All this, in rapid retrospect, passed through Mora’s mind as she stood alone beside her splendid Knight, miserably conscious that she had shivered, and that he knew it; and fearful lest he divined the shrinking of her soul away from him, away from love, away from all for which love stood.  Alas, alas!  Why did this man—­this most human, ardent, loving man—­hang all his hopes of happiness upon the heart of a nun?  Would it be possible that he should understand, that eight years of cloistered life cannot be renounced in a day?

Mora looked at him again.

The stern profile might well be about to say:  “Shudder again, and I will do to thee that which shall give thee cause to shudder indeed!”

Yet, at that moment he spoke, and his voice was infinitely gentle.

“Yonder rides a true friend,” he said.  “One who has learned love’s deepest lesson.”

“What is love’s deepest lesson?” she asked.

He turned and looked at her, and the fire of his dark eyes was drowned in tenderness.

“That true love means self-sacrifice,” he said.  “Come, my beloved.  Let us walk in the gardens, where we can talk at ease of our plans for the days to come.”

CHAPTER XL

THE HEART OF A NUN

Hugh and Mora passed together through the great hall, along the armoury, down the winding stair and so out into the gardens.

The Knight led the way across the lawn and through the rose garden, toward the yew hedge and the bowling-green.

Old Debbie, looking from her casement, thought them beautiful beyond words as she watched them cross the lawn—­she in white and gold, he in white and silver; his dark head towering above her fair one, though she was uncommon tall.  And, falling upon her knees, old Debbie prayed to the Angel Gabriel that she might live to hold in her arms, and rock to sleep upon her bosom, sweet babes, both fair and dark:  “Fair little maids,” she said, “and fine, dark boys,” explaining to Gabriel that which she thought would be most fit.

Meanwhile Hugh and Mora, walking a yard apart—­all unconscious of these family plans, being so anxiously made for them at an upper casement—­bent their tall heads and passed under the arch in the yew hedge, crossed the bowling-green, and entered the arbour of the golden roses.

Hugh led the way; yet Mora gladly followed.  The Bishop’s presence seemed to abide here, in comfort and protection.

All signs of the early repast were gone from the rustic table.

Mora took her seat there where in the early morning she had sat; while Hugh, not knowing he did so, passed into the Bishop’s place.

The sun shone through the golden roses, hanging in clusters over the entrance.

The sense of the Bishop’s presence so strongly pervaded the place, that almost at once Mora felt constrained to speak of him.