“I know you would, my son,” said the Bishop, “and, by our Lady’s crown, I would have let you risk it, believing, as I do, that it would end in blessing.  But—­listen, Hugh.  In asking what you asked, you scarce know what you did.  You need not say ‘yea,’ nor ‘nay,’ but I incline to think with the Reverend Mother, that the woman you sought was not foolish little Seraphine, turned one way by the neighing of a palfrey, another by the embroidering of a pomegranate.  There are women of finer mould in that Nunnery, any one of whom may be your lost betrothed.  But of this we may be sure:  whosoever she be, the Prioress knows her, and knew of whom she wrote when she sent you that message.  She has the entire confidence of all in the Nunnery.  I verily believe she knows them better than does their confessor—­a saintly old man, but dim.

“Now, listen to me.  I said you knew not what you asked.  Hugh, my lad, if you had won your betrothed away, you would have had much to learn and much to unlearn.  Believe me, I know women, as only a priest of many years’ standing can know them.  Women are either bad or good.  The bad are bad below man’s understanding, because their badness is not leavened by one grain of honour; a fact the worst of men will ever fail to grasp.  The good are good above man’s comprehension, because their perfect purity of heart causeth the spirit ever to triumph over the flesh; and their love-instinct is the instinct of self-sacrifice.  Every true woman is a Madonna in the home, or fain would be, if her man would let her.  To such a woman, each promise of a child is an Annunciation; our Lady’s awe and wonder, whisper again in the temple of her inner being; for her love has deified the man she loves; and, it seems to her, a child of his and hers must be a holy babe, born into the world to help redeem it.  And so it would be, could she but have her way.  But too often the man fails to understand, and so spoils the perfect plan.  And she to whom love means self-sacrifice, sacrifices all—­even her noblest ideals—­sooner than fail a call upon her love.  Yet I say again, could the Madonna instinct have had full sway, the world would have been redeemed ere now to holiness, to happiness, to health.

“You looked high, my son, by your own shewing.  You loved high.  Your love was worthy, for you remained faithful, when you believed you had been betrayed.  Let your consolation now be the knowledge that she also was faithful, and that it is a double faithfulness which keeps her from responding to the call of your love.  Seek union with her on the spiritual plane, and some day—­in the Realm where all noble things shall attain unto full perfection—­you may yet give thanks that your love was not allowed to pass through the perilous pitfalls of an earthly union.”

The Knight looked at the delicate face of the Bishop, with its wistful smile, its charm of extreme refinement.

Yes!  Here spoke the Prelate, the Idealist, the Mystic.