“The age of miracles is past,” he said again.  “Iron no longer swims, neither do stones rise from the depths of a river, unless the Divine command be supplemented by the grip of strong human fingers.

“Stand there, thou little tombstone of our hopes.  Mark the place where lies the Holy Father’s mandate, ecclesiastically all-powerful, yet rendered null and void by the faithful conscience and the firm will of a woman.  God send us more such women!”

The Bishop sounded a silver gong, and when his body-servant appeared, pointed to the handkerchief, damp and crumpled, upon the table.

“Dry this, Jasper,” he said, “and bring me another somewhat larger.  These dainty trifles cannot serve, when ‘tears run down like a river.’  Nay, look not distressed, my good fellow.  I do but jest.  Yonder wet Knight hath given me a shower-bath.”

CHAPTER XXIX

THE VISION OF MARY ANTONY

On the afternoon following the Bishop’s unexpected visit to the Nunnery, the Prioress elected to walk last in the procession to and from the Cathedral, placing Mother Sub-Prioress first.  It was her custom occasionally to vary the order of procession.  Sometimes she walked thirteenth, with twelve before, and twelve behind her.

She had at first inclined on this day, after her strenuous time with the Bishop, followed by the hour’s ride upon Icon, not to go to Vespers.

Then her heart failed her, and she went.  On these two afternoons—­this and the morrow—­Hugh would still be in the crypt.  She should not so much as glance toward the pillar at the foot of the winding stairway leading to the clerestory; yet it would be sweet to feel him to be standing there as she passed; sweet to know that he heard the same sounds as fell upon her ear.

To-day, and again on the morrow, she might yield to this yearning for the comfort of his nearness; but never again, for Hugh would not return.

She had wondered whether she dared ask him, by the Bishop, on a given date once a year to attend High Mass in the Cathedral, so that she might know him to be under the same roof, worshipping, at the same moment, the same blessed manifestation of the Divine Presence.

But almost at once she had dismissed the desire, realising that comfort such as this, could be comfort but to the heart of a woman, more likely torment to a man.  Also that should his fancy incline him to seek companionship and consolation in the love of another, a yearly pilgrimage to Worcester for her sake, would stand in the way of his future happiness.

Walking last in that silent procession back to the Nunnery, the Prioress walked alone with her sadness.  Her heart was heavy indeed.

She had angered her old friend, Symon of Worcester.  After being infinitely patient, when he might well have had cause for wrath, he had suddenly taken a sterner tone, and departed in a certain aloofness, leaving her with the fear that she had lost him, also, beyond recall.