out of his hair. Then--when
his love and longing broke through his control--came her surrender.

Ah, when she was in his arms, why did he loose her? Or, when she had
unlocked the door, and the dim, grey light, like a pearly dawn at sea,
stole downward from the crypt, why, like a fool, did he mount the steps
alone, and leave her standing there? Why did he not fling his cloak
about her, and carry her up, whether she would or no? "Why?" cried the
demon of despair in his soul. "Ah, why!"

But, even then, his own true heart made answer. He had loosed her
because he loved her too well to hold her to him when she had seemed to
wish to stand free. And he had gone alone, because never would he
force a woman to come with him against her will. His very strength was
safeguard to her weakness.

Presently Hugh heard the Bishop folding the Prioress's letter. He
lifted his head and held out his hand.

The Bishop was slipping the letter into his sash.

He paused. Those eyes implored. That outstretched hand demanded.

"Nay, dear lad," said the Bishop. "I may not give it you, because it
mentions the White Ladies by name, the Order, and poor little shallow,
changeful Seraphine herself, But this much I will do: as _you_ may not
have it, none other shall." With which the Bishop, unfolding the
Prioress's letter, flung it upon the burning logs.

Together they watched it curl and blacken; uncurl again, and slowly
flake away. Long after the rest had fallen to ashes, this sentence
remained clear: "Better an empty hearth; than a hearth where broods a
curse." The flames played about it, but still it remained legible;
white letters, upon a black ground; then, letters of fire upon grey
ashes.

Of a sudden the Knight, seizing the faggot-fork, dashed out the words
with a stroke.

"I would risk the curse," he cried, with passion. "By Pilate's water,
I would risk the curse!"

"I know you would, my son," said the Bishop, "and, by our Lady's crown,
I would have let you risk it, believing, as I do, that it would end in
blessing. But--listen, Hugh. In asking what you asked, you scarce
know what you did. You need not say 'yea,' nor 'nay,' but I incline to
think with the Reverend Mother, that the woman you sought was not
foolish little Seraphine, turned one way by the neighing of a palfrey,
another by the embroidering of a pomegranate. There are women of finer
mould in that Nunnery, any one of whom may be your lost betrothed. B