Bending her head, Mora passed through an archway of yew, down three stone steps, and so on to the lawn.

Then, out from the arbour stepped the Bishop, in his violet cassock and biretta, his breviary in his hand.

If this first sight of Hugh’s bride, in bridal array, on her wedding morning, surprised or stirred him, he gave no sign of unusual emotion.

As he came to meet her, his lips smiled kindly, and in his eyes was that half whimsical, half tender look, she knew so well.  He might have been riding into the courtyard of the Nunnery, and she standing on the steps to receive him, so natural was his greeting, so wholly as usual did he appear.

“You are up betimes, my daughter, as I guessed you would be; also you have come hither, as I hoped you might do.  Am I the first to wish you joy, on this glad day?”

“The first,” she said.  “Even my good Deborah slept through my rising.  I woke at the accustomed hour, to ring the Convent bell, and found myself Prioress no longer, but bride—­an earthly bride—­expected to deck herself with jewels for an earthly bridal.”

“’Even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price,’” quoted, the Bishop, a retrospective twinkle in his eye.

“Alas, my lord, I fear that ornament was never mine.”

“Yet you must wear it now, my daughter.  I have heard it is an ornament greatly admired by husbands.”

Standing in the sunlight, all unconscious of her wondrous beauty, she opened startled eyes on him; then dropped to her knees upon the turf.  “Your blessing, Reverend Father,” she said, and there was a wild sob in her voice.  “Oh, I entreat your blessing, on this my bridal day!”

The Bishop laid his hands upon the bright coronet of her hair, and blessed her with the threefold Aaronic blessing; then raised her, and bade her walk with him across the turf.

Into the arbour he led her, beneath a cascade of fragrant yellow roses.  There, upon a rustic table was spread a dainty repast—­new milk, fruit freshly gathered, white rolls, and most golden pats of butter, the dew of the dairy yet upon them.

“Come, my daughter,” said Symon of Worcester, gaily.  “We of the Church, who know the value of these early hours, let us break our fast together.”

“Is it magic, my lord?” she asked, suddenly conscious of unmistakable hunger.

“Nay,” said the Bishop, “but I was out a full hour ago.  And the dairy wench was up before me.  So between us we contrived this simple repast.”

So, while the bridegroom and old Deborah still slumbered and slept, the bride and the Bishop broke their fast together in a bower of roses; and his eyes were the eyes of a merry schoolboy out on a holiday; and the colour came back to her cheeks and she smiled and grew light-hearted, as always in their long friendship, when he came to her in this gay mood.