It seemed to her that she had two issues to consider.  First:  the question as to whether Hugh, guided by the Bishop, would keep silence; thus making himself a party to her deception.  Secondly:  the position in which she was placed by the fact that she had left the Convent, owing to that deception.  But, for the moment the first issue was so infinitely the greater, that she found herself thrusting the second into the background, allowing herself to be conscious of it merely as a question to be faced later on, when the all-important point of Hugh’s attitude in the matter should be settled.

She walked forward swiftly, one idea alone possessing her:  that she hastened toward possible help.

She did not slacken speed until the chapel came into view, its grey walls glistening in the morning light, a clump of feathery rowan trees beside it; at its back a mighty rock, flung down in bygone centuries from the mountain which towered behind it.  From a deep cleft in this rock sprang a young oak, dipping its fresh green to the roof of the chapel; all around it, in every crack and cranny, parsley fern, hare-bells on delicate, swaying stalks, foxgloves tall and straight, and glorious bunches of purpling heather.

Nearby was the humble dwelling of the Hermit.  The door stood ajar.

Softly approaching, Mora lifted her hand, and knocked.

No voice replied.

The sound of her knock did but make evident the presence of a vast solitude.

Pushing open the door, she ventured to look within.

The Hermit’s cell was empty.  The remains of a frugal meal lay upon the rough wooden table.  Also an open breviary, much thumbed and worn.  At the further end of the table, a little pile of medicinal herbs heaped as if shaken hastily from the wallet which lay beside them.  Probably the holy man, even while at an early hour he broke his fast, had been called to some sick bedside.

Mora turned from the doorway and, shading her eyes, scanned the landscape.

At first she could see only sheep, slowly moving from tuft to tuft as they nibbled the short grass; or goats, jumping from rock to rock, and suddenly disappearing in the high bracken.

But soon, on a distant ridge, she perceived two figures and presently made out the brown robe and hood of the Hermit, and a little, barefoot peasant boy, running to keep up with his rapid stride.  They vanished over the crest of the hill, and Mora—­alone in this wild solitude—­realised that many hours might elapse ere the Hermit returned.

This check to the fulfilment of her purpose, instead of disappointing her, flooded her heart with a sudden sense of relief.

The interior of the Hermit’s cell had recalled, so vividly, the austerities of the cloistered life.

The Hermit’s point of view would probably have been so completely from within.

It would have been impossible that he should comprehend the wonder—­the growing wonder—­of these days, since she and Hugh rode away from Warwick, culminating in that exquisite hour on the battlements when she had told him of the vision, whispered her full surrender, and yet he—­faithful and patient even then—­had touched her only with his glowing eyes.