Her straight habit, of heavy cloth, had rendered progress upon her knees awkward and difficult.  Her hands had become entangled in her torn veil.  Each moment she had feared lest cell doors, on either side, should open; old Antony might appear from the cloisters, or—­greatest disaster of all—­Mother Sub-Prioress might advance toward her from the Refectory stairs!  In order to attain a greater rate of speed, she had tried lifting her knees, as elephants lift their feet.  This mode of progress, though ungainly, had proved efficacious; but would have been distinctly mirth-provoking to beholders.  The stones had hurt her hands and knees far more than she hurt them when she beat upon the floor of her own cell.

She arrived at the Reverend Mother’s footstool, heated in mind and body, ashamed of herself, vexed with her garments, in fact in an altogether saner frame of mind than when she had called upon “Wilfred,” and made reiterated mention of trappings of crimson and silver bells.

Perhaps the Prioress had foreseen this result, when she imposed the penance.  Leniency or sympathy, at that moment, would have been fatal and foolish; and had not the Prioress made special petition for wisdom?

She was seated at her table, when Sister Seraphine bumped and shuffled into view.  She did not raise her eyes from the illuminated missal she was studying.  One hand lay on the massive clasp, the other rested in readiness to turn the page.  Her noble form seemed stately calm personified.

When she heard Sister Seraphine panting close to her foot, she spoke; still without lifting her eyes.

“You may rise to your feet,” she said, “and shut to the door.”

Then the waiting hand turned the page, and silence fell.

“You may arrange the disorder of your dress,” said the Prioress, and turned another page.

When at length she looked up, Sister Seraphine, clothed and apparently in her right mind, stood humbly near the door.

The Prioress closed the book, and shut the heavy clasps.

Then she pointed to an oaken stool, signing to the nun to draw it forward.

“Be seated, my child,” she said, in tones of infinite tenderness.  “There is much which must now be said, and your mind will pay better heed, if your body be at rest.”

With her steadfast eyes the Prioress searched the pretty, flushed face, swollen with weeping, and now gathering a look of petulant defiance, thinly veiled beneath surface humility.

“What was the cause of this outburst, my child?” asked the Prioress, very gently.