“Do I forget?” replied the Bishop.  “Have you found me given to forgetting?  The very fact that she loves you, is the heaviest factor against you—­just now.  To such women there comes ever the instinctive feeling, that that which would be sweet must be wrong, and the hard path of renunciation the only right one.  They climb not Zion’s mount to reach the crown.  They turn and wend their way through Gethsemane to Calvary, sure that thus alone can they at last inherit.  And what can we say?  Are they not following in the footsteps of the Son of God?  I fear my nature turns another way.  I incline to follow King David, or Solomon in all his glory, chanting glad Songs of Ascent, from the Palace on Mount Zion to the Temple on Mount Moriah.  All things harmonious, in sound, form, or colour, seem to me good and, therefore, right.  But long years in Italy have soaked me in the worship of the beautiful, inextricably intermingled with the adoration of the Divine.  I mistrust mine own judgment, and I fear me”—­said the Prelate, whose gentle charity had won so many to religion—­“I greatly fear me, I am far from being Christlike.  But I recognise the spirit of self-crucifixion, when I see it.  And the warning that I give you, is not because I forget, but because I remember.”

As the last words fell in solemn utterance from the Bishop’s lips, the silence without was broken by the loud clanging of the outer bell; followed by hurrying feet in the courtyard below, the flare of torches shining up upon the casements, and the unbarring of the gate.

“It must be close on midnight,” said Hugh d’Argent; “a strange hour for an arrival.”

The banqueting hall, on the upper floor of the Palace, had casements at the extreme end, facing the door, which gave upon the courtyard.

The Knight walked over to one of these casements standing open, kneeled upon the high window-seat, and looked down.

“A horseman has ridden in,” he said, “and ridden fast.  His steed is flecked with foam, and stands with spreading nostrils, panting. . . .  The rider has passed within. . . .  Your men, my lord, are leading away the steed.”  The Knight returned to his place.  “Brave beast!  Methinks they would do well to mix his warm mash with ale.”

Symon of Worcester made no reply.

He sat erect, with folded hands, a slight flush upon his cheeks, listening for footsteps which must be drawing near.

They came.

The door, at the far end of the hall, opened.

The gaunt Chaplain stood in the archway, making obeisance.

“Well?” said the Bishop, dispensing with the usual formalities.

“My lord, your messenger has returned, and requests an audience without delay.”

“Bid him enter,” said the Bishop, gripping the arms of the chair, and leaning forward.

The Chaplain, half-turning, beckoned with uplifted hand; then stood aside, as rapid feet approached.