She leaned her elbows on the table, framed her face in her hands, and
looked straight into his eyes.
"Father Gervaise was more to me than I then told you, Hugh."
"What was he to thee, Mora?"
"He was the Ideal of my girlhood. For a time, I thought of him by day,
I dreamed of him by night. No word of his have I ever forgotten. Many
of his sayings and precepts have influenced, and still deeply
influence, my whole life. In fact, Hugh, I loved Father Gervaise; not
as a woman loves a man--ah, no! But, rather, as a nun loves her Lord."
"I see," said the Knight. "But you were not then a nun, Mora."
"No, I was not then a nun. But I have been a nun since then; and that
is how I can best describe my love for the Queen's Confessor."
"Long after," said the Knight, "you were betrothed to me?"
"Yes, Hugh."
"How did you love me, Mora?"
Across the rustic table they looked full into each other's eyes.
Tragedy, stalking around that rose-covered arbour, drew very near, and
they knew it. Almost, his grim shadow came between them and the
sunshine.
Then the Knight smiled; and with that smile rushed back the flood-tide
of remembrance; remembrance of all which their young love had meant, of
the sweet promise it had held.
His eyes still holding hers, she smiled also.
The golden roses clustering in the entrance swayed and nodded in the
sunlight, as a gently rising breeze fanned them to and fro.
"Dear Knight," she said, softly, a wistful tenderness in her voice, "I
suppose I loved you, as a girl loves the man who has won her.
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