"What is it, dear Antony?" she said.
"Twenty White Ladies went," whispered the old lay-sister. "I counted
them. Twenty White Ladies went; but----"
"Well?"
"_Twenty-one_ returned," chattered Mary Antony, and hid her face in the
Reverend Mother's robe.
Two flashes, with their accompanying peals of thunder passed, before
the Prioress moved or spoke. Then raising Mary Antony she placed her
in a chair, disengaged her robe from the shaking hands, passed out into
the cell passage, and herself sounded the call to silence and prayer.
Returning to her cell she shut the door, poured out a cordial and put
it to the trembling lips of Mary Antony. Then taking a seat just
opposite, she looked with calm eyes at the lay-sister.
"What means this story?" said the Prioress.
"Reverend Mother, twenty holy Ladies went----"
"I know. And twenty returned."
"Aye," said the old woman more firmly, nettled out of her
speechlessness; "twenty returned; and twenty peas I dropped from hand
to hand. Then--when no pea remained--yet another White Lady glided by;
and with her went an icy wind, and around her came the blackness of the
storm.
"Down the steps I fled, locked the door, and took the key. How I
mounted again, I know not. As I drew level with the cloisters, I saw
that twenty-first White Lady, for whom--Saint Peter knows--I held no
pea, passing from the cloisters into the cell passage. As I hastened
on, fain to see whither she went, a blinding flash, like an evil
twisting snake, shot betwixt her and me.
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