For so long, she had had to command. Bowing, kneeling, hurrying women
flew to do her behests. Each vied with the others to magnify her
Office. Often, she felt lonely by reason of her dignity.
And now--a man's dark face frowned on her in scornful anger; a man's
stern voice flung back her elaborate threat with a short command, which
disarmed her, yet which she obeyed. Moreover, she found it strangely
sweet to obey. Behind the sternness, behind the scornful anger, there
throbbed a great love. In that love she trusted; but with that love
she had to deal, putting it from her with a finality which should be
beyond question.
Yet the "Prioress" fell from her, as she closed the panel. It was the
Woman and the Saint who moved over to the window and stood beside the
Knight, in the radiance of a golden sunset after storm.
There was about her, as she spoke, a wistful humbleness; and a patient
sadness, infinitely touching.
"Sir Hugh," she said, "my dear Knight, whom I ever found brave and
tender, and whom I now know to have been always loyal and true--there
is no need that I should add a word to your recital. The facts you
wrung from Alfrida--God grant forgiveness to that tormented heart--are
all true. Believing the messenger, not dreaming of doubting Eleanor,
my one thought was to hide from the world my broken heart, my shattered
pride. I hastened to offer to God the love and the life which had been
slighted by man.
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