Placing the lantern on the ground, the Prioress drew out the key, closed the door, and locked it on the inside.

She turned, and lifting the lantern, saw that the Knight had rid himself of his disguise, and now stood before her, very straight and tall, just within the circle of light cast by her lantern.

With the closing and locking of the door a strange sense came over them, as of standing together in a third world—­neither his nor hers—­tomblike in its complete isolation and darkness; heavy with a smell of earth and damp stones; the slightest sound reverberating in hollow exaggeration; yet, in itself, silent as the grave.

This tomblike quality in their surroundings seemed to make their own vitality stronger and more palpitating.

The seconds of silence, after the grating of the key in the lock ceased, seemed hours.

Then the Knight spoke.

“Give me the lantern,” he said.

She met his eyes.  Again the dignity of her Office slipped from her.  Again it was sweet to obey.

He held the lantern so that its light illumined her face and his.

“Mora,” he said, “it is long since thou and I last walked together over the sunny fields, amid buttercups and cowslips, and the sweet-smelling clover.  To-night we walk beneath the fields instead of through them.  We are under the grass, my sweet.  I seem to stand beside thee in the grave.  And truly my hopes lie slain; the promise of our love is dead, and shall soon be buried.  Yet thou and I still live, and now must walk together side by side, the sad ghosts of our former selves.

“So now I ask thee, Mora, for the sake of those past walks among the flowers, to lay thy hand within my arm and walk with me in gentle fellowship, here in this place of gloom and darkness, as, long ago, we walked among the flowers.”

His dark eyes searched her face.  An almost youthful eagerness vibrated in his voice.

She hesitated, lifting her eyes to his.  Then slowly moved toward him and laid her hand within his arm.

Then, side by side, they paced on through the darkness; he, in his right hand, holding the lantern, swinging low, to light their feet; she, leaning on his left arm, keeping slow pace with him.

Over their heads, in the meadows, walked lovers, arm in arm; young men and maidens out in the gathering twilight.  All nature, refreshed, poured forth a fragrant sweetness.  But the rose, with its dewy petals, seemed to the youth less sweet than the lips of the maid.  This, he shyly ventured to tell her; whereupon, as she bent to its fragrance, her cheeks reflected the crimson of those delicate folds.

So walked and talked young lovers in the Worcester meadows; little dreaming that, beneath their happy feet, the Knight and the Prioress paced slowly, side by side, through the darkness.

No word passed between them.  With, her hand upon his arm, her face so near his shoulder, his arm pressing her hand closer and closer against his heart, silence said more than speech.  And in silence they walked.