ion of your own private
concerns. First, let me ask--Hugh, dear lad, as friend and counsellor
I ask it--are you able now to tell me the name of the woman you desire
to wed?"

"Nay, my dear lord," replied the Knight, "that I cannot do. I guard
her name, as I would guard mine honour. If--as may our Lady be pleased
to grant--she consent to fly with me, her name will still be mine to
guard; yet then all men may know it, so they speak it with due respect
and reverence. But if--as may our blessed Lady forbid--she withhold
herself from me, so that three days hence I ride away alone; then must
I ride away leaving no shadow of reproach on her fair fame. Her name
will be forever in my heart; but no word of mine shall have left it, in
the mind of any man, linked with broken vows, or a forsaken lover."

The Bishop looked long and earnestly at the Knight.

"That being so, my son," he said at length, "for want of any better
name, I needs must call her by the name she bears in the Nunnery, and
now speak with you of Sister Mary Seraphine."

Hugh d'Argent frowned.

"I care not to hear of this Seraphine," he said.

"Yet I fear me you must summon patience to hear of Seraphine for a few
moments," said the Bishop, quietly; "seeing that I have here a letter
from the Prioress herself, in which she sends you a message. . . . Ah!
I marvel not that you are taken by surprise, my dear Knight; but keep
your seat, and let not your hand fly so readily to your sword. To
transfix the Reverend Mother's gracious epistle on your blade's keen
point, would not tend to elucidate her meaning; nor could it alter the
fact that she sends you important counsel concerning Sister Mary
Seraphine."

The Bishop lighted a wax taper standing at his elbow, drew a letter
from the folds of his sash, slowly unfolded and held it to the light.

The Knight sat silent, his face in shadow. The leaping flame of the
fire played on his sword hilt and on the rubies across his breast.

As the parchment crackled between the Bishop's fingers, the Knight kept
himself well in hand; but he prayed he might not have need to speak,
nor to meet the Bishop's eyes. These--the saints be praised--were now
intent upon the closely written page.

The light of the taper illumined the almost waxen whiteness of the
gentle face, and gleamed upon the Bishop's ring. The Knight, fixing
his eyes upon the stone, saw it the colour of red wine.

At last the Bishop began to speak with car