'"
The Bishop's voice fell silent. He had maintained its quiet tones, yet
perforce had had to rise to something of the dignity of this final
pronouncement of the Prioress, and he spoke the last words with deep
emotion.
Hugh d'Argent leaned forward, his elbows on his knees; then dropped his
head upon his hands, and so stayed motionless.
The portcullis had fallen. Its iron spikes transfixed his very soul.
She was his, yet lost to him.
This final word of her authority, this speaking, through the Bishop's
mouth, yet with the dignity of her own high office, all seemed of set
intent, to beat out the last ray of hope within him.
As he sat silent, with bowed head, wild thoughts chased through his
brain. He was back with her in the subterranean way. He knelt at her
feet in the yellow circle of the lantern's light. Her tender hands,
her woman's hands, her firm yet gentle hands, fell on his head; the
fingers moved, with soothing touch, in and out of his hair. Then--when
his love and longing broke through his control--came her surrender.
Ah, when she was in his arms, why did he loose her? Or, when she had
unlocked the door, and the dim, grey light, like a pearly dawn at sea,
stole downward from the crypt, why, like a fool, did he mount the steps
alone, and leave her standing there? Why did he not fling his cloak
about her, and carry her up, whether she would or no? "Why?" cried the
demon of despair in his soul.
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