But
now that he must make reply, he looked away to the sunset.
The light shone on the plain gold cross at his breast, and on the
violet silk of his cassock. His face, against the background of the
black Spanish wood, looked strangely white and thin; strong in contour,
with a virile strength; in expression, sensitive as a woman's. He had
removed his biretta, and placed it upon the table. His silvery hair
rolled back from his forehead in silky waves. His was the look of the
saint and the scholar, almost of the mystic--save for the tender humour
in those keen blue eyes, gleaming like beacon lights from beneath the
level eyebrows; eyes which had won the confidence of many a man who
else had not dared unfold his very human story, to one of such saintly
aspect as Symon, Bishop of Worcester. They were turned toward the
sunset, as he made answer to the Prioress.
"The little foolish bird," said the Bishop--and he spoke in that gently
musing tone, which conveys to the mind of the hearer a sense of
infinite leisure in which to weigh and consider the subject in
hand--"The little foolish bird might soon wish herself back in the
safety of the cage. On such as she, the cruel hawks of life do love to
prey. Absorbed in the contemplation of her own charms, she sees not,
until too late, the dangers which surround her. Such little foolish
birds, my daughter, are best in the safe shelter of the cloister.
Moreover, of what value are they in the world? None.
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