“You were both deceived,” said the Bishop.  “You have both passed through deep waters.  You each owe it to the other to make all possible reparation.”

“For seven holy years,” said the Prioress, firmly, “I have been the bride of Christ.”

“Do you love Hugh?” asked the Bishop.

There was silence in the chamber.

The Prioress desired, most fervently, to take her stand as one dead to all earthly loves and desires.  Yet each time she opened her lips to reply, a fresh picture appeared in the mirror of her mental vision, and closed them.

She saw herself, with hand outstretched, clasping Hugh’s as they kneeled together before the shrine of the Madonna.  She could feel the rush of pulsing life flow from his hand to the palm of hers, and so upward to her poor numbed heart, making it beat its wings like a caged bird.

She felt again the strength and comfort of the strong arm on which she leaned, as slowly through the darkness she and Hugh paced in silence, side by side.

She remembered each time when obedience had seemed strangely sweet, and she had loved the manly abruptness of his commands.

She saw Hugh, in the ring of yellow light cast by the lantern, kneeling at her feet.  She felt his hair, thick and soft, between her fingers.

And then—­she remembered that shuddering sob, and the instant breaking down of every barrier.  He was hers, to comfort; she was his, to soothe his pain.  Then—­the exquisite moment of yielding; the relief of the clasp of his strong arms; the passing away of the suffering of long years, as she felt his lips on hers, and surrendered to the hunger of his kiss.

Then—­one last picture—­when loyal to her wish, felt rather than expressed, he had freed her, and passed, without further word or touch, up into that dim grey light like a pearly dawn at sea—­passed, and been lost to view; she saw herself left in utter loneliness, the heavy door locked by her own turning of the key, he on one side, she on the other, for ever; she saw herself lying beneath the ground, in darkness and desolation, her face in the damp dust where his feet had stood.

“Do you love Hugh?” again demanded the Bishop.

And the Prioress lifted eyes full of suffering, reproach, and pain, but also full of courage and truth, to his face, and answered simply:  “Alas, my lord, I do.”

The silence thereafter following was tense with conflict.  The Bishop turned his eyes to the figure of the Redeemer upon the cross, self-sacrifice personified, while the Prioress mastered her emotion.

Then:  “‘Love never faileth,’” said the Bishop gently.

But the Prioress had regained command over herself, and the gentle words were to her a challenge.  She donned, forthwith, the breastplate of holy resolve, and drew her sword.