Her name
will be forever in my heart; but no word of mine shall have left it, in
the mind of any man, linked with broken vows, or a forsaken lover."
The Bishop looked long and earnestly at the Knight.
"That being so, my son," he said at length, "for want of any better
name, I needs must call her by the name she bears in the Nunnery, and
now speak with you of Sister Mary Seraphine."
Hugh d'Argent frowned.
"I care not to hear of this Seraphine," he said.
"Yet I fear me you must summon patience to hear of Seraphine for a few
moments," said the Bishop, quietly; "seeing that I have here a letter
from the Prioress herself, in which she sends you a message. . . . Ah!
I marvel not that you are taken by surprise, my dear Knight; but keep
your seat, and let not your hand fly so readily to your sword. To
transfix the Reverend Mother's gracious epistle on your blade's keen
point, would not tend to elucidate her meaning; nor could it alter the
fact that she sends you important counsel concerning Sister Mary
Seraphine."
The Bishop lighted a wax taper standing at his elbow, drew a letter
from the folds of his sash, slowly unfolded and held it to the light.
The Knight sat silent, his face in shadow. The leaping flame of the
fire played on his sword hilt and on the rubies across his breast.
As the parchment crackled between the Bishop's fingers, the Knight kept
himself well in hand; but he prayed he might not have need to speak,
nor to meet the Bishop's eyes.
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