“I listen better standing,” said the Knight; but he came near, put one foot on the seat, leaned his elbow on his knee, his chin in his hand, and stood looking down upon her.

“Hugh,” she said, “I withstood your pleadings; I withstood the Bishop’s arguments; I withstood the yearnings of my own poor heart.  I tore up the Pope’s mandate, and set my foot upon it.  I said that nothing could induce me to break my vows, unless our Lady herself gave me a clear sign that my highest duty was to you, thus absolving me from my vows, and making it evident that God’s will for me was that I should leave the Cloister, and keep my early troth to you.”

“And gave our Lady such a sign?” asked the Knight, his dark eyes fixed on Mora’s face.

She lifted it, white and lovely; radiant in the moonlight.

“Better than a sign,” she said.  “Our Lady vouchsafed a wondrous vision, in which her own voice was heard, giving command and consent.”

The Knight, crossing himself, dropped upon his knees, lifting his eyes heavenward in fervent praise and adoration.  He raised to his lips a gold medallion, which he wore around his neck, containing a picture of the Virgin, and kissed it devoutly; then overcome by emotion, he covered his face with his hands and knelt with bowed head, reciting in a low voice, the Salve Regina.

Mora watched him, with deep gladness of heart.  This fervent joy and devout thanksgiving differed so greatly from the half-incredulous, whimsically amused, mental attitude with which Symon of Worcester had received her recital of the miracle.  Hugh’s reverent adoration filled her with happiness.

Presently he rose and stood beside her again, expectant, eager.

“Tell me more; nay, tell me all,” he said.

“The vision,” began Mora, “was given to the old lay-sister, Mary Antony.”

“Mary Antony?” queried Hugh, with knitted brow. “’The old lay-sister, Mary Antony’?  Why do I know that name?  I seem to remember that the Bishop spoke of her, as we walked together in the Palace garden, the day following the arrival of the messenger from Rome.  Methinks the Bishop said that she alone knew of my intrusion into the Nunnery; but that she, being faithful, could be trusted.”

“Nay, Hugh,” answered Mora, “you mistake.  It was I who told you so, even before I knew you were the intruder, while yet addressing you as Sister Seraphine’s ‘Cousin Wilfred.’  I said that you had been thwarted in your purpose by the faithfulness of the old lay-sister, Mary Antony, who never fails to count the White Ladies, as they go, and as they return, and who had reported to me that one more had returned than went.  Afterward I was greatly perplexed as to what explanation I should make to Mary Antony; when, to my relief, she came and confessed that hers was the mistake, she having counted wrongly.  Glad indeed was I to let it rest at that; so neither she, nor any in the Convent, knew aught of your entrance there or your visit to my cell.  The Bishop, you, and I, alone know of it.”