nd true, above the jangle of
disputation and bitterness.

He put out his hand and touched the little foot of the Holy Babe.

"Mother of God," he said aloud, "send her to me! Take pity on a hungry
heart, a lonely home, a desolate hearth. Send her to me!"

Then he lifted from the floor the white robe and hood, and drew them on.

CHAPTER XIV

FAREWELL--HERE, AND NOW

When the Prioress, a lighted lantern in her hand, opened the door of
her chamber, a tall figure in the dress of the White Ladies of
Worcester stood motionless against the wall, facing the door.

"Come!" she whispered, beckoning; and, noiselessly, it stood beside
her. Then she closed the door and, using her master-key, locked it
behind her.

Silently the two white figures passed along the passage, through the
cloister, and down the flight of steps into the Convent crypt. The
Prioress unlocked the door and stooping they passed under the arch, and
entered the subterranean way.

Placing the lantern on the ground, the Prioress drew out the key,
closed the door, and locked it on the inside.

She turned, and lifting the lantern, saw that the Knight had rid
himself of his disguise, and now stood before her, very straight and
tall, just within the circle of light cast by her lantern.

With the closing and locking of the door a strange sense came over
them, as of standing together in a third world--neither his nor
hers--tomblike in its complete isolation and darkness; heavy with a
smell of earth and damp stones; the slightest sound reverberating in
hollow exaggeration; yet, in itself, silent as the grave.

This tomblike quality in their surroundings seemed to make their own
vitality stronger and more palpitating.

The seconds of silence, after the grating of the key in the lock
ceased, seemed hours.

Then the Knight spoke.

"Give me the lantern," he said.

She met his eyes. Again the dignity of her Office slipped from her.
Again it was sweet to obey.

He held the lantern so that its light illumined her face and his.

"Mora," he said, "it is long since thou and I last walked together over
the sunny fields, amid buttercups and cowslips, and the sweet-smelling
clover. To-night we walk beneath the fields instead of through them.
We are under the grass, my sweet. I seem to stand beside thee in the
grave. And truly my hopes lie slain; the promise of our love is dead,
and shall soon be buried. Yet thou and I still live, and now must walk