There she presently unfolded to him the history of her difficulties with that wayward little nun, Sister Mary Seraphine.

“But the point which I chiefly desire to lay before you, Reverend Father,” concluded the Prioress, “is this:  If the neighing of a palfrey calls more loudly to her than the voice of God; if her mind is still set upon the things of the world; if she professed without a true vocation, merely because she wished to be the central figure of a great ceremony, yet was all the while expecting a man to intervene and carry her off; if all this bespeaks her true state of heart, then to my mind there comes the question:  Is she doing good, either to herself or to others, by belonging to our Order?  Would she not be better away?

“My lord, I fear I greatly shock you by naming such a possibility.  But truly I am pursued by the remembrance of that young thing, beating the floor with her hands, and singing a mournful dirge about the crimson trappings of her palfrey.  And, alas! when I reasoned with her and exhorted, she broke out, as I have told you, Reverend Father, into grievous blasphemy—­for which she was severely dealt with by Mother Sub-Prioress, and has since been outwardly amenable to rules and discipline.

“But, though she may outwardly conform, how about her inward state?  Well I know that our vows are lifelong vows; all who belong to our Order are wedded to Heaven; we are thankful to know that the calm of the Cloister shall be exchanged only for the greater peace of Paradise.  But, supposing a young heart has mistaken its vocation; supposing the voice of an earthly lover calls when it is too late; would it seem right or possible to you, Reverend Father, to grant any sort of absolution from the vows; tacitly to allow the opening of the cage door, that the little foolish bird might, if it wished, escape into the liberty for which it chafes and sighs?”

The Bishop sat in the Spanish chair, drawn up near the oriel window, so that he could either gaze at the glories of the distant sunset, or, by slightly turning his head, look on the beautiful but grave face of the Prioress, seated before him.

While she was speaking he watched her keenly, with those bright searching eyes, so much more youthful than aught else about him.  But now that he must make reply, he looked away to the sunset.

The light shone on the plain gold cross at his breast, and on the violet silk of his cassock.  His face, against the background of the black Spanish wood, looked strangely white and thin; strong in contour, with a virile strength; in expression, sensitive as a woman’s.  He had removed his biretta, and placed it upon the table.  His silvery hair rolled back from his forehead in silky waves.  His was the look of the saint and the scholar, almost of the mystic—­save for the tender humour in those keen blue eyes, gleaming like beacon lights from beneath the level eyebrows; eyes which had won the confidence of many a man who else had not dared unfold his very human story, to one of such saintly aspect as Symon, Bishop of Worcester.  They were turned toward the sunset, as he made answer to the Prioress.