Aye, even before Symon had flung the stone; when,
in reply to the doubt cast by him on our Lady's smile, the Knight had
said: "I keep my trust in prayer," a joyous confidence had then and
there awakened within him. He had stretched out the right hand of his
withered faith, and lo, it had proved strong and vital.
Yet as, in the heavy silence of the crypt, he heard the turning of the
key in the lock, his heart stood still, and every emotion hung
suspended, as the first veiled figure--shadowy and ghostlike--moved
into view.
It was not she.
The Knight's pulses throbbed again. His heart pounded violently as,
keeping their measured distances, nine, ten, eleven, white figures
passed.
Then--twelfth: a tall nun, almost her height; yet not she.
Then--thirteenth: Oh, blessed Virgin! Oh, saints of God! Mora! She,
herself. Never could he fail to recognize her carriage, the regal
poise of her head. However veiled, however shrouded, he could not be
mistaken. It was Mora; and that she should be walking in this central
position meant that she might with comparative safety, step aside.
Yet, even this----
But, at that moment, passing him, she turned her head, and for an
instant her eyes met the eyes of the Knight looking out from the
shadows.
Another moment and she had vanished up the winding stairway in the wall.
But that instant was enough. As her eyes met his, Hugh d'Argent knew
that his betrothed was once more his own.
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