“Hugh,” she said, “very early this morning, long before you were awake, the Bishop and I broke our fast, in this arbour, together.”

The Knight smiled.

“I knew that,” he said.  “In his own characteristic way the Bishop told it me.  ‘My son,’ he said, ’you have reversed the sacred parable.  In your case it was the bride-groom who, this morning, slumbered and slept.’  ‘True, my lord,’ said I.  ’But there were no foolish virgins about.’  ‘Nay, verily!’ replied the Bishop.  ’The two virgins awake at that hour were pre-eminently wise:  the one, making as the sun rose most golden pats of butter and crusty rolls; the other, rising early to partake of them with appetite.  Truly there were no foolish virgins about.  There was but one foolish prelate.’”

She, who so lately had been Prioress of the White Ladies, flushed with indignation at the words.

“Wherefore said he so?” she inquired, severely.  “He, who is always wiser than the wisest.”

Hugh noted the heightened colour and the ready protest.

“Perhaps,” he suggested, speaking slowly, as if choosing his words with care, “the Bishop’s head, being so wise, revealed to him, in himself, a certain foolishness of heart.”

Mora struck the table with her hand.

“Nay then, verily!” she cried.  “Head and heart alike are wise; and—­unlike other men—­the Bishop’s head rules his heart.”

“And a most noble heart,”, the Knight said, with calmness; neither wincing at the blow upon the table, nor at the “unlike other men,” flung out in challenge.

Then, folding his arms upon the table, and looking searchingly into the face of his bride:  “Tell me,” he said, “during all these years, has this friendship with Symon of Worcester meant much to thee?”

Something in his tone arrested Mora.  She answered, with an equal earnestness:  “Yes, Hugh.  It has done more for me than can well be told.  It has kept living and growing in me much that would otherwise have been stunted or dead; an ever fresh flow of thought, where, but for him, would have been a stagnant pool.  My sad heart might have grown bitter, my nature too austere, particularly when advancement to high office brought with it an inevitable loneliness, had it not been for the interest and charm of his visits and missives; his constant gifts and kindness.  There is about him a light-hearted gaiety, a whimsical humour, a joy in life, which cannot fail to wake responsive gladness in any heart with which he comes in contact.  And mingled with his shrewd wisdom, his wide knowledge of men and matters, there is ever a tender charity, which thinks no evil, always believing in good and hoping for the best; a love which never fails; a kindness which makes one ashamed of harbouring hard or revengeful thoughts.”

Hugh made no reply.  He sat with his eyes fixed upon the beautiful face before him, now glowing with enthusiasm.  He waited for something more.  And presently it came.