“Deus,” responded Father Benedict, bowing low.

Young Roger, gay and glad, knelt and kissed the Bishop’s ring; then, rising, flung back a strand of fair hair which fell over his forehead, and said:  “A bath, my lord, would be even more welcome than supper and bed.  It shames me to have come in such travel-stained plight into your presence, and that of this noble knight,” with a bow to Hugh d’Argent.

“Nay,” said Hugh, smiling in friendly response.  “Travel-stains gained in such fashion, are more to be desired than silks and fine linen.  I would I could go to rest this night knowing I had accomplished as much.”

“Go and have thy bath, boy,” said the Bishop.  “This will give my monks time to tickle, catch, and cook, trout for thy supper!  Ah, thou young rascal!  But that field is Corban, remember.  Sup well, rest well, and the blessing of the Lord be with thee.”

The brown riding-suit vanished through the archway.

Father Benedict’s lean hand pulled the door to.

The Bishop and the Knight were once more alone.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE POPE’S MANDATE

The Bishop and Hugh d’Argent were once more alone.  It was characteristic of both that they sat for some minutes in unbroken silence.

Then the Bishop put out his hand, took up the packet from Rome, and looked at the Knight.

Hugh d’Argent rose, walked over to the casement, and leaned out into the still, summer night.

He could hear the Bishop breaking the seals of the Pope’s letter.

Below in the courtyard, all was quiet.  The great gates were barred.  He wondered whether the steaming horse had been well rubbed down, clothed, and given a warm mash mixed with ale.

He could hear the Bishop unfolding the parchment, which crackled.

The moon, in her first quarter, rode high in the heavens.  The towers of St. Mary’s church looked black against the sky.

The Palace stood on the same side of the Cathedral as the main street of the city, in the direct route to the Foregate, the Tithing, and the White Ladies’ Nunnery at Whytstone.  How strange to remember, that beneath him lay that mile-long walk in darkness; that just under the Palace, so near the Cathedral, she and he, pacing together, had known the end of their strange pilgrimage to be at hand.  Yet then——­

He could hear the Bishop turning the parchment.

How freely the silvery moon sailed in this stormy sky, like a noble face looking calmly out, and ever out again, from amid perplexities and doubts.

In two nights’ time, the moon would be well-nigh full.  Would he be riding to Warwick alone, or would she be beside him?

As the Bishop had said, he had described her as riding all day, like a bird, on the moors.  Yet now he loved best to picture her riding forth upon Icon into the river meadow, her veil streaming behind her; “on her face the light of a purposeful radiance.”