“The evening before the messenger arrived, bringing your letter, my lord, Mora told me of the vision.”

“Said you aught concerning my words to you?”

“So soon as she mentioned the name of Mary Antony, I said that I seemed to recall that you, my lord, had told me she alone knew of my visit to the Convent.  But Mora at once said nay, that it was she herself who had told me so, even while I stood undiscovered in her cell; but that afterward the lay-sister had confessed herself mistaken.  This seemed to me to explain the matter, therefore I said no more; nor did I, for a moment, doubt the truth and wonder of the vision.”

“For that, the saints be praised,” said the Bishop.  “Then no harm is done.  You and I, alone, know the entire story; and you and I, who would safeguard Mora’s happiness with our lives, must see to it that she never has cause for misgivings.”

Hugh d’Argent lifted his head, and looked full at the Bishop.

“My lord,” he said, “had there been no vision, no message from our Lady, no placing by her of Mora’s hand in mine, think you she would have left the Nunnery and come to me?”

“Nay, dear lad, that I know she would not.  On that very morning, as I told you, she set her foot upon the Pope’s mandate, and would accept no absolving from her vows.  Naught would suffice, said she, but a direct vision and revelation from our Lady herself.”

“But,” said the Knight, slowly, “was there a vision, my lord?  Was there a revelation?  Was there a spoken message or a given sign?”

The Bishop met the earnest eyes, full of a deep searching.  He stirred uneasily; then smiled, waving a deprecatory hand.

“Between ourselves, my dear Hugh—­though even so, it is not well to be too explicit—­between ourselves of course nothing—­well—­miraculous happened, beyond the fact that our Lady most certainly sharpened the wits of old Antony.  Therefore is it, that you undoubtedly owe your wife to those same wits, and may praise our Lady for sharpening them.”

Then it was that the Knight rose to his feet.

“And I refuse,” he said, “to owe my wife to sacrilege, fraud, and falsehood.”

The Bishop leaned forward, gripping with both hands the arms of his chair.  His face was absolutely colourless; but his eyes, like blue steel, seemed to transfix the Knight, who could not withdraw his regard from those keen points of light.

The Bishop’s whisper, when at length he spoke, was more alarming than if he had shouted.

“Fool!” he said.  “Ungrateful, unspeakable fool!  What mean you by such words?”

“Call me fool if you will, my Lord Bishop,” said the Knight, “so long as I give not mine own conscience cause to call me knave.”

“What mean you by such words?” persisted the Bishop.  “I mean, my lord, that if the truth opened out an abyss which plunged me into hell, I would sooner know it than attempt to enter Paradise across the flimsy fabric of a lie.”