It would have been impossible that he should comprehend the wonder--the
growing wonder--of these days, since she and Hugh rode away from
Warwick, culminating in that exquisite hour on the battlements when she
had told him of the vision, whispered her full surrender, and yet
he--faithful and patient even then--had touched her only with his
glowing eyes.
How could a holy Hermit, dwelling alone among great silent hills,
realise the tremendous force of a strong mutual love, the glow, the
gladness, the deep, sweet unrest, the call of soul to soul, the throb
of hearts, filling the purple night with the soft beat of angels' wings?
How could a holy Hermit understand the shock to Hugh, how fathom the
maddening torment of suspense, the abyss of hope deferred, into which
the Bishop's letter must have plunged him, coming so soon after he had
said: "I ask no higher joy, than to watch the breaking of the day which
gives thee to my home"? But the breaking of the day had brought the
stern necessity which took him from her.
Yet why? How much was in that second letter? Was it less detailed
than the first? Had Hugh ridden south to learn the entire truth? Or
had he ridden south to arrange with the Bishop for her complete and
permanent deception?
Standing on this mountain plateau--the morning breeze blowing about
her, the sun mounting triumphant in the heavens "as a bridegroom coming
out of his chamber," and all around the scent of heather, the hum of
bees, the joyful trill of the soaring lark; her own body bounding with
life after the swift climb--it seemed to Mora impossible that Hugh
should withstand the temptation to hold to his happiness, at all costs.
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