With an effort which made his voice almost stern:  “The tale was a true one,” he said.

She drew back, regarding him with grave eyes, her hands folded before her.

“Tell me the tale,” she said, “and I will pronounce upon its truth.”

“Years ago, Mora, when you were a young maiden at the Court, attending on the Queen, you were most deeply loved by one who knew he could never ask you in marriage.  That being so, so noble was his nature and so unselfish his love, that he would not give himself the delight of seeing you, nor the enjoyment of your friendship, lest, being so strong a thing, his love—­even though unexpressed—­should reach and stir your heart to a response which, might hinder you from feeling free to give yourself, when a man who could offer all sought to win you.  Therefore, Mora, he left the Court, he left the country.  He went to foreign lands.  He thought not of himself.  He desired for you the full completion which comes by means of wedded love.  He feared to hinder this.  So he went.”

Her face still expressed incredulous astonishment.

“His name?” she demanded, awaiting the answer with parted lips, and widely-open eyes.

“Father Gervaise,” said the Knight.

He saw her slowly whiten, till scarce a vestige of colour remained.

For some minutes she spoke no word; both sat silent, Hugh ruefully facing his risks, and inclined to repent of his honesty.

At length:  “And who told you this tale,” she said; “this tale of the love of Father Gervaise for a young maid, half his age?”

“Symon of Worcester told it me, three nights ago.”

“How came the Bishop to know so strange and so secret a thing?  And knowing it, how came he to tell it to you?”

“He had it from Father Gervaise himself.  He told it to me, because his remembrance of the sacrifice made so long ago in order that the full completion of wifehood and motherhood might be thine, had always inclined him to a wistful regret over thy choice of the monastic life, with its resultant celibacy; leading him, from the first, to espouse and further my cause.  In wedding us to-day, methinks the Bishop felt he was at last securing the consummation of the noble renunciation made so long ago by Father Gervaise.”

With a growing dread at his heart, Hugh watched the increasing pallor of her face, the hard line of the lips which, but a few moments before, had parted in such gentle sweetness.

“Alas!” he exclaimed, “I should not have told thee!  With my clumsy desire to keep nothing from thee, I have spoilt an hour which else might have been so perfect.”

“You did well to tell me, dear Knight of mine,” she said, a ripple of tenderness passing across her stern face, as swiftly and gently as the breeze stirs a cornfield.  “Nor is there anything in this world so perfect as the truth.  If the truth opened an abyss which plunged me into hell, I would sooner know it, than attempt to enter Paradise across the flimsy fabric of a lie!”