But for the silver moonlight of his hair, he
might have been a man in his prime--so erect was his carriage, so keen
and bright were his eyes.
The tall woman in the doorway gave a little cry; then moved quickly
forward.
"You?" she said. "You! The priest who is to wed us? You!"
He stood his ground, awaiting her approach.
"Yes, I," he said; "I."
Half-way across the hall, she paused.
"No," she said, as if to herself. "I dream. It is not Father
Gervaise. It is the Bishop."
She drew nearer.
Earnestly he looked upon her, striving to see in her the Prioress of
Whytstone--the friend of all these happy, peaceful, blessed years.
But the Prioress had vanished.
Mora de Norelle stood before him, taller by half a head than he,
flushed by long galloping in the night breeze; nerves strung to
breaking point; eyes bright with the great unrest of a headlong leap
into a new world. Yet the firm sweet lips were there, unchanged; and,
even as he marked them, they quivered and parted.
"Reverend Father," she said, "I have chosen, even as you prayed I might
do, the harder part." She flung aside the riding-whip she carried; and
folding her hands, held them up before him. "For Christ's sake, my
Lord Bishop, pray for me!"
He took those folded hands in his, gently parted them, and held them
against the cross upon his heart.
"You have chosen rightly, my child," he said; "we will pray that grace
and strength may be vouchsafed you, so that you may continue, without
faltering, along the pathway of this fresh vocation.
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