Thus the Bishop and the Knight, alone once more, were seated in the firelight.  As it illumined the white and silver doublet, and glowed in the rubies, the Bishop conceived the whimsical fancy that the Knight might well be some splendid archangel, come down to force the Convent gates and carry off a nun to heaven.  And the Knight, watching the leaping flame flicker on the Bishop’s crimson robes and silvery hair, saw the lenient smile upon the saintly face and took courage as he realised how kindly was the heart, filled with most human sympathy, which beat beneath the cross of gold upon the Prelate’s breast.

Leaning forward, the Bishop lifted the faggot-fork and moved one of the burning logs so that a jet of blue smoke, instead of mounting the chimney, came out toward them on the hearth.

Symon of Worcester sat back and inhaled it with enjoyment.

“This is refreshing,” he said.  “This soothes and yet braces the mind.  And now, my son, let us return to the question of your own private concerns.  First, let me ask—­Hugh, dear lad, as friend and counsellor I ask it—­are you able now to tell me the name of the woman you desire to wed?”

“Nay, my dear lord,” replied the Knight, “that I cannot do.  I guard her name, as I would guard mine honour.  If—­as may our Lady be pleased to grant—­she consent to fly with me, her name will still be mine to guard; yet then all men may know it, so they speak it with due respect and reverence.  But if—­as may our blessed Lady forbid—­she withhold herself from me, so that three days hence I ride away alone; then must I ride away leaving no shadow of reproach on her fair fame.  Her name will be forever in my heart; but no word of mine shall have left it, in the mind of any man, linked with broken vows, or a forsaken lover.”

The Bishop looked long and earnestly at the Knight.

“That being so, my son,” he said at length, “for want of any better name, I needs must call her by the name she bears in the Nunnery, and now speak with you of Sister Mary Seraphine.”

Hugh d’Argent frowned.

“I care not to hear of this Seraphine,” he said.

“Yet I fear me you must summon patience to hear of Seraphine for a few moments,” said the Bishop, quietly; “seeing that I have here a letter from the Prioress herself, in which she sends you a message. . . .  Ah!  I marvel not that you are taken by surprise, my dear Knight; but keep your seat, and let not your hand fly so readily to your sword.  To transfix the Reverend Mother’s gracious epistle on your blade’s keen point, would not tend to elucidate her meaning; nor could it alter the fact that she sends you important counsel concerning Sister Mary Seraphine.”

The Bishop lighted a wax taper standing at his elbow, drew a letter from the folds of his sash, slowly unfolded and held it to the light.

The Knight sat silent, his face in shadow.  The leaping flame of the fire played on his sword hilt and on the rubies across his breast.