The Bishop bent over the letter from Rome, shading his face with his
hand.
He could scarcely contain his anxiety; but he did not wish to give
Brother Philip occasion to observe his tremulous eagerness to receive
the Knight's reply.
He heard the door open and close, and a firm tread upon the floor. It
struck him, even then, that the lay-brother had not been wont to enter
his presence with so martial a stride, and he wondered at the ring of
spurs. But his mind was too intently set upon Hugh d'Argent's letter,
to do more than unconsciously notice these things.
"Thou art quickly returned, my good Philip," he said, without looking
round. "Thou has done better than my swiftest expectations. Didst
thou give my letter thyself into the hands of Sir Hugh d'Argent, and
hast thou brought me back an answer from that most noble Knight?"
Wherefore did Brother Philip make no reply?
Wherefore did his breath come sharp and short--not like a stout
lay-brother who has hurried; but, rather, like a desperate man who has
clenched his teeth to keep control of his tongue?
The Bishop wheeled in his chair, and found himself looking full into
the face of Hugh d'Argent--Hugh, haggard, dusty, travel-stained, with
eyes, long strangers to sleep, regarding him with a sombre intensity.
"You!" exclaimed the Bishop, surprised out of his usual gentle calm.
"You? Here!"
"Yes, I," said the Knight, "I! Does it surprise you, my Lord Bishop,
that I should be here? Would it not rather surprise you, in view of
that which you saw fit to communicate to me by letter, that I should
fail to be here--and here as fast as horse could bring me?"
"Naught surprises me," said the Bishop, testily.
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