t, when,
had I but thought to look in my wallet, all would have been made clear.
Will the Reverend Mother forgive old Mary Antony?"

She shot a quick glance at the Prioress; and, at sight of the immense
relief on that loved face, felt ready for any punishment with which it
might please Heaven to visit her deceit.

"Dear Antony," began the Reverend Mother, smiling.

"Dear Antony--" she said, and laughed aloud.

Then she placed her hand beneath the old woman's arm, and gently raised
her. "Mistakes arise so easily," she said. "With the best of
intentions, we all sometimes make mistakes. There is nothing to
forgive, my Antony."

"I am old, and dim, and stupid," said the lay-sister, humbly; "but I
have begged of our sweet Lady to sharpen the old wits of Mary Antony."

After which statement, made in a voice of humble penitence, Mary
Antony, unseen by the thankful Prioress, did give a knowing wink with
the eye next to the Madonna. Our blessed Lady smiled. The sweet Babe
looked merry. The Prioress rose, a great light of relief illumining
her weary face.

"Let us to bed, dear Antony; then, with the dawn of a new day we shall
all arise with hearts refreshed and wits more keen. So now--God rest
thee."

Left alone, the Prioress knelt long in prayer before the shrine of the
Madonna. Once, she reached out her right hand to the empty space where
Hugh had knelt, striving to feel remembrance of his strong clasp.

At length she sought her couch. But sleep refused to come, and
presently she crept back in the white moonlight, and kneeling pressed
her lips to the stone on which Hugh had kneeled; then fled, in shame
that our Lady should see such weakness; and dared not glance toward the
shadowy form of the dead Christ, crucified. For with the coming of
Love to seek her, Life had come; and where Life enters, Death is put to
flight; even as before the triumphant march of the rising sun, darkness
and shadows flee away.

Yet, even then, our Lady gently smiled, and the Babe on her knees
looked merry.

CHAPTER XVIII

IN THE CATHEDRAL CRYPT

On the day following, in the afternoon, shortly before the hour of
Vespers, a stretcher was carried through the streets of Worcester, by
four men-at-arms wearing the livery of Sir Hugh d'Argent.

Beside it walked the Knight, with bent head, his eyes upon the ground.

The body of the man upon the stretcher was covered by a fine linen
sheet, over which lay a blue cloak, ric