His eyes rested upon the very place where the Knight had cleft the
water in his impulsive dive after the white stone, made, by the
Bishop's own words, to stand to him for his chances of winning the
Prioress.
Yet should that sudden leap be described as "impulsive"? The Bishop,
ever a stickler for accuracy in descriptive words, considered this.
Nay, not so much "impulsive" as "prompt." Even as the warrior who,
having tested his trusty sword, knowing its readiness in the scabbard
and the strength of his own right arm, draws, on the instant, when
surprised by the enemy. Prompt, not impulsive. A swift action, based
upon an assured certainty of power, and a steadfast determination, of
long standing, to win at all costs.
The Bishop's hand rested upon the parapet. The stone in his ring held
neither blue nor purple lights. Its colour had paled and faded. It
shone--as the Prioress had once seen it shine--like a large tear-drop
on the Bishop's finger.
Deep dejection was in the Bishop's attitude. With the riding away of
the Knight, something strong and vital seemed to have passed out of his
life.
A sense of failure oppressed him. He had not succeeded in bending Hugh
d'Argent to his will, neither had he risen to a frank appreciation of
the loyal chivalry which would not enjoy happiness at the expense of
honour.
While his mind refused to accept the Knight's code, his soul yearned to
rise up and acclaim it.
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