The ringing of the Refectory bell had roused her from her stupor in time to hear the impassioned appeal of the Knight, as he kneeled alone before the Virgin’s shrine.

Then, the Knight and the Prioress both being gone, Mary Antony had arisen, lifted her chopper with hands that trembled, and now stood with distraught mien, surveying the empty cell.

At length it dawned upon her that she and her weapon were locked into the Reverend Mother’s cell; she, who had been most explicitly bidden to go to the kitchens and to remain there.  It had been a sense of the enormity of her offence in having disobeyed the Reverend Mother’s orders which, unconsciously, had caused her to stifle all ejaculations and move without noise, lest she should be discovered.

Yet now her first care was not for her own predicament, but for the two noble hearts, of whose tragic grief she had secretly been a witness.

Her eye fell on the Madonna, calmly smiling.

She tottered forward, kneeling where the Prioress had knelt.

“Holy Mother of God,” she whispered, “teach him that she cannot do this thing!”

Then, moving along on her knees to where the Knight had kneeled:  “Blessed Virgin!” she cried, “shew her that she cannot leave him desolate!”

Then shuffling back to the centre, and kneeling between the two places:  “Sweetest Lady,” she said, “be pleased to sharpen the old wits of Mary Antony.”

Looking furtively at the Madonna, she saw that our Lady smiled.  The blessed Infant, also, looked merry.  Mary Antony chuckled, and took heart.  When the Reverend Mother smiled, she always knew herself forgiven.

Moreover, without delay, her request was granted; for scarcely had she arisen from her knees, when she remembered the place where the Reverend Mother kept the key of her cell; and she, having locked the door, on leaving, with her own master-key, the other was quickly in old Antony’s hand, and she out once more in the passage, locking the door behind her; sure of being able to restore the key to its place, before it should be missed by the Reverend Mother.

Sister Mary Antony slipped unseen past the Refectory and into the kitchens.  Once there, she fussed and scolded and made her presence felt, implying that she had been waiting, a good hour gone, for the thing for which she had but that moment asked.

The younger lay-sisters might make no retort; but Sister Mary Martha presently asked:  “What have you been doing since Vespers, Sister Antony?”

By aid of the wits our Lady had sharpened, old Antony, at that moment, realised that sometimes, when you needs must deceive, there is nothing so deceptive as the actual truth.

“Listening to a wondrous romantic tale,” she made answer, “told by the Knight of the Bloody Vest.”

“You verily are foolish about that robin, Sister Antony,” remarked Mary Martha; “and you will take your death of cold, sitting out in the garden in the damp, after sunset.”