Mora had never before seen the man so completely merged in his high office.

And, when all was over, even as he mounted Shulamite and rode away, he rode out of the courtyard with the air of a Knight Templar riding forth-to do battle in a Holy War.

It seemed to Mora that she had bidden farewell to her old friend of the kindly smile, the merry eye, and the ready jest, in the early hours of that morning, as together they left the arbour of the golden roses.

There remained therefore but one man to be considered:  the “splendid Knight” of old Antony’s vision; the lover who had pursued her into her Nunnery; wooed her in her own cell, unabashed by the dignity of her office; mastered her will; forced her numbed heart to awaken, disturbed by the thrill of an unwilling tenderness; moved her to passion by the poignant anguish of a parting, which she regarded as inevitably final; won the Bishop over, to his side, and, through him, the Pope; and finally, by the persistence of his pleadings, moved our blessed Lady to vouchsafe a vision on his behalf.

This was the “splendid Knight” against whom the stars in their courses had most certainly not fought.  Principalities and powers had all been for him; against him, just a woman and her conscience, and—­he had won.

When, at their first interview in her cell, in reply to her demand:  “Why are you not with your wife?” he had answered:  “I am with my wife; the only wife I have ever wanted, the only woman I shall ever wed, is here”—­she stood ready to strike with ivory and steel, at the first attempt upon her inviolable chastity, and could afford to smile, in pitying derision, at so empty a boast.

But now?  If he said:  “My wife is here,” and chose to seize her with possessive grasp, she must meekly fold her hands upon her breast, and say:  “Even so, my lord.  I am yours.  Deal with me as you will.”

As the Bishop’s purple cloak and the hind quarters of his noble black mare, disappeared from view, the crowd which hitherto had surrounded the bridal pair, also vanished, as if at the wave of a magic wand.  Thus for the first time, since those tense moments in the Cathedral crypt, Mora found herself alone with Hugh.

She was not young enough to be embarrassed; but she was old enough to be afraid; afraid of him, and afraid of herself; afraid of his masterful nature and imperious will, which had always inclined to break rather than bend anything which stood in his way; and afraid of something in herself which leapt up in response to this fierce strength in him, yearning to be mastered, hungry to yield, wishful to obey; yet which, if yielded to, would lay her spirit in the dust, and turn the awakened tenderness in her heart to scorn of herself, and anger against him.