“Gladly am I here for that purpose, my son,” replied the Bishop, “having as you know, the leave and sanction of His Holiness for so doing.  Shall we proceed at once to the chapel, or do you plan first to sup?”

“Nay, Father,” said the Knight.  “My betrothed has ridden far and needs food first, and then a good night’s rest.  If it will not too much delay your return to Worcester, I would pray you to wed us in the morning.”

Knowing how determined Hugh had been, in laying his plans, to be wed at once on reaching Warwick, the Bishop looked up quickly, wishing to understand what had wrought this change.

He saw on the Knight’s face that look of radiant peace which the Prioress had seen, when first the cloak was turned back in the crypt; and the Bishop, having passed that way himself, knew that to Hugh had come the revelation which comes but to the true, lover—­the deepest of all joys, that of putting himself on one side, and of thinking, first and only, of the welfare of the beloved.

And seeing this, the Bishop let go his fears, and in his heart thanked God.

“It is well planned, Hugh,” he said.  “I am here until the morning.”

At which the Knight turning, strode quickly to the door, and beckoned.

Then back he came, leading by the hand the buxom, motherly old dame, seen on arrival by the Bishop.  Who, when the Lady Mora saw, she gave a cry, and ran to meet her.

“Debbie!” she cried, “Oh, Debbie!  Let us go home!”

And with that the tension broke all on a sudden, and with her old nurse’s arms around her, she sobbed on the faithful bosom which had been the refuge of her childhood’s woes.

“There, my pretty!” said Deborah, as best she could for her own sobs.  “There, there!  We are at home, now we are together.  Come and see the chamber in which we shall sleep, just as we slept long years ago, when you were a babe, my dear.”

So, with her old nurse’s arms about her, she, who had come in so proudly, went gently out in a soft mist of tears.

The Bishop turned away.

“Love never faileth,” he murmured, half aloud.

Hugh turned with him, and laughed; but in his laughter there was no vexation, no bitterness, no unrest.  It was the happy laugh of a heart aglow with a hope amounting to certainty.

“There were two of us the other night, my dear lord,” he said; “but now old Debbie has appeared, methinks there are three!”

CHAPTER XXXV

IN THE ARBOUR OF GOLDEN ROSES

The next day dawned, clear and radiant; a perfect summer morning.

Mora awoke soon after five o’clock.

Notwithstanding the fatigue of the previous day, the strain and stress of heart, and the late hour at which she had at length fallen asleep, the mental habit of years overcame the physical need of further slumber.