They passed beneath the city wall, under the Foregate.

The Sheriff rode home to supper, well pleased with a stroke of business accomplished in a house in which he had chanced to shelter during the storm.

The good people of Worcester bought and sold in the market.  Men whose day’s work was over, hastened to reach the rest and comfort of wife and home.  Crowds jostled gaily through the streets, little dreaming that beneath their hurrying, busy feet, the Knight and the Prioress paced slowly, side by side, through the darkness.

Had the Knight spoken, her mind would have been up in arms to resist him.  But, because he walked in silence, her heart had leisure to remember; and, remembering, it grew sorely tender.

At length they reached the doorway leading into the Cathedral crypt.

The Prioress carried the key in her left hand.  Freeing her right from the grip of his arm, she slipped the key noiselessly into the lock; but, leaving it there unturned, she paused, and faced the Knight.

“Hugh,” she said, “I beg you, for my sake and for the sake of all whose fair fame is under my care, to pass through quickly into the crypt, and to go from thence, if possible, unseen, or in such manner as shall prevent any suspicion that you come from out this hidden way.  Tales of wrong are told so readily, and so quickly grow.”

“I will observe the utmost caution,” said the Knight.

“Hugh,” she said, “I grieve to have had, perforce, to disappoint you.”  The brave voice shook.  “This is our final farewell.  Do you forgive me, Hugh?  Will you think kindly, if you ever think on me?”

The Knight held the lantern so that its rays illumined both her face and his.

“Mora,” he said, “I cannot as yet take thine answer as final.  I will return no more, nor try to speak with thee again.  But five days longer, I shall wait.  I shall have plans made with the utmost care, to bear thee, in safety and unseen, from the Cathedral.  I know the doors are watched, and that all who pass in and out are noted and observed.  But, if thou wilt but come to me, beloved, trust me to know how to guard mine own. . . .  Nay, speak not!  Hear me out.

“Daily, after Vespers, I shall stand hidden among the pillars, close to the winding stair.  One step aside—­only one step—­and my arm will be around thee.  A new life of love and home will lie before us.  I shall take thee, safely concealed, to the hostel where I and my men now lodge.  There, horses will stand ready, and we shall ride at once to Warwick.  At Warwick we shall find a priest—­one in high favour, both in Church and State—­who knows all, and is prepared to wed us without delay.  After which, by easy stages, my wife, I shall take thee home.”

He swung the lantern high.  She saw the lovelight and the triumph, in his eyes.  “I shall take thee home!” he said.

She stepped back a pace, lifting both hands toward him, palms outward, and stood thus gazing, with eyes full of sorrow.