From the terrace she looked into the banqueting hall, and her perplexity grew; for there Hugh d’Argent, booted and spurred, ready for a journey, strode up and down.

For two turns she watched him, noting his knitted brows, and the heavy forward thrust of his chin.

Then, lifting his eyes as he swung round for the third time, he saw her, outside in the sunlight; such a vision of loveliness as might well make a man’s heart leap.

He paused in his rapid walk, and stood as if rooted to the spot, making no move toward her.

For a moment, Mora hesitated.

“Do it now!” sang the thrush.

CHAPTER XLVI

“HOW SHALL I LET THEE GO?”

Mora passed swiftly into the banqueting hall.

“Hugh,” she said, and came to him.  “Hugh, my husband, this is our bridal day.  Will you take me to our home?”

His eyes, as they met hers, were full of a dumb misery.

Then a fierce light of passion, a look of wild recklessness, flashed into them.  He raised his arms, to catch her to him; then let them fall again, glancing to right and left, as if seeking some way of escape.

But, seeing the amazement on her face, he mastered, by a mighty effort, his emotion, and spoke with calmness and careful deliberation.

“Alas, Mora,” he said, “it is a hard fate indeed for me on this day, of all days, to be compelled to leave thee.  But in the early morn there came a letter which obliges me, without delay, to ride south, in order to settle a matter of extreme importance.  I trust not to be gone longer than nine days.  You, being safely established in your own home, amongst your own people, I can leave without anxious fears.  Moreover, Martin Goodfellow will remain here representing me, and will in all things do your bidding.”

“From whom is this letter, Hugh, which takes you from me, on such a day?”

“It is from a man well known to me, dwelling in a city four days’ journey from here.”

“Why not say at once:  ’It is from the Bishop, written from his Palace in the city of Worcester’?”

Hugh frowned.

“How knew you that?” he asked, almost roughly.

“My dear Knight, hearing much champing of horses in my courtyard, I looked down from a casement and saw a lay-brother well known to me, and three other horsemen wearing the Bishop’s livery.  What can Symon of Worcester have written which takes you from me on this day, of all days?”

“That I cannot tell thee,” he made answer.  “But he writes, without much detail, of a matter about which I must know fullest details, without loss of time.  I have no choice but to ride and see the Bishop, face to face.  It is not a question which can be settled by writing nor could it wait the passing to and fro of messengers.  Believe me, Mora, it is urgent.  Naught but exceeding urgency could force me from thee on this day.”