The Bishop took the worn old hand, now stone cold, laid it back upon the quilt, and covered it with his own.

The drug he had administered had indeed revived the powers, but the over-excited brain was inclined to wander.

He recalled it with a name which he knew would act as a potent spell.

“Would you have news of the Prioress, Sister Antony?”

Instantly the eyes grew eager.

“Is she safe, Reverend Father?  Is she well?  Hath she taken happiness to her with both hands, not thrusting it away?”

“Happiness hath taken her by both hands,” said the Bishop.  “This morning I blest her union with a noble knight to whom she was betrothed before she came hither.”

“I know,” whispered old Antony ecstatically.  “I heard it all, I and my meat chopper, hidden in there; I and my meat chopper—­not willing to let the Reverend Mother face danger alone.  And I did thrust the handle of the chopper between my gums, that I might not cry ‘Bravely done!’ when the noble Knight and his men-at-arms flung a rope over a strong bough, and hanged that clerkly fellow—­somewhat lean and out at elbows.  Oh, ah?  It was bravely done!  I heard it all!  I saw it all!”

Then the joy faded; a look of shame and grief came into the old face.

“But having thus seen and heard has led me into grievous sin, Reverend Father.  Alas, I have lied about holy things, sinning, I fear me, beyond forgiveness, though indeed I did it, meaning to do well.  May I tell you all, Reverend Father, that you may judge whether in that which I did, I acted according to our blessed Lady’s will and intention, or whether the deceitfulness of mine own heart has led me into mortal sin?”

The Bishop looked anxiously at the sun dipping slowly in the west.  The effect of the drug he had given should last an hour, if care were taken of this spurious strength.  He judged a quarter of that time to have already sped.

“Tell me from the beginning, without reserve, dear Antony,” he said.  “But speak low, for my ear only.  Remember possible listeners outside the door.”

So presently the whole tale was told, with many a quaint twist of old Antony’s.  And the Bishop’s heart melted to tenderness as she whispered the story, and he realised the greatness of the devotion which had gone forward, without a thought of self, in the bold endeavour to bring happiness to the Prioress she loved, yet the anxious conscience, which now trembled at the thought of that which the fearless heart had done.

“I lied about holy things; I put words into our blessed Lady’s mouth; I said she moved her hand.  But you did tell me, Reverend Father, that the Reverend Mother was so made that unless there was a vision or revelation from our Lady, she would thrust away her happiness with both hands.  And there would not have been a vision if old Antony had not contrived one.  Yet I fear me, for the sin of that contriving, I shall never find forgiveness; my soul must ever stay in torment.”