happiness and your own. Hath she already
told you of the vision?"

Still shielding his face the Knight spoke, very low:

"The evening before the messenger arrived, bringing your letter, my
lord, Mora told me of the vision."

"Said you aught concerning my words to you?"

"So soon as she mentioned the name of Mary Antony, I said that I seemed
to recall that you, my lord, had told me she alone knew of my visit to
the Convent. But Mora at once said nay, that it was she herself who
had told me so, even while I stood undiscovered in her cell; but that
afterward the lay-sister had confessed herself mistaken. This seemed
to me to explain the matter, therefore I said no more; nor did I, for a
moment, doubt the truth and wonder of the vision."

"For that, the saints be praised," said the Bishop. "Then no harm is
done. You and I, alone, know the entire story; and you and I, who
would safeguard Mora's happiness with our lives, must see to it that
she never has cause for misgivings."

Hugh d'Argent lifted his head, and looked full at the Bishop.

"My lord," he said, "had there been no vision, no message from our
Lady, no placing by her of Mora's hand in mine, think you she would
have left the Nunnery and come to me?"

"Nay, dear lad, that I know she would not. On that very morning, as I
told you, she set her foot upon the Pope's mandate, and would accept no
absolving from her vows. Naught would suffice, said she, but a direct
vision and revelation from our Lady herself."

"But," said the Knight, slowly, "was there a vision, my lord? Was
there a revelation? Was there a spoken message or a given sign?"

The Bishop met the earnest eyes, full of a deep searching. He stirred
uneasily; then smiled, waving a deprecatory hand.

"Between ourselves, my dear Hugh--though even so, it is not well to be
too explicit--between ourselves of course nothing--well--miraculous
happened, beyond the fact that our Lady most certainly sharpened the
wits of old Antony. Therefore is it, that you undoubtedly owe your
wife to those same wits, and may praise our Lady for sharpening them."

Then it was that the Knight rose to his feet.

"And I refuse," he said, "to owe my wife to sacrilege, fraud, and
falsehood."

The Bishop leaned forward, gripping with both hands the arms of his
chair. His face was absolutely colourless; but his eyes, like blue
steel, seemed to transfix the Knight, who could not withdraw his regard
from those keen