ce, Hugh d'Argent recited the entire history of the pretended
vision; beginning with the hiding of herself of old Antony in the inner
cell, her anxiety concerning the Reverend Mother, confided to the
Bishop; his chance remark, resulting in the old woman's cunningly
devised plan to cheat the Prioress into accepting happiness.

And, as he told it, the horror of the sacrilege fell as a dark shadow
between them, eclipsing even the radiance of their love. Upon which
being no longer blinded, Mora clearly perceived the other issue which
she was called upon to face: If our Lady's sanction miraculously given
to the step she had taken in leaving the Nunnery had after all _not_
been given, what justification had she for remaining in the world?

Presently Hugh reached the scene of the full confession and death of
the old lay-sister. He told it with reverent simplicity. None of the
Bishop's flashes of humour had found any place in the Knight's recital.

But now his voice, of a sudden, fell silent. The tale was told.

Mora had sat throughout leaning forward, her right elbow on her knee,
her chin resting in the palm of her right hand; her left toying with
the jewelled cross upon her lap.

Now she looked up.

"Hugh, you have made no mention of the Bishop's opinion as regards the
effect of this upon myself. Did he advise that I be told the entire
truth?"

The Knight hesitated.

"Nay," he admitted at length, seeing that she must have an answer.
"The Bishop had, as you indeed know, from the first considered our
previous betrothal and your sister's perfidy, sufficient justification
for your release from all vows made through that deception. Armed with
the Pope's mandate, the Bishop saw no need for a divine manifestation,
nor did he, from the first, believe in the vision of this old
lay-sister. Yet, knowing you set great store by it, he feared for your
peace of mind, should you learn the truth."

"Did he command you not to tell me, Hugh?"

"For love of you, Mora, out of tender regard for your happiness, the
Bishop counselled me not to tell you."

"He would have had you to become a party, with himself, and old Mary
Antony, in my permanent deception?"

Hugh was a loyal friend.

"He would have had me to become a party, with himself, in securing your
permanent peace, Mora," he said, sternly.

She loved his sternness. So much did she adore him for having
triumphed where she had made sure that he would fail, so much did