The Bishop smiled, and his blue eyes looked into Mora’s with an expression of quiet interest.

“Father Gervaise?” he said.  “Preacher at the Court?  Indeed, I knew him, my daughter; and more than knew him.  Father Gervaise and I had the same grandparents.”

“Ah,” cried Mora, eagerly, “then that accounts for a resemblance which from the first has haunted me, making of our friendship, at once, so sweetly intimate a thing.  The voice and the eyes alone were like—­but, ah, so like!  Father Gervaise wore a beard, which hid his mouth and chin; but his blue eyes had in them that kindly yet searching look, though not merry as yours oft are, my lord; and your voice has ever made me think of his.

“And once—­just once—­his eyes looked at me, across the Castle hall at Windsor, with a deep glow of fire in them; a look which made me feel called to an altar whereon, if I could but stand the test of fire, I should be forever purified, uplifted, blest as was never earthly maid before, save only our blessed Lady.  All that night I dreamed of it, and my whole soul was filled with it, yet never again did I see Father Gervaise.  The next morning he left the Court, and soon after sailed for Spain; and on the passage thither the ship foundered in a great storm, and he, with all on board, perished.  Heard you of that, my lord?”

“I heard it,” said the Bishop.

“All believed it, and mourned him; for by all he was beloved.  But never could I feel that he was dead.  Always for me it seemed that he still lived.  And last night—­when I entered—­across the great hall chamber, it seemed as if, once more, the eyes of Father Gervaise looked upon me, with that glowing fire in them, which called me to an altar.”

The Bishop smiled again, and there was in his look a gentle merriment.

“You were over-strained, my daughter.  When you drew near, you found—­instead of a ghostly priest with eyes of fire, drowned many years ago, off the coast of Spain—­your old friend, Symon of Worcester, who had stolen a march on you, by reason of the swift paces of his good mare, Shulamite.”

Mora leaned forward, and laid her hand on his.

“Mock not, my friend,” she said.  “There was a time when Father Gervaise stood to me for all my heart held dearest.  Yet I loved him, not as a girl loves a man, but rather as a nun loves her Lord.  He stood to me for all that was noblest and best; and, above all, for all that was vital and alive in life and in religion; strong to act; able to endure.  He confessed me once, and told me, when I kneeled before the crucifix, to say of Him Who hangs thereon:  ’He ever liveth to make intercession for us.’  Never have I forgotten it.  And—­sometimes—­when I say the sacred words, and, saying them, my mind turns to Father Gervaise, an echo seems to whisper to my spirit:  ‘He, also, liveth.’”

Symon of Worcester rose.

“My daughter,” he said, “the sun is high in the heavens.  We must not linger here.  Hugh will be seeking his bride, and Mistress Deborah be waxing anxious over the escape of her charge.  The morning meal will be ready in the banqueting hall; after which we must to the chapel, for the marriage.  Then, without delay, I ride to Worcester to make all right at the Nunnery.  Let us go.”