And yet, cold though she was, in her saintly aloofness, she was still
the woman he loved. Moreover she still had the noble carriage, the
rich womanly beauty, the look of vital, physical vigour, which marked
her out as meant by Nature to be the mother of brave sons and fair
daughters. Yet he must leave her--to this!
He looked round the room, noted the low archway leading to the sleeping
chamber, took a step toward it, then fell back as from a sanctuary;
marked the great table, covered with missals, parchments, and vellum.
It might well have been the cell of a learned monk, rather than the
chamber of the woman he loved. His eye, travelling round, fell upon
the Madonna and Child.
In the pure evening light there was a strangely arresting quality about
the marble group; something infinitely human in the brooding tenderness
of the Mother, as she bent over the smiling Babe. It spoke of home,
rather than of the cloister. It struck a chord in the heart of the
Knight, a chord which rang clear and true, above the jangle of
disputation and bitterness.
He put out his hand and touched the little foot of the Holy Babe.
"Mother of God," he said aloud, "send her to me! Take pity on a hungry
heart, a lonely home, a desolate hearth. Send her to me!"
Then he lifted from the floor the white robe and hood, and drew them on.
CHAPTER XIV
FAREWELL--HERE, AND NOW
When the Prioress, a lighted lantern in her hand, opened the door of
her chamber, a tall figure in the dress of the White Ladies of
Worcester stood motionless against the wall, facing the door.
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