The Bishop came down from the battlements.

When he left his chamber an hour later, he had donned those crimson robes which he wore on the evening when the Knight supped with him at the Palace.

As he paced up and down the lawns, the gold cross at his breast gleamed in the evening light.

A night-hawk, flying high overhead and looking downward as it flew, might have supposed that a great scarlet poppy had left its clump in the flower-beds, and was promenading on the turf.

A steward came out to ask when it would please the Lord Bishop to sup.

To the hovering hawk, a blackbird seemed to have hopped out, confronting and arresting the promenading poppy.

The Bishop said he would await the arrival of Sir Hugh; but he turned and followed the man into the Castle.

And now he sat in the great hall chamber.

Two hours had passed since his arrival.

Unless something unforeseen had occurred the Knight’s cavalcade must be here before long.  He had planned to start within the hour; and, though the Bishop had ridden fast, they could scarcely have taken more than an hour longer to do the distance.

But supposing the Prioress had faltered at the last, and had besought to be returned to the Nunnery?  Would the chivalry of the Knight have stood such a test?  And, having left in secret, how could she return openly?  Would the way through the crypt be possible?

The Bishop began to wish that he had ridden to the Star hostel and awaited developments there, instead of hastening on before.

The hall chamber was in the centre of the Castle.  Its casements looked out upon the gardens.  Thus it came about that he did not hear a cavalcade ride into the courtyard.  He did not hear the shouting of the men, the ring of hoofs on the paving stones, the champing of horses.

He sat in a great carved chair beside the fireplace in the hall chamber, forcing himself to stillness, yet tormented by anxiety; half minded to order a fresh horse and to ride back to Worcester.

Suddenly, without any warning, the door, leading from the ante-chamber at the further end of the hall, opened.

Framed in the doorway appeared a vision, which for a moment led Symon of Worcester to question whether he dreamed, so beautiful beyond belief was the woman in a green riding-dress, looking at him with starry eyes, her cheeks aglow, a veil of golden hair falling about her shoulders.

Oh, Mora, child of delight!  Has the exquisite promise of thy girlhood indeed fulfilled itself thus?  Have the years changed thee so little—–­and yet so greatly?

"The captive exile hasteneth”; exile, long ago, for thy sake; seeking to be free, yet captive still, caught once and forever in the meshes of that golden hair.

Oh, Mora, child of delight!  Must all this planning for thy full development and perfecting of joy, involve the poignant anguish of thus seeing thee again?