Was honour, held unsullied, to prove in this case, the tomb of his life’s happiness?  Three days of suspense, during which Mora considered, and he and the Bishop waited.  On the third day, would Love arise victorious, purified by suffering, clad in raiment of dazzling whiteness?  Would there be Easter in his heart, and deep peace in his home?  Or would his beloved wind herself once more in cerements, would the seal of the Vatican be set upon the stone of monastic rules and regulations, making it fast, secure, inviolable?  Would he, turning sadly from the Zion of hopes fulfilled, be walking in dull despair to the Emmaus of an empty home, of a day far spent, holding no promise of a brighter dawn?

But, even as his mind dwelt on the symbolism of that sacred scene, the Knight remembered that the two who walked in sadness did not long walk alone.  One, stepping silently, came up with them; knowing all, yet asking tenderest question; the Master, Whom they mourned, Himself drew near and went with them.

It seemed to Hugh d’Argent that if so real a Presence as that, could draw near to him and to Mora at this sad parting of the ways, if their religion did but hold a thing so vital, then might they have a true vision of Life, which should make clear the reason for the long years of suffering, and point the way to the glory which should follow.  Then, being blessed, not merely by the Church and the Bishop but by the Christ Himself—­He Who at Cana granted the best wine when the earthly vintage failed the wedding feast—­they might leave behind forever the empty tomb of hopes frustrated, and return together, with exceeding joy, to the Jerusalem of joys fulfilled.

Hugh laid down his sword, rose, stretched himself, and stood looking full into the golden sunset.

He could not account for it, but somehow the darkness had lifted.  The sense of loneliness was gone.  An Unseen Presence seemed with him.  The thought of prayer throbbed through his helpless spirit, like the uplifting beat of strong white wings.

“O God,” he said, “Thou seemest to me as a stranger, when I meet Thee on mine own life’s way.  I know Thee as Babe divine; I know Thee, crucified; I know Thee risen, and ascending in such clouds of glory as hide Thee from mine earthbound sight.  But, if Thou hast drawn near along the rocky footpath of each day’s common happenings, then have mine eyes indeed been holden, and I knew Thee not.”

Hugh stood motionless, his eyes on the glory of the sunset battlements.  And into his mind there came, as clearly as if that moment uttered, the words of Father Gervaise:  “He ever liveth to make intercession for us.”

The Knight raised his right arm.  “Oh, if Thou livest,” he said, “and living, knowest; and knowing, carest; grant me a sign of Thy nearness—­a Vision of Life and of Love, which shall make clear this mist of uncertainty.”

Turning back to his work, so great a load seemed lifted from his heart, that he found himself singing as he put a keener edge on his weapons.