those moments lasted.
Then——
The hands about his neck loosened, unclasped, fell gently away.
He set free her lips, and they took their liberty.
He unlocked his arms, and stepping back she stood erect, like a fair white lily, needing no prop nor stay.
So they stood for a space, looking upon one another in silence. This thing which had happened, was too wonderful for speech.
Then the Prioress turned the key in the lock.
The heavy door swung open.
A dim, grey light, like a pearly dawn at sea, came downwards from the crypt.
Without a word the Knight, bending his head, passed under the archway, mounted the steps, and was lost to view among the many pillars.
She closed the door, locked it, and withdrawing the key, stood alone where they had stood together.
Then, sinking to the ground, she laid her face in the dust, there where his feet had been.
It was farewell, here and now; farewell forever.
* * * * * *
After a while the Prioress rose, took up the lantern, and started upon her lonely journey, back to the cloister door.
CHAPTER XV
"SHARPEN THE WITS OF MARY ANTONY"
When the Prioress started upon her pilgrimage to the Cathedral with the Knight, she locked the door of her chamber, knowing that thus her absence would remain undiscovered; for if any, knocking on the door, received no answer, or trying it, found it fast, they would hasten away without question; concluding that some special hour of devotion or time of study demanded that the Reverend Mother should be free from intrusion.
The atmosphere of the empty cell, charged during the past hour with such unaccustomed forces of conflict and of passion, settled into the quietude of an unbroken stillness.
The Madonna smiled serenely upon the Holy Babe. The dead Christ, with bowed head, hung forlorn upon the wooden cross. The ponderous volumes in black and silver bindings, lay undisturbed upon the table; and the Bishop's chair stood empty, with that obtrusive emptiness which, in an empty seat, seems to suggest an unseen presence filling it. The silence was complete.
But presently a queer shuffling sound began in the inner cell, as of something stiff and torpid compelling itself to action.
Then a weird figure, the wizen face distorted by grief and terror, appeared in the doorway—old Mary Antony, holding a meat chopper in her shaking hands, and staring, with chattering gums, into the empty cell.
That faithful soul, although dismissed, had resolved that the adored Reverend Mother should
