Was all now well for Mora?  Or did she yet need him?

Surely never had Cardinal’s hat hung poised for such a reason!  How little would the Holy Father dream that a question affecting the happiness or unhappiness of a woman could be a cause of hesitancy.

Presently, with a quick movement, the Bishop lifted his head.  The library was far removed from the courtyard; but surely he heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs upon the raving stones.

He had hardly hoped for Brother Philip’s return until after sunset; yet—­with fast riding——­

If the Knight’s answer were in all respects satisfactory—­If Mora’s happiness was assured—­why, then——­

He sounded the silver gong.

His servant entered.

“What horsemen have just now ridden into the courtyard, Jasper?”

“My lord, Brother Philip has this moment returned, and with him——­”

“Bid Brother Philip to come hither, instantly.”

“May it please you, my lord——­”

“Naught will please me,” said the Bishop, “but that my commands be obeyed without parley or delay.”

Jasper’s obeisance took him through the door.

The Bishop bent over the letter from Rome, shading his face with his hand.

He could scarcely contain his anxiety; but he did not wish to give Brother Philip occasion to observe his tremulous eagerness to receive the Knight’s reply.

He heard the door open and close, and a firm tread upon the floor.  It struck him, even then, that the lay-brother had not been wont to enter his presence with so martial a stride, and he wondered at the ring of spurs.  But his mind was too intently set upon Hugh d’Argent’s letter, to do more than unconsciously notice these things.

“Thou art quickly returned, my good Philip,” he said, without looking round.  “Thou has done better than my swiftest expectations.  Didst thou give my letter thyself into the hands of Sir Hugh d’Argent, and hast thou brought me back an answer from that most noble Knight?”

Wherefore did Brother Philip make no reply?

Wherefore did his breath come sharp and short—­not like a stout lay-brother who has hurried; but, rather, like a desperate man who has clenched his teeth to keep control of his tongue?

The Bishop wheeled in his chair, and found himself looking full into the face of Hugh d’Argent—­Hugh, haggard, dusty, travel-stained, with eyes, long strangers to sleep, regarding him with a sombre intensity.

“You!” exclaimed the Bishop, surprised out of his usual gentle calm.  “You?  Here!”

“Yes, I,” said the Knight, “I!  Does it surprise you, my Lord Bishop, that I should be here?  Would it not rather surprise you, in view of that which you saw fit to communicate to me by letter, that I should fail to be here—­and here as fast as horse could bring me?”

“Naught surprises me,” said the Bishop, testily.  “I have lived so long in the world, and had to do with so many crazy fools, that human vagaries no longer have power to surprise me.  And, by our Lady, Sir Knight, I care not where you are, so that you have left safe and well, her peace of mind undisturbed, the woman whom I—­acting as mouthpiece of the Pope and Holy Church—­gave, not two weeks ago, into your care and keeping.”