“And I am certain she will leave you,” said the Bishop.

“It was largely this fear for the future which brought me at once to you, my lord.  If Mora desires, as you say, to consider herself as she was, before she was tricked into leaving the Convent, will you arrange that she shall return, unquestioned, to her place as Prioress of the White Ladies of Worcester?”

“Impossible!” said the Bishop, shortly.  “It is too late.  We can have no Madonna groups in Nunneries, saving those carven in marble or stone.”

To which there followed a silence, lasting many minutes.

Then the Knight said, with effort, speaking very low:  “It is not too late.”

Instantly the keen eyes were searching his face.  A line of crimson leapt to the Bishop’s cheek, as if a whip-lash had been drawn across it.

Presently:  “Fool!” he whispered, but the word savoured more of pitying tenderness than of scorn.  Alas! was there ever so knightly a fool, or so foolish a knight!  “What was the trouble, boy?  Didst find that after all she loved thee not?”

“Nay,” said Hugh, quickly, “I thank God, and our Lady, that my wife loves me as I never dreamed that such as I could be loved by one so perfect in all ways as she.  But—­at first—­all was so new and strange to her.  It was wonder enough to be out in the world once more, free to come and go; to ride abroad, looking on men and things.  I put her welfare first. . . .  Nay, it was easy, loving her as I loved, also greatly desiring the highest and the best.  Father, I wanted what you spoke of as the Madonna in the Home.  Therefore—­’twas I who made the plan—­we agreed that, the wedding having of necessity been so hurried, the courtship should follow, and we would count ourselves but betrothed, even after reaching Castle Norelle, for just so many days or weeks as she should please; until such time as she herself should tell me she was wishful that I should take her home.  But—­each day of the ride northward had been more perfect than that which went before; each hour of each day, sweeter than the preceding.  Thus it came to pass that on the very evening of our arrival at Mora’s home, after parting for the night at the door of her chamber, we met again on the battlements, where years before we had said farewell; and there, seated in the moonlight, she told me the wonder of our Lady’s grace in the vision; and, afterwards, in words of perfect tenderness, the even greater wonder of her love, and that she was ready on the morrow to ride home with me.  So we parted in a rapture so deep and pure, that sleep came, for very joy of it.  But early in the morning I was wakened by a rapping at my door, and there stood Brother Philip, holding your letter, Reverend Father.”

“Alas!” said the Bishop.  “Would that I had known she would have whereby to explain away thy memory of that which I had said.”

Yet the Bishop spoke perfunctorily; he spoke as one who, even while speaking, muses upon other matters.  For, within his secret soul, he was fighting the hardest temptation yet faced by him, in the whole history of his love for Mora.