The Bishop’s voice fell silent.  He had maintained its quiet tones, yet perforce had had to rise to something of the dignity of this final pronouncement of the Prioress, and he spoke the last words with deep emotion.

Hugh d’Argent leaned forward, his elbows on his knees; then dropped his head upon his hands, and so stayed motionless.

The portcullis had fallen.  Its iron spikes transfixed his very soul.

She was his, yet lost to him.

This final word of her authority, this speaking, through the Bishop’s mouth, yet with the dignity of her own high office, all seemed of set intent, to beat out the last ray of hope within him.

As he sat silent, with bowed head, wild thoughts chased through his brain.  He was back with her in the subterranean way.  He knelt at her feet in the yellow circle of the lantern’s light.  Her tender hands, her woman’s hands, her firm yet gentle hands, fell on his head; the fingers moved, with soothing touch, in and out of his hair.  Then—­when his love and longing broke through his control—­came her surrender.

Ah, when she was in his arms, why did he loose her?  Or, when she had unlocked the door, and the dim, grey light, like a pearly dawn at sea, stole downward from the crypt, why, like a fool, did he mount the steps alone, and leave her standing there?  Why did he not fling his cloak about her, and carry her up, whether she would or no?  “Why?” cried the demon of despair in his soul.  “Ah, why!”

But, even then, his own true heart made answer.  He had loosed her because he loved her too well to hold her to him when she had seemed to wish to stand free.  And he had gone alone, because never would he force a woman to come with him against her will.  His very strength was safeguard to her weakness.

Presently Hugh heard the Bishop folding the Prioress’s letter.  He lifted his head and held out his hand.

The Bishop was slipping the letter into his sash.

He paused.  Those eyes implored.  That outstretched hand demanded.

“Nay, dear lad,” said the Bishop.  “I may not give it you, because it mentions the White Ladies by name, the Order, and poor little shallow, changeful Seraphine herself, But this much I will do:  as you may not have it, none other shall.”  With which the Bishop, unfolding the Prioress’s letter, flung it upon the burning logs.

Together they watched it curl and blacken; uncurl again, and slowly flake away.  Long after the rest had fallen to ashes, this sentence remained clear:  “Better an empty hearth; than a hearth where broods a curse.”  The flames played about it, but still it remained legible; white letters, upon a black ground; then, letters of fire upon grey ashes.

Of a sudden the Knight, seizing the faggot-fork, dashed out the words with a stroke.

“I would risk the curse,” he cried, with passion.  “By Pilate’s water, I would risk the curse!”