“Dear Antony—­” she said, and laughed aloud.

Then she placed her hand beneath the old woman’s arm, and gently raised her.  “Mistakes arise so easily,” she said.  “With the best of intentions, we all sometimes make mistakes.  There is nothing to forgive, my Antony.”

“I am old, and dim, and stupid,” said the lay-sister, humbly; “but I have begged of our sweet Lady to sharpen the old wits of Mary Antony.”

After which statement, made in a voice of humble penitence, Mary Antony, unseen by the thankful Prioress, did give a knowing wink with the eye next to the Madonna.  Our blessed Lady smiled.  The sweet Babe looked merry.  The Prioress rose, a great light of relief illumining her weary face.

“Let us to bed, dear Antony; then, with the dawn of a new day we shall all arise with hearts refreshed and wits more keen.  So now—­God rest thee.”

Left alone, the Prioress knelt long in prayer before the shrine of the Madonna.  Once, she reached out her right hand to the empty space where Hugh had knelt, striving to feel remembrance of his strong clasp.

At length she sought her couch.  But sleep refused to come, and presently she crept back in the white moonlight, and kneeling pressed her lips to the stone on which Hugh had kneeled; then fled, in shame that our Lady should see such weakness; and dared not glance toward the shadowy form of the dead Christ, crucified.  For with the coming of Love to seek her, Life had come; and where Life enters, Death is put to flight; even as before the triumphant march of the rising sun, darkness and shadows flee away.

Yet, even then, our Lady gently smiled, and the Babe on her knees looked merry.

CHAPTER XVIII

IN THE CATHEDRAL CRYPT

On the day following, in the afternoon, shortly before the hour of Vespers, a stretcher was carried through the streets of Worcester, by four men-at-arms wearing the livery of Sir Hugh d’Argent.

Beside it walked the Knight, with bent head, his eyes upon the ground.

The body of the man upon the stretcher was covered by a fine linen sheet, over which lay a blue cloak, richly embroidered with silver.  His head was swathed in a bandage of many folds, partially concealing the face.

The little procession passed through the Precincts; then entered the Cathedral by the great door leading into the nave.

Here a monk stood, taking careful note of all who passed in or out of the building.  As the stretcher approached, he stepped forward with hand upraised.

There was a pause in the measured tramp of the bearers’ feet.

The Knight lifted his eyes, and seeing the monk barring the way, he drew forth a parchment and tendered it.

“I have the leave of the Lord Bishop, good father,” he said, “to carry this man upon the stretcher daily into the crypt, and there to let him lie before the shrine of Saint Oswald, during the hour of Vespers; from which daily pilgrimage and prayer, we hope a great recovery and restoration.”