I should rather take it that he was merely accepting my
assurance that the new vocation to which you were called would, in your
particular case, be higher service."
The Prioress, lifting her head, looked long into the Bishop's face,
without making reply.
Her eyes were drowned in tears; dark shadows lay beneath them. Yet the
light of a high resolve, unconquerable within her, shone through this
veil of sorrow, as when the sun, behind it, breaks through the mist,
victorious, chasing by its clear beams the baffling fog.
Seeing that look, the Bishop knew, of a sudden, that he had failed;
that the Knight had failed; that the all-powerful pronouncement from
the Vatican had failed.
The woman and her conscience held the field.
Having conquered her own love, having mastered her own natural yearning
for her lover, she would overcome with ease all other assailants.
In two days' time Hugh would ride away alone. Unless a miracle
happened, Mora would not be with him.
The Bishop faced defeat as he looked into those clear eyes, fearless
even in their sorrowful humility.
"Oh, child," he said, "you love Hugh! Can you let him ride forth
alone, accompanied only by the grim spectres of unfaith and of despair?
His hope, his faith, his love, all centre in you. Another Prioress can
be found for this Nunnery. No other bride can be found for Hugh
d'Argent. He will have his own betrothed, or none."
Still kneeling, the Prioress threw back her head, looking upward, with
clasped hands.
Pages:
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218