Her steadfast eyes did not falter.

“He had better have ridden away five days ago, my lord.  He had my answer, and I bade him go.  By staying he has but prolonged his suspense and my pain.”

“Yes,” said the Bishop slowly, “he had better have ridden away; or, better still, have never come upon this fruitless quest.”

He moved toward the door.

The Prioress reached it before him.

With her hand upon the latch:  “Your blessing, Reverend Father,” entreated the Prioress, rather breathlessly.

“Benedicite,” said the Bishop, with uplifted fingers, but with eyes averted; and passed out.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE WHITE STONE

Old Mary Antony was at the gate, when the Bishop rode out from the courtyard.

Thrusting the porteress aside, she pressed forward, standing with anxious face uplifted, as the Bishop approached.

He reined in Icon, and, bending from the saddle, murmured:  “Take care of her, Sister Antony.  I have left her in some distress.”

“Hath she decided aright?” whispered the old lay-sister.

“She always decides aright,” said the Bishop.  “But she is so made that she will thrust happiness from her with both hands unless our Lady should herself offer it, by vision or revelation.  I could wish thy gay little Knight of the Bloody Vest might indeed fly with her to his nest and teach her a few sweet lessons, in the green privacy of some leafy paradise.  But I tell thee too much, worthy Mother.  Keep a silent tongue in that shrewd old head of thine.  Minister to her; and send word to me if I am needed. Benedicite.”

An hour later, mounted upon his black mare, Shulamite, the Bishop rode to the high ground, on the north-east, above the city, from whence he could look down upon the river meadow.

As he had done on the previous day, he watched the Prioress riding upon Icon.

Once she put the horse to so sudden and swift a gallop that the Bishop, watching from afar, reined back Shulamite almost on to her haunches, in a sudden fear that Icon was about to leap into the stream.

For an hour the Prioress rode, with flying veil, white on the white steed; a fair marble group, quickened into motion.

Then, that penance being duly performed, she vanished through the archway.

Turning Shulamite, Symon of Worcester rode slowly down the hill, passed southward, and entered the city by Friar’s Gate; and so to the Palace, where Hugh d’Argent waited.

The Bishop led him, through a postern, into the garden; and there on a wide lawn, out of earshot of any possible listeners, the Bishop and the Knight walked up and down in earnest conversation.

At length:  “To-morrow, in the early morn,” said the Knight, “I send her tire-woman on to Warwick, with all her effects, keeping back only the riding suit.  Should she elect to come, we must be free to ride without drawing rein.  Even so we shall reach Warwick only something before midnight.”