g it, will
assume the rich tint and fervour of romance. If the mind be, in
itself, a thing of vivid tints and glowing colours, the dullest thought
within it will take on a lustre, a sparkle, a glow of brilliancy.
Thus, whensoever men or matters seem to me dull or wearisome, to myself
I say: 'Symon! Thou art this day, thyself, a pewter pot.'"

Then the Bishop would fill up his goblet and hold it to the light.

"Aye, the best wine!" he would say. "'Thou hast kept the best wine
until now.' The water of earth--drawn by faithful servants, acting in
unquestioning obedience to the commands of the blessed Mother of our
Lord--transmuted by the word and power of the Divine Son; outpoured for
others, in loving service; this is ever 'the best wine.'"

The Knight filled his goblet and took some fruit. Then, leaving both
untouched, turned his chair sidewise, that he might the better face the
Bishop, crossed his knees, leaned his right elbow on the table and his
head upon his hand, pushing his fingers into his hair.

Thus, for a while, they sat in silence; the Knight's eyes searching the
Bishop's face; the Bishop, intent upon the colour of his ruby goblet.

At length Hugh d'Argent spoke.

"I have been through deep waters, Reverend Father, since last I supped
with you."

The Bishop put down the goblet.

"So I supposed, my son. Now tell me what you will, neither more nor
less. I will then give you what counsel I can. On the one point
concerning which you must not tell me more than I may rightly know, I
will question you. Have you contrived to see the woman you loved, and
lost, and are now seeking to regain? Tell me not how, nor when, nor
where; but have you had speech with her? Have you made clear to her
the treachery which sundered you? Have you pleaded with her to
remember her early betrothal, to renounce these later vows, and to fly
with you?"

The Knight looked straight into the Bishop's keen eyes.

At first he could not bring himself to answer.

This princely figure, with his crimson robes and golden cross, so
visibly represented the power and authority of the Church.

His own intrusion into the Nunnery, his attempt to win away a holy nun,
suddenly appeared to him, as the most appalling sacrilege.

With awe and consternation in his own, he met the Bishop's eyes.

At first they were merely clear and searching, and the Knight sat
tongue-tied. But presently there flicked into them a look so human, so
te