“My lord,” replied Hugh d’Argent, rising to his feet and standing erect, his hand upon his sword, “I cannot reason of these things; I cannot define the difference between withholding a truth and stating a lie.  But when mine Honour sounds a challenge, I hear; and I ride out to do battle—­against myself, if need be; or, if it must so be, against another.  On Eastern battle-fields, in Holy War, I won a name known throughout all the camp, known also to the enemy:  ’The Knight of the Silver Shield.’  Our name is Argent, and we ever have the right to carry a pure silver shield.  But I won the name because my shield was always bright; because not once in battle did it fall in the dust; because it never was allowed to tarnish.  So bright it was, that as I rode, bearing it before me, reflecting the rays of the sun, it dazzled and blinded the enemy.  My lord, I cannot tarnish my silver shield by conniving at falsehood, or keeping silence when mine Honour bids me speak.”

Looking at the gallant figure before him, the Bishop’s soul responded to the noble words, and he longed to praise them and applaud.  But he thought of Mora’s peace of mind, Mora’s awakened heart and dawning happiness.  For her sake he must make a final stand.

“My dear Hugh,” he said, “all this talk, of a silver shield and of the challenge of honour, is well enough for the warrior on the battle-field.  But the lover has to learn the harder lesson; he has to give up Self, even the Self which holds honour dear.  When you polished your silver shield, keeping it so bright, what saw you reflected therein?  Why, your own proud face.  Even so, now, you fear the faintest tarnish on your sense of honour, but you will keep that silver shield bright at Mora’s expense, riding on proudly alone in your glory, reflecting the sun, dazzling all beholders, while your wife who loved and trusted you, Mora, who told you the sweet wonder of her love in words of deepest tenderness, lies desolate in the dark, with a shattered life, and a broken heart.  Hugh, I would have you think of the treasure of her golden heart, rather than of the brightness of your own selfish, silver shield.”

“Selfish!” cried the Knight.  “Selfish!  Is it selfish to hold honour dear?  Is it selfish to be ashamed to deceive the woman one loves?  Have I, who have so striven in all things to put her welfare first, been selfish towards my wife in this hour of crisis?”

He sat down, heavily; leaned his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands.

This attitude of utter dejection filled the Bishop with thankfulness.  Was he, in the very moment when he had given up all hope of winning, about to prove the victor?

“Perilously selfish, my dear Hugh,” he said.  “But, thank Heaven, no harm has yet been done.  Listen to me and I will shew you how you may keep your honour safely untarnished, yet withhold from Mora all knowledge which might cause her disquietude of mind, thus securing her happiness and your own.”