The rubies on the Knight’s breast suddenly glittered, as if a bound of his heart had caused them all to leap together.  But, except for that quick sparkle, he sat immovable, and made no sign.

The Bishop had marked the gleam of the rubies.

He lifted his Venetian goblet to the light and observed it carefully, as he continued:  “The Prioress—­a most wise and noble lady, of whom I told you on the day when you first questioned me concerning the Nunnery—­has been having trouble with a nun, by name Sister Mary Seraphine.  This young and lovely lady has, just lately, heard the world loudly calling—­on her own shewing, through the neighing of a palfrey bringing to mind past scenes of gaiety.  But—­the Prioress suspicioned the voice of an earthly lover; and I, knowing how reckless and resolute an earthly lover was attempting to invade the Nunnery, we both—­the Prioress and I—­drew our own conclusions, and proceeded to face the problem with which we found ourselves confronted, namely:—­whether to allow or to thwart the flight of Seraphine.”

The Knight, toying with walnuts, held at the moment four in the palm of his right hand.  They broke with a four-fold crack, which sounded but as one mighty crunch.  Then, all unconscious of what he did, the Knight opened his great hand and let fall upon the table, a little heap of crushed nuts, shells and white flesh inextricably mixed.

The Bishop glanced at the small heap.  The veiled twinkle in his eyes seemed to say; “So much for Seraphine!”

“I know not any lady of that name,” said the Knight.

“Not by that name, my son.  The nuns are not known in the Convent by the names they bore before they left the world.  I happen to know that the Prioress, before she professed, was Mora, Countess of Norelle.  I know this because, years ago, I saw her at the Court, when she was a maid of honour to the Queen; very young and lovely; yet, even then remarkable for wisdom, piety, and a certain sweet dignity of deportment.  Sometimes now, when she receives me in the severe habit of her Order, I find myself remembering the flow of beautiful hair, soft as spun silk, bound by a circlet of gold round the regal head; the velvet and ermine; the jewels at her breast.  Yet do I chide myself for recalling things which these holy women have renounced, and doubtless would fain forget.”

The Bishop struck a silver gong with his left hand.

At once a distant door opened in the dark panelling and two black-robed figures glided in.

“Kindle a fire on the hearth,” commanded the Bishop; adding to his guest:  “The evening air strikes chilly.  Also I greatly love the smell of burning wood.  It is pungent to the nostrils, and refreshing to the brain.”

The monks hastened to kindle the wood and to fan it into a flame.

Presently, the fire blazing brightly, the Bishop rose, and signed to the monks to place the chairs near the great fireplace.  This they did; and, making profound obeisance, withdrew.