The Bishop waited, a radiant figure, in the afternoon sunshine.  His silken cassock, his silvery hair, his blue eyes, so vivid and searching, not only made a spot on which light concentrated, but almost seemed themselves to give forth light.

The steady tramp of the men-at-arms drew nearer.

Hugh d’Argent walked beside the stretcher, head erect, eyes shining, his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

When the Bishop saw the face of the Knight, he moved to meet the little procession as it approached.

He held up his hand, and the men-at-arms halted.

“Good-day to you, Sir Hugh,” said the Bishop.  “Hath your pilgrimage to the shrine of the blessed Saint Oswald worked the recovery you hoped?”

“Aye, my lord,” replied the Knight, “a great recovery and restoration.  We start for Warwick in an hour’s time.”

“Wonderful!” said the Bishop.  “Our Lady and the holy Saint be praised!  But you are wise to keep the patient well covered.  However complete the restoration, great care is required at first, and over-exertion must be avoided.”

“Your blessing for the patient, Reverend Father,” said the Knight, uncovering.

The Bishop moved nearer.  He laid his hand upon the form beneath the blue and silver cloak.

“Benedictio Domini sit vobiscum,” he said.  Then added, in a lower tone:  “Be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed. . . .  Go in peace.”

The two men who loved the Prioress, looked steadily at one another.

The men-at-arms moved forward with their burden.

The Knight smiled as he walked on beside the stretcher.

The Bishop hastened to the Palace.

It was the Knight who had smiled, and there was glory in his eyes, and triumph in the squaring of his broad shoulders, the swing of his stride, and the proud poise of his head.

The Bishop was white to the lips.  His hands trembled as he walked.

He feared—­he feared sorely—­this that they had accomplished.

It was one thing to theorize, to speculate, to advise, when the Prioress was safe in her Nunnery.  It was quite another, to know that she was being carried through the streets of Worcester, helpless, upon a stretcher; that when that blue pall was lifted, she would find herself in a hostel, alone with her lover, surrounded by men, not a woman within call.

The heart of a nun was a thing well known to the Bishop, and he trembled at thought of this, which he had helped to bring about.

Also he marvelled greatly that the Prioress should have changed her mind; and he sought in vain to conjecture the cause of that change.

Arrived in the courtyard of the Palace, he called for Brother Philip.

“Saddle me Shulamite,” he said.  “Also mount Jasper on our fastest nag, with saddle-bags.  We ride to Warwick; and must start within a quarter of an hour.”

A portion of that time the Bishop spent writing in the library.