But no mention has ever been made between the Prioress
and myself of any previous acquaintance. I doubt whether she
recognised, in the frail, white-haired, old prelate who arrived from
Italy, the vigorous, bearded priest known to her, in her girlhood's
days, as"--the Bishop paused and looked steadily at the Knight--"as
Father Gervaise."
"Father Gervaise!" exclaimed Hugh d'Argent, lifting his hand to cross
himself as he named the Dead, yet arrested in this instinctive movement
by something in those keen blue eyes. "Father Gervaise, my lord,
perished in a stormy sea. The ship foundered, and none who sailed in
her were seen again."
The Knight spoke with conviction; yet, even as he spoke, the amazing
truth rushed in upon him, and struck him dumb. Of a sudden he knew why
the Bishop's eyes had instantly won his fearless confidence. A trusted
friend of his childhood had looked out at him from their dear depths.
Often he had searched his memory, since the Bishop had claimed
knowledge of him in his boyhood, and had marvelled that no recollection
of Symon as a guest in his parents' home came back to him.
Now--in this moment of revelation--how clearly he could see the figure
of the famous priest, in brown habit, cloak, and hood, a cord at his
waist, with tonsured head, full brown beard, and sandalled feet, pacing
the great hall, standing in the armoury, or climbing the Cumberland
hills to visit the chapel of the Holy Mount and the hermit who dwelt
beside it.
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