She turned, with an impulsive gesture, holding out to him her left hand, that he might cross the threshold with her.  But the Knight was stooping to examine the right forehoof of her palfrey, she having fancied Icon had trod tenderly upon it during the last half-mile; so she passed in alone.

Afterwards she overheard old Debbie say, in her most scolding tones:  “She did stretch out her hand to you, Sir Hugh, and you saw it not!” But the Knight’s deep voice made courteous answer:  “There is no look or gesture of hers, however slight, good Mistress Deborah, which doth escape me.”  And at this her heart thrilled far more than if he had met her hand, responsive; knowing that thus he did faithfully keep his pledge to her, and that he could so keep it, only by never relaxing his stern hold upon himself.

Yet almost she began to wish him less stern and less faithful, so much did she long to feel for one instant the strong clasp of his arms about her.  By his rigid adherence to his promise, she felt herself punished for having shuddered.  Why had she shuddered? . . .  Would she shudder now?  This wonderful first evening had quickly passed, in going from chamber to chamber, walking in the gardens, and supping with Hugh in the dining-hall, waited on by Mark and Beaumont, with Zachary to supervise, pour the wine, and stand behind her chair.

Then a final walk on the terrace; a grave good-night upon the stairs; and, at last, this time of quiet thought, in her own chamber.

She could not realise that she was wedded to Hugh; but her heart awoke to the fact that truly she was betrothed to him.  And she was happy—­deeply happy.

Leaving the casement, she kneeled before the shrine of the Virgin—­there where she had put up so many impassioned prayers for the safe return of her lover.

“Blessed Virgin,” she said, “I thank thee for sending me home.”

Years seemed to roll from her.  She felt herself a child again.  She longed for her mother’s understanding tenderness.  Failing that, she turned to the sweet Mother of God.

The image before which she knelt, shewed our Lady standing, tall and fair and gracious, the Infant Saviour, seated upon her left hand, her right hand holding Him leaning against her, His baby arms outstretched.  Neither the Babe nor His Mother smiled.  Each looked grave and somewhat sad.

“Home,” whispered Mora.  “Blessed Virgin I thank thee for sending me home.”

“Nay,” answered a voice within her.  “I sent thee not home.  I gave thee to him to whom thou didst belong.  He hath brought thee home.  What said the vision?  ’Take her.  She is thine own.  I have but kept her for thee.’”

Yet Hugh knew naught of this gracious message—­knew naught of the vision which had given her to him.  Until to-night she had felt it impossible to tell him of it.  Now she longed that he should share with her the wonder.