The Bishop did not really think the Prioress would do this; but it amused him to fancy he was afraid, and to put on his biretta.

Then, as he leaned back in his chair, and his finger tips met, the stone in his ring was blue again, and his eyes were more than ever the eyes of a merry schoolboy out on a holiday.

Yet, presently, he sought to calm the tempest he had raised.

“My daughter,” he said, “I did but agree to that which you yourself suggested.  Did you not ask whether it would seem to me right or possible to grant absolution from her vows, tacitly to allow the opening of the cage door, that the little foolish bird might, if she wished it, escape?  Why this exceeding indignation, when I do but yield to your arguments and fall in with your suggestions?”

“I did not suggest that a lover’s arms were awaiting one of my nuns,” said the angry Prioress.

“You did not mention arms,” replied the Bishop, gently; “but you most explicitly mentioned a voice.  ’Supposing the voice of an earthly lover calls,’ you said.  And—­having admitted that I am better versed in such matters than you—­you must forgive me, dear Prioress, if I amaze you further by acquainting you with the undoubted fact, recognised, in the outer world, as beyond dispute, that when a lover’s voice calls, a lover’s arms are likely to be waiting.  Earthly lovers, my daughter, by no means resemble those charming cherubs which you may have observed on the carved woodwork in our Cathedral.  Otherwise you might have just a voice, flanked by seraphic wings.  Some such fanciful creation must have been in your mind for Sister Mary Seraphine; for, until I made mention of the noble Knight who had arrived in Worcester distraught with anguish of heart by reason of his loss, you had decided leanings toward tacitly allowing flight.  Therefore it was not the fact of the broken vows, but the idea of Seraphine wedded to the brave Crusader, which so greatly roused your ire.”

The Prioress stood silent.  Her hot anger cooled, enveloped in the chill mantle of self-revelation and self-scorn.

It seemed to her that the gentle words of the Bishop indeed expressed the truth far more correctly than he knew.

The thought of Hugh, consoling himself with some foolish, vain, unworthy, little Seraphine, had stung with intolerable pain.

Yet, how should she, the cause of his despair, begrudge him any comfort he might find in the love of another?

Then, suddenly, the Prioress knelt at the feet of the Bishop.

“Forgive me, most Reverend Father,” she said.  “I did wrong to be angry.”

Symon of Worcester extended his hand, and the Prioress kissed the ring.  As she withdrew her lips from the precious stone, she saw it blood-red and sparkling, as the juice of purple grapes in a goblet.

The Bishop laid his biretta once more upon the table, and smiled very tenderly on the Prioress, as he motioned her to rise from her knees and to resume her seat.