At sight of the Lord Bishop’s signature and seal, the monk made deep obeisance, and hastened to call the Sacristan, bidding him attend the Knight on his passage to the crypt and give him every facility in placing the sick man there where he might most conveniently lie before the holy altar of the blessed Saint Oswald.

So presently, the stretcher being safely deposited, the men-at-arms stood each against a pillar, and the Knight folded back the coverings, in order that the man who lay beneath, might have sight of the altar and the shrine.

As the Knight stood gazing through the vista of many columns, he found the old Sacristan standing at his elbow.

“Most worshipful Knight,” said the old man, with deference, “our Lord Bishop’s mandate supersedes all rules.  Were it not so, it would be my duty to clear the crypt before Vespers.  See you that stairway yonder, beneath the arch?  Not many minutes hence, up those steps will pass the holy nuns from the Convent of the White Ladies at Whytstone—­noble ladies all, and of great repute for saintliness.  Daily they come to Vespers by a secret way; entering the crypt, they pass across to a winding stair in the wall, and so arrive at a gallery above the choir, from which they can, unseen, hear the chanting of the monks.  I must to my duties above.  Will you undertake, Sir Knight, that your men go not nigh where the White Ladies pass, nor in any way molest them?”

“None shall stir hand or foot, as they pass, nor in any way molest them,” said the Knight.

Hugh d’Argent was kneeling before the altar, his folded hands resting upon the cross on the hilt of his sword, when the faint sound of a key turning in a distant lock, caught his ear.

Then up the steps and across the crypt passed, in silent procession, the White Ladies of Worcester.

There was something ghostly and awe-inspiring about those veiled figures, moving noiselessly among the pillars in the dimly-lighted crypt; then vanishing, one by one, up the winding stairway in the wall.

The Knight did not stir.  He stayed upon his knees, his hands clasped upon his sword-hilt; but he followed each silent figure with his eyes.

The last had barely disappeared from view when, from above, came the solemn chanting of monks and choristers.

This harmony, descending from above, seemed to uplift the soul all the more readily, because the sacred words and noble sounds reached the listener, unhampered by association with the personalities, either youthful or ponderous, of the singers.  All that was of the earth remained unseen; while that which was so near akin to heaven, entered the listening ear.

Kneeling in lowly reverence with bowed head, the Knight found himself wondering whether the ascending sounds reached that distant gallery in the clerestory where the White Ladies knelt, as greatly softened, sweetened, and enriched, as they now came stealing down into the crypt.  Were the hearts of those veiled worshippers also lifted heavenward; or—­being already above the music—­did the ascending voices rather tend to draw them down to earth?