myself must take you to the crypt."

"Can I not walk alone," asked the Knight, brusquely; "returning you the
key by messenger?"

"Nay," said the Prioress, "I dare run no risks. So quickly rumours are
afloat. To-morrow, this strange hour must be a dream; and you and I
alone, the dreamers. Now, while I go and make safe the way, put you on
again the robe and hood. When I return and beckon, follow silently."

The Prioress passed out, closing the door behind her.

CHAPTER XIII

"SEND HER TO ME!"

The Prioress stood for a moment outside the closed door. The peaceful
silence of the passage helped her to the outward calm which must be
hers before she could bring herself to face her nuns.

Moving slowly to the farther end, she unlocked the cell of Sister Mary
Seraphine, feeling a shamed humility that she should have made so sure
she had to deal with "Wilfred," and have thought such scorn of him and
Seraphine. Alas! The wrong deeds of those they love, oft humble the
purest, noblest spirits into the soiling dust.

Next, the Prioress herself rang the Refectory bell.

The hour for the evening meal was long passed; the nuns hastened out,
readily.

As they trooped toward the stairs leading down to the Refectory, they
saw their Prioress, very pale, very erect, standing with her back to
the door of her chamber.

Each nun made a genuflexion as she passed; and to each, the Prioress
slightly inclined her head.

To Sister Mary Rebecca, who kneeled at once, she spoke: "I come not to
the meal this evening. In the absence of Mother Sub-Prioress, you will
take my place."

"Yes, Reverend Mother," said Sister Mary Rebecca, meekly, and kissed
the hem of the robe of the Prioress; then rising, hastened on, charmed
to have a position of authority, however temporary.

When all had passed, the Prioress went into the cloisters, walked round
them; looked over into the garden, observing every possible place from
which prying eyes might have sight of the way from the passage to the
crypt entrance. But the garden, already full of purple shadows, was
left to the circling swifts. The robin sang an evening song from the
bough, of the pieman's tree.

The Prioress returned along the passage, looking into every cell. Each
door stood open wide; each cell was empty. The sick nuns were on a
further passage, round the corner, beyond the Refectory stairs. Yet
she passed along this also, making sure that the door of each occupied