"I did well to pass into exile," said the Bishop, reviewing the past,
as he rode. Yet deep in his heart was the comfort of those words she
had said: that once he had stood to her for all her heart held dearest.
Mora, the girl, had felt thus; Mora, the woman, remembered it; and the
Bishop, as he thought of both, offered up a thanksgiving that neither
he nor Father Gervaise had done aught which was unworthy of the ideal
of her girlhood's dream.
Gathering up the reins, he urged Shulamite to a rapid trot. There must
be no lingering by the way.
Hasten, Shulamite! Even now the sluice-gates may be opening. Even now
the crystal bowl may be slipping from its pedestal, presently to lie in
a hundred fragments on the ground.
Nay, trotting will scarce do. Gallop, gallop, brave black mare!
The city walls are just in sight.
Well done!
* * * * * *
Not far from the Convent gate, the Bishop chanced, by great good
fortune, upon Brother Philip, trying in the meadows the paces of a
young horse, but lately purchased.
The Bishop bade the lay-brother ride with him to the Nunnery and, so
soon as he should have dismounted, lead Shulamite to the Palace
stables, carefully feed and tend her; then bring him out a fresh mount.
As they rode forward: "Hath any message arrived at the Palace from the
Convent, Philip?" inquired the Bishop.
"None, my lord."
"Or at the Priory?"
"Nay, my lord.
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