When he had told all, when the deep, manly voice—­now resolute, now eager, now vibrant with fierce indignation, yet tender always when speaking of her—­at last fell silent, the Prioress fought with her emotion, and mastered it; then, so soon as she could safely trust her voice, she spoke.

CHAPTER XII

ALAS, THE PITY OF IT!

At length the Prioress spoke.

“Alas,” she said, “the pity of it!  Ah, the cruel, cruel pity of it!”

Her voice, so sweet and tender, yet so hopeless in the unquestioning finality of its regret, struck cold upon the heart of the Knight.

“But, my beloved, I have found thee,” he said, and dropping upon one knee at her feet, he put out his hands to cover both hers.  But the Prioress was too quick for him.  She hid her hands beneath her scapulary.  The Knight’s brown fingers closed on the lions’ heads.

“Touch me not,” said the Prioress.

The Knight flushed, darkly.

“You are mine,” he said.  “Mine to have and to keep.  During these wretched years we have schooled ourselves each to think of the other as wedded.  Now we know that neither has been faithless.  I have found thee, my beloved, and I will not let thee go.”

“Hugh,” said the Prioress, “I am wedded.  You come too late.  Saw you not the sacred ring upon my hand?  Know you not that every nun is the bride of Christ?”

“You are mine!” said the Knight, fiercely; and he laid his great hand upon her knee.

From beneath her scapulary, the Prioress drew the dagger.

“Before I went to the cloister door,” she said, “I took this from its hiding-place, and put it in my girdle.  I guessed I had a man to deal with; though, Heaven knows, I dreamed not it was thou!  But I tell thee, Hugh, if thou, or any man, attempt to lay defiling touch upon any nun in this Priory—­myself, or another—­I strike, and I strike home.  This blade will be driven up to the hilt in the offender’s heart.”

The Knight rose to his feet, stepped to the window and leaned, with folded arms, against the wall.

“Put back thy weapon,” he said, sternly, “into its hiding-place.  No other man is here; yet, should another come, my sword would well suffice to guard thine honour, and the honour of thy nuns.”

She looked at his dark face, scornful in its pain; then went at once, obedient, to the secret panel.

“Yes, Hugh,” she said.  “That much of trust indeed I owe thy love.”

As she placed the dagger in the wall and closed the panel, something fell from her, intangible, yet real.

For so long, she had had to command.  Bowing, kneeling, hurrying women flew to do her behests.  Each vied with the others to magnify her Office.  Often, she felt lonely by reason of her dignity.

And now—­a man’s dark face frowned on her in scornful anger; a man’s stern voice flung back her elaborate threat with a short command, which disarmed her, yet which she obeyed.  Moreover, she found it strangely sweet to obey.  Behind the sternness, behind the scornful anger, there throbbed a great love.  In that love she trusted; but with that love she had to deal, putting it from her with a finality which should be beyond question.