r, from these intangible,
ecclesiastical entanglements?

He was reminded of his difficulties when he tried to walk disguised in
the dress of the White Ladies, and found his stride impeded by those
trailing garments. He remembered the relief of wrenching them off, and
stepping clear.

Why not now take the short, quick road to mastery?

But instantly that love which seeketh not its own, the strange new
sense so recently awakened in him, laid its calm touch upon his
throbbing heart. Until that moment in the crypt the day before, he had
loved Mora for his own delight, sought her for his own joy. Now, he
knew that he could take no happiness at the cost of one pang to her.

"She must be taught not to shudder," cried the masterfulness which was
his by nature.

"She must be given no cause to shudder," amended this new, loyal
tenderness, which now ruled his every thought of her.

Presently, returning to the arbour, he found her seated, her elbows on
the table, her chin cupped in her hands.

She had been weeping; yet her smile of welcome, as he entered, held a
quality he had scarce expected.

He spoke straight to the point. It seemed the only way to step clear
of immeshing trammels.

"Mora, it cuts me to the heart that, in striving to be honest with you,
I have all unwittingly trampled upon those flower-beds in which you
long had tended fair blossoms of memory. Also I fear this knowledge of
a nobler love, makes it hard for you to contemplate life linked to a
love which seems to you less able for self-sacrifice."

She gazed at him, wide-eyed, in sheer amazement.

"Dear Knight," she said, "true, I am disillusioned, but not in aught
that concerns you. You trampled on no flower-beds of mine. My
shattered idol is the image of one whom I, with deepest reverence,
loved, as a nun might love her Guardian Angel. To learn that he loved
me as a man loves a woman, and that he had to flee before that love,
lest it should harm me and himself, changes the hallowed memory of
years. This morning, three names stood to me for all that is highest,
noblest, best: Father Gervaise, Symon of Worcester, and Hugh d'Argent.
Now, the Bishop and yourself alone are left. Fail me not, Hugh, or I
shall be bereft indeed."

The Knight laughed, joyously. The relief at his heart demanded that
much vent. "Then, if I failed thee, Mora, there would be but the
Bishop?"

"There would be but the Bishop."

"I will not fail thee, my beloved.