He reined in Icon, and, bending from the saddle, murmured: "Take care
of her, Sister Antony. I have left her in some distress."
"Hath she decided aright?" whispered the old lay-sister.
"She always decides aright," said the Bishop. "But she is so made that
she will thrust happiness from her with both hands unless our Lady
should herself offer it, by vision or revelation. I could wish thy gay
little Knight of the Bloody Vest might indeed fly with her to his nest
and teach her a few sweet lessons, in the green privacy of some leafy
paradise. But I tell thee too much, worthy Mother. Keep a silent
tongue in that shrewd old head of thine. Minister to her; and send
word to me if I am needed. _Benedicite_."
An hour later, mounted upon his black mare, Shulamite, the Bishop rode
to the high ground, on the north-east, above the city, from whence he
could look down upon the river meadow.
As he had done on the previous day, he watched the Prioress riding upon
Icon.
Once she put the horse to so sudden and swift a gallop that the Bishop,
watching from afar, reined back Shulamite almost on to her haunches, in
a sudden fear that Icon was about to leap into the stream.
For an hour the Prioress rode, with flying veil, white on the white
steed; a fair marble group, quickened into motion.
Then, that penance being duly performed, she vanished through the
archway.
Turning Shulamite, Symon of Worcester rode slowly down the hill, passed
southward, and entered the city by Friar's Gate; and so to the Palace,
where Hugh d'Argent waited.
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