“But the Reverend Mother writes”—­at last the Bishop began to read:  “’I felt so sure from your description of the noble Knight who came to you in his trouble, that he cannot be the lover of this shallow-hearted little Seraphine, that I deemed it wise not to tell her of his arrival, nor to mention your idea, that the woman he seeks is to be found in this Nunnery.’”

The smothered sound which broke from the Knight was a mixture of triumph, relief, and most bitter laughter.

“Now that is like the Prioress,” said the Bishop; “thus to use her own judgment, setting at naught my superior knowledge of the facts, and flouting my authority!  A noble nature, Hugh, and most lovable; yet an imperious will, and a strength of character and purpose unusual in a woman.  Had she remained in the world and married, her husband would have found it somewhat difficult wholly to mould her to his will.  Yet to possess such a woman would have been worth adventuring much.  But I must not fret you, dear lad, by talking of the Prioress, when your mind is intent upon arriving at the decision of Seraphine.

“Well, I fear me, I have but sorry news for you.  The Reverend Mother writes:  ’Sister Mary Seraphine expressed herself as completely satisfied with the cloistered life.  She declared that her desire to return to the world had been but a passing phase, of which she was completely purged by the timely discipline of Mother Sub-Prioress, and by the fact that she has been appointed, with Sister Mary Gabriel, to embroider the new altar-cloth for the Chapel.  She talked more eagerly about a stitch she is learning from Mary Gabriel, than about any of those by-gone memories, which certainly had seemed most poignantly revived in her; and I had no small difficulty in turning her mind from the all-absorbing question as to how to obtain the right tint for the pomegranates.  My lord, to a mind thus intent upon needle-work for the Altar of God, I could scarce have brought myself to mention the call of an earthly lover, even had I believed your Knight to be seeking Seraphine.  Her heart is now wedded to the Cloister.’”

The Bishop looked up.

“Therefore, my son, we must conclude that your secret interview, whenever or wherever it took place, had no effect—­will bear no lasting fruit.”  The Bishop could not resist this allusion to the pomegranates of Seraphine.

But Hugh d’Argent, face to face with the suspended portcullis of his fate, trampled all such gossamer beneath impatient feet.

He moistened his dry lips.

“The message,” he said.

The Bishop lifted the letter.

“‘But,’” he read, “’if you still believe your noble Knight to be the lover of Seraphine, then I pray you to tell him this from me.  No nun worthy of a brave man’s love, would consent to break her vows.  A nun who could renounce her vows to go to him, would wrong herself and him, bringing no blessing to his home.  Better an empty hearth, than a hearth where broods a curse.  I ask you, my lord, to give this as a message to that noble Knight from me—­the Prioress of this House—­and to bid him go in peace, praying for a heart submissive to the will of God.’”