Her first conscious thought was for the rope which worked over a pulley through a hole in the wall of her cell, enabling her from, within to ring the great bell in the passage, thus rousing the entire community.  It had been her invariable habit to do this herself.  She liked the nuns to feel that the call to begin a new day came to them from the hand of their Prioress.  Realising the difficulty of early rising, especially after night vigils, it pleased her that her nuns should know that the fact of the bell resounding through the Convent proved that the Reverend Mother was already on her feet.

Yet now, looking toward the door, she could see no rope.  And what meant those sumptuous tapestry hangings?

She leapt from her couch, and gazed around her.

Why fell her hair about her, as a golden cloud?—­that beautiful hair, which in some Orders would have been shorn from her head; and, in this, must ever be closely braided, covered, and never seen.  Still half-bewildered, she flung it back; gazing at the unfamiliar, yet well-remembered, garments laid ready for her use.

Sometimes she had had such dreams as this—­dreams in which she was back in the world, wearing its garments, tasting its pleasures, looking again upon forbidden things.

Why should she not now be dreaming?

Then a sound fell upon her ear; a sound, long forgotten, yet so familiar that as she heard it, she felt herself a child at home again—­the soft, contented snoring of old Debbie, fast asleep.

Sound is ever more convincing than sight.  The blind live in a world of certainties.  Not so, the deaf.

Mora needed not to turn and view the comely countenance of her old nurse sleeping upon a couch in a corner.  At sound of that soft purring snore, she knew all she needed to know—­knew she was no longer Prioress, knew she had renounced her vows; knew that even now the Convent was waking and wondering, as last night it must have marvelled and surmised, and to-morrow would question and condemn; knew that this was her wedding morn; that this robe of softest white, with jewelled girdle, and jewelled circlet to crown her hair, were old Debbie’s choice for her of suitable attire in which to stand beside her bridegroom at the altar.

Passing into an alcove, she bathed and clothed herself, even putting on the jewelled band to clasp the shining softness of her hair.  Debbie’s will on these points had never been disputed, and truly it mattered little to Mora what she wore, since wimple and holy veil were forever laid aside.

She passed softly from the chamber, without awakening the old nurse, made her way down a winding stair, out through a postern door, and so into the gardens bathed in early morning sunshine.

Seeking to escape observation from the Castle walls or windows, she made her way through a rose-garden to where a high yew hedge surrounded a bowling-green.  At the further end of this secluded place stood a rustic summer-house, now a veritable bower of yellow roses.