“With me it is well-nigh a passion that all good things should attain unto full completeness.

“It may be I was better able to give full understanding to your tale because, for love of a woman, I dwelt seven years in exile from this land, fearing lest my great love for her, which came to me all unsought, should—­by becoming known to her—­lead her young heart, as yet fresh and unawakened, to respond.  There was never any question of breaking my vows; and I hold not with love-friendships between man and woman, there where marriage is not possible.  They are, at best, selfish on the part of the man.  They keep the woman from entering into her kingdom.  The crown of womanhood is to bear children to the man she loves—­to take her place in his home, as wife and mother.  The man who cannot offer this, yet stands in the way of the man who can, is a poor and an unworthy lover.”

The Bishop paused, unclasped his hands, withdrew his steadfast regard from the fire, and sat back in his chair.  The stone in his ring gleamed blue, the colour of forget-me-nots beside a meadow brook.

Presently he looked at the silent Knight.  There was a kindly smile, in his eyes, rather than upon his lips.

“It may be, my dear Hugh, that this heart discipline of mine—­of which, by the way, I have never before spoken—­has made me quick to understand the sufferings of other men.  Also it may explain the great desire I always experience to see a truly noble woman come to the full completion of her womanhood.

“I returned to England not long after your betrothed had entered the cloistered life in the Whytstone Nunnery.  I was appointed to this See of Worcester, which appointment gave me the spiritual control of the White Ladies.  My friendship with the Prioress has been a source of interest, pleasure, and true helpfulness to myself and I trust to her also.  I think I told you while we supped that, many years ago, I had known her at the Court when I was confessor to the Queen, and preceptor to her ladies.  But no mention has ever been made between the Prioress and myself of any previous acquaintance.  I doubt whether she recognised, in the frail, white-haired, old prelate who arrived from Italy, the vigorous, bearded priest known to her, in her girlhood’s days, as”—­the Bishop paused and looked steadily at the Knight—­“as Father Gervaise.”

“Father Gervaise!” exclaimed Hugh d’Argent, lifting his hand to cross himself as he named the Dead, yet arrested in this instinctive movement by something in those keen blue eyes.  “Father Gervaise, my lord, perished in a stormy sea.  The ship foundered, and none who sailed in her were seen again.”

The Knight spoke with conviction; yet, even as he spoke, the amazing truth rushed in upon him, and struck him dumb.  Of a sudden he knew why the Bishop’s eyes had instantly won his fearless confidence.  A trusted friend of his childhood had looked out at him from their dear depths.  Often he had searched his memory, since the Bishop had claimed knowledge of him in his boyhood, and had marvelled that no recollection of Symon as a guest in his parents’ home came back to him.