His heart ceased pounding; his pulses beat steadily.
The calm of a vast, glad certainty enfolded him; a joy beyond belief.
Yet he knew now that he had been sure of it, ever since he came up from
the depths of the Severn into the summer sunshine, grasping the white
stone.
"I keep my trust in prayer. . . . Give her to me! Give her to me!
Blessed Virgin, give her to me! 'A sculptured smile'? Nay, my lord.
I keep my trust in prayer!"
The solemn chanting of the monks, stole down from the distant choir.
Vespers had begun.
The Knight strode to the altar, and knelt for some minutes, his hands
clasped upon the crossed hilt of his sword.
Then he rose, and spoke in low tones to his men-at-arms.
"When a thrush calls, you will leave the crypt, and guard the entrance
from without; allowing none, on any pretext, to pass within. When a
blackbird whistles you will return, lift the stretcher, and pass with
it, as heretofore, from the Cathedral to the hostel."
Next the Knight, returning to the altar, bent over the bandaged man
upon the stretcher.
"Martin," he said, speaking very low, so that his trusted
foster-brother alone could hear him. "All is well. Our pilgrimage is
about to end, as we have hoped, in a great recovery and restoration.
When the call of a curlew sounds, leap from the stretcher, leave the
bandages beside it; go to the entrance, guarding it from within; but
turn not thy head this way, until a blackbird whistles; upon which lose
thyself among the pillars, letting no man see thee, until we have
passed out.
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