“Mary Antony!” exclaimed the Bishop, and his voice held the most extraordinary combination of amazement, relief, and incredulity.  “But, in heaven’s name, good brother, wherefore should the old lay-sister leave the Convent?”

“They say she was making her way into the city in search of you, my lord; but she hath not reached the Palace.”

“Any other rumour, Philip?”

“Nay, my lord, none; save that the Prioress is distraught with anxiety concerning the aged nun, and has commanded that the underground way to the Cathedral crypt be searched; though, indeed, the porteress confesses to having let Sister Mary Antony out at the gate.”

“Rumour again,” said the Bishop, “and not a word of truth in it, I warrant.  Deny it, right and left, my good Philip; and say, on my authority, that the Reverend Mother hath most certainly not caused the crypt way to be searched.  I would I could lay hands on the originator of these foolish tales.”

The Bishop spoke with apparent vexation, but his heart had bounded in the upspring of a great relief.  Was he after all in time to save with outstretched hand that most priceless crystal bowl?

The Bishop dismounted outside the Convent gate.  He took Shulamite’s nose into his hand, and spoke gently in her ear.

Then:  “Lead her home, Philip,” he said, “and surround her with tenderest care.  Her brave heart hath done wonders this day.  It is for us to see that her body doth not pay the penalty.  Here!  Take her rein, and go.”

Mary Mark looked out through the wicket, in response to a knocking on the door.  She gasped when she saw the Lord Bishop, on foot, without the gate.

Quickly she opened, wide, and wider; hiding her buxom form behind the door.

But the Bishop had no thought for Mary Mark, nor inclination to play hide-and-seek with a conscience-stricken porteress.

Avoiding the front entrance, he crossed the courtyard to the right, passed beneath the rose-arch, along the yew walk, and over the lawn, to the seat under the beech, where two days before he had awaited the coming of the Prioress.

Here he paused for a moment, looking toward the silent cloisters, and picturing her tall figure, her flowing veil and stately tread, advancing toward him over the sunny lawn.

Yet no.  Even in these surroundings he could not see her now as Prioress.  Even across the Convent lawn there moved to meet him the lovely woman with jewelled girdle, white robe, and coronet of golden hair—­the bride of Hugh.

Perhaps this was the hardest moment to Symon of Worcester, in the whole of that hard day.

It was the one time when he thought of himself.

“I have lost her!” he said.  “Holy Jesu—­Thou Whose heart did break after three hours of darkness and of God-forsaken loneliness—­have pity!  The light of my life is gone from me, yet must I live.”

Overwhelmed by this sudden realisation of loss, worn out in mind and exhausted in body, the Bishop sank upon the seat.