The Bishop’s gentle “Benedicite” spread white wings and flew, like an affrighted dove, over the head of the bowing Chaplain, into the chill passage beyond.

But, just as the great door was closing, it darted in again, circled round the banqueting hall, and came back to rest in the safe nest of the kindly heart which had sent it forth.

No blessing, truly vitalised, ever ceases to live.  If the blessed be unworthy, it returns on swift wing to the blesser.

CHAPTER XXI

SO MUCH FOR SERAPHINE!

A sense of peace fell upon the banqueting hall, with the closing of the door.  All unrest and suspicion seemed to have departed.  An atmosphere of confidence and serenity pervaded the great chamber.  It was in the Bishop’s smile, as he turned to the Knight.

“At length the time has come when we may talk freely; and truly, my son, we have much to say.”

The Knight glanced round the spacious hall, and his look implied that he would prefer to talk in a smaller chamber.

“Nay, then,” said the Bishop.  “No situation can be better for a private conversation than the very centre of a very large room.  Have you not heard it said that walls have ears?  Well, in a small room, they may use them to some purpose.  But here, we sit so far removed from the walls that, strain their ears as they may, they will hear nothing; even the very key-hole, opening wide its naughty eye, will see naught, neither will the adjacent ear hear anything.  We may speak freely.”

The Bishop, signing to the Knight to help himself to fruit, moved the wine toward him.  At his own right hand stood a Venetian flagon and goblet of ruby glass, ornamented with vine leaves and clusters of grapes.  The Bishop drank only from this flagon, pouring its contents himself into the goblet which he held to the light before he drank from it, enjoying the rich glow of colour, and the beauty of the engraving.  His guests sometimes wondered what specially choice kind of wine the Bishop kept for his own, exclusive use.  If they asked, he told them.

“The kind used at the marriage feast at Cana in Galilee, when the supply of an inferior quality had failed.  This, my friends, is pure water, wholesome, refreshing, and not costly.  I drink it from glass which gives to it the colour of the juice of the grape, partly in order that my guests may not feel chilled in their own enjoyment of more gay and luscious beverage; partly because I enjoy the emblem.

“The gifts of circumstance, life, and nature, vary, not so much in themselves, as in the human vessels which contain them.  If the heart be a ruby goblet, the humblest form of pure love filling it, will assume the rich tint and fervour of romance.  If the mind be, in itself, a thing of vivid tints and glowing colours, the dullest thought within it will take on a lustre, a sparkle, a glow of brilliancy.  Thus, whensoever men or matters seem to me dull or wearisome, to myself I say:  ‘Symon!  Thou art this day, thyself, a pewter pot.’”