Then the Bishop drew from his sash a folded sheet of vellum.

“My daughter,” he said, “when Hugh came to me with his grievous tale of treachery and loss, he refused to give me the name of the woman he sought, saying only that he believed she was to be found among the White Ladies of Worcester.  When I asked her name he answered:  ’Nay, I guard her name, as I would guard mine honour.  If I fail to win her back; if she withhold herself from me, so that I ride away alone; then must I ride away leaving no shadow of reproach on her fair fame.  Her name will be for ever in my heart,’ said Hugh, ’but no word of mine shall have left it, in the mind of any man, linked with a broken troth or a forsaken lover.’  I tell you this, my daughter, lest you should misjudge a very loyal knight.

“But no true lover was ever a diplomat.  Hugh had not talked long with me, before you stood clearly revealed.  A few careful questions settled the matter, beyond a doubt.  Whereupon, my dear Prioress——­”

The Bishop paused.  It became suddenly difficult to proceed.  The clear eyes of the Prioress were upon him.

“Whereupon, my lord?”

“Whereupon I realised—­an early dream of mine seemed promised a possible fulfilment.  I knew Hugh as a lad—­ It is a veritable passion with me that all things should attain unto their full perfection—­ In short, I sent a messenger to Rome, bearing a careful account of the whole matter, in a private letter from myself to His Holiness the Pope.  Last evening, my messenger returned, bringing a letter from the Holy Father, with this enclosed.”

The Bishop held out the folded document.

The Prioress rose, took it from him, and unfolded it.

As she read the opening lines, the amazement on her face quickly gathered into a frown.

“What!” she said.  “The name and rank I resigned on entering this Order!  Who dares to write or speak of me as ’Mora, Countess of Norelle’?”

“Merely His Holiness the Pope, and the Bishop of Worcester,” said the Bishop meekly, in an undertone, not meaning the Prioress to hear; and, indeed, she ignored this answer, her words having been an angry ejaculation, rather than a question.

But there was worse to come.

“Dispensation!” exclaimed the Prioress.

“Absolution!” she cried, a little further on.

And at last, reading rapidly, in tones of uncontrollable anger and indignation:  “’Empowers Symon, Lord Bishop of Worcester, or any priest he may appoint, to unite in the holy sacrament of marriage the Knight-Crusader, Hugh d’Argent, and Mora de Norelle, sometime Prioress of the White Ladies of Worcester.’ Sometime Prioress?  In very truth, they have dared so to write it!  SOMETIME Prioress!  It will be well they should understand she is Prioress NOW—­not some time or any time, but NOW and HERE!”

She turned upon the Bishop.

“My lord, the Church seems to be bringing its powers to bear on the side of the World, the Flesh, and the Devil, leaving a woman and her conscience to stand alone and battle unaided with the grim forces arrayed against her.  But you shall see that she knows how to deal with any weapon of the adversary which happens to fall into her hands.”