Thus speedily had her prayer of the previous night been granted.  The pierced feet of our dear Lord, crucified, had become more to her than the baby feet of the Infant Jesus, on His Mother’s knee.

Yet, even as she knelt—­supplicating, interceding, adoring—­there echoed in her memory the wicked shriek of Mary Seraphine:  “A dead God cannot help me!  I want life, not death!” followed almost instantly by Hugh’s stern question:  “Is this religion?”

Truly, of late, wild voices had taken liberty of speech in the cell of the Prioress, and had left their impious utterances echoing behind them.

CHAPTER XVII

THE DIMNESS OF MARY ANTONY

The Prioress had been back in her cell for nearly an hour, when a gentle tap came on the door.

“Enter,” commanded the Prioress, and Mary Antony appeared, bearing broth and bread, fruit and a cup of wine.

The Prioress sat at her table, parchment and an open missal before her.  Her face was very white; also there were dark shadows beneath her eyes.  She did not smile at sight of old Antony, thus laden.

“How now, Antony?” she said, almost sternly.  “I did not bid thee to bring me food.”

“Reverend Mother,” said the old lay-sister, in a voice which strove to be steady, yet quavered; “for long hours you have studied, not heeding that the evening meal was over.  Chide not old Antony for bringing you some of that broth, which you like the best.  You will not sleep unless you eat.”

The Prioress looked at her uncomprehendingly; as if, for the moment, words conveyed no meaning to her mind.  Then she saw those old hands trembling, and a sudden flood of colour flushed the pallor of her face.

This sweet stirring of fresh life within her own heart gave her to see, in the old woman’s untiring devotion, a human element hitherto unperceived.  It brought a rush of comfort, in her sadness.

She closed the volume, and pushed aside the parchment.  “How kind of thee, dear Antony, to take so much thought for me.  Place the bowls on the table. . . .  Now draw up that stool, and stay near me while I sup.  I am weary this night, and shall like thy company.”

Had the golden gates of heaven opened before her, and Saint Peter himself invited her to enter, Sister Mary Antony would not have been more astonished and certainly could hardly have been more gratified.  It was a thing undreamed of, that she should be bidden to sit with the Reverend Mother in her cell.

Drawing the carven stool two feet from the wall, Mary Antony took her seat upon it.

“Nearer, Antony, nearer,” said the Prioress.  “Place the stool here, close beside the corner of my table.  I have much to say to thee, and would wish to speak low.”

Truly Sister Antony found herself in the seventh heaven!

Yet, quietly observing, the Prioress could not fail to note the drawn weariness on the old face, the yellow pallor of the wizen skin, which usually wore the bright tint of a russet apple.