“Nay,” said the Bishop.  “They who truly kiss, kiss not in public.”

“Ah,” whispered Mary Antony.  “Yea, verily!  I know that to be true.”

She lifted wandering fingers and, after much groping, touched her forehead, with a happy smile.

Not knowing what else the action could mean, the Bishop leaned forward and made the sign of the cross on her brow.

Mary Antony gave that peculiar little chuckle of enjoyment, which had always marked her pleasure when the very learned made mistakes.  It gave her so great a sense of cleverness.

After this the light faded from the old eyes, and the Bishop had begun to think they would not again open upon this world, when a strange thing happened.

There was a flick of wings, and in, through the open window, flew the robin.

First he perched on the marble hand of the Madonna.  Then, with a joyful chirp, dropped straight to the couch on which lay Mary Antony.

At sound of that chirp, Mary Antony opened her eyes, and saw her much loved little bird hopping gaily on the coverlet.

“Hey, thou little vain man!” she said.  “Ah, naughty Master Pieman!  Art come to look upon old Antony in her bed?  The great Lord Bishop will have thee hanged.”

The robin hopped nearer, and pecked gently at the hand which so oft had fed him, now lying helpless on the quilt.

A look of exquisite delight came into the old woman’s eyes.

“Ah, my little Knight of the Bloody Vest,” she whispered, “dost want thy cheese?  Wait a minute, while old Antony searches in her wallet.”

She sat up suddenly, as if to reach for something.

Then a startled look came into her face.  She stretched out appealing hands to the Bishop.

Instantly he caught them in his.

“Fear not, dear Antony,” he said.  “All is well.”

The robin, spreading his wings, flew out at the window.  And the loving spirit of Mary Antony went with him.

The Bishop laid the worn-out body gently back upon the couch, closed the eyes, and folded the hands upon the breast.

Then he walked over to the window, and stood looking at the golden ramparts of that sunset city, glowing against the delicate azure of the evening sky.

Great loneliness of soul came to the Bishop, standing thus in the empty cell.

The Prioress had gone; the robin had gone; Mary Antony had gone; and the Bishop greatly wished that he might go, also.

Presently he turned to the Prioress’s table.  She had sent to the Palace the copy she had made, and the copy she had mended, of the Pope’s mandate.  But she had left upon the table the strips of parchment upon which she had inscribed, on the night of her vigil, copies and translations of ancient prayers from the Sacramentaries.  The Bishop gathered these up, reading them as he stood.  Two he slipped into his sash, but the third he took to the couch and placed beneath the folded hands.