Ah, would she come?  Would she come, or would she stay?  Would she stay, or would she come?

The moon was now hidden by a cloud; but he could see the edge of the cloud silvering.

If the moon sailed forth free, before he had counted to twelve, she would come.

He began to count, slowly.

At nine, the moon was still hidden; and the Knight’s heart failed him.

But at ten, the Bishop called:  “Hugh!” and turning from the casement the Knight answered to the call.

The Bishop held in his hands the Pope’s letter, and also a legal-looking document, from which seals depended.

“This doth closely concern you, my son,” said the Bishop, with some emotion, and placed the parchment in the Knight’s hands.

Hugh d’Argent could have mastered its contents by the light of the wax taper burning beside the Bishop’s chair.  But some instinct he could not have explained, caused him to carry it over to the table in the centre of the hall, whereon four wax candles still burned.  He stood to read the document, with his back to the Bishop, his head bent close to the flame of the candles.

Once, twice, thrice, the Knight read it, before his bewildered brain took in its full import.  Yet it was clear and unmistakable—­a dispensation, signed and sealed by the Pope, releasing Mora, Countess of Norelle, from all vows and promises taken and made when she entered the Nunnery of the White Ladies of Worcester, at Whytstone, in the parish of dairies, and later on when she became Prioress of that same Nunnery; and furthermore stating that this full absolution was granted because it had been brought to the knowledge of His Holiness that this noble lady had entered the cloistered life owing to a wicked and malicious plot designed to wrest her castle and estates from her, and also to part her from a valiant Knight, at that time fighting in the Holy Wars, to whom she was betrothed.

Furthermore the deed empowered Symon, Bishop of Worcester or any priest he might appoint, to unite in marriage the Knight Crusader, Hugh d’Argent, and Mora de Norelle, sometime Prioress of the White Ladies of Worcester.

The Knight walked back to the hearth and stood before the Bishop, the parchment in his hand.

“My Lord Bishop,” he said, “do I dream?”

Symon of Worcester smiled.  “Nay, my son.  Surely no dream of thine was ever signed by His Holiness, nor bore suspended from it the great seal of the Vatican!  The document you hold will be sufficient answer to all questions, and will ensure your wife’s position at Court and her standing in the outer world—­should she elect to re-enter it.

“But whether she shall do this, or no, is not a matter upon which the Church would give a decisive or even an authoritative pronouncement; and the Holy Father adds, in, his letter to me, further important instructions.

“Firstly:  that it must be the Prioress’s own wish and decision, apart from any undue pressure from without, to resign her office and to accept this dispensation, freeing her from her vows.