ere and now, dear Hugh."

Looking into that calm face, so lovely in its sadness, he saw that she
meant it.

Of a sudden he knew he had lost her; he knew life's way stretched
lonely before him, evermore.

"Yes," he said, "yes. It is indeed farewell--here and now--forever."

The dull despair in the voice which, but a few moments before, had
vibrated with love and hope, wrung her heart.

She still held her hands before her, as if to ward him off.

"Ah, Hugh," she cried, sharply, "be merciful, and go! Spare me, and go
quickly."

The Knight heard in her voice a tone it had not hitherto held. But he
loved her loyally; therefore he kept his own anguish under strong
control.

Placing the lantern on the ground, he knelt on one knee before her.

"Farewell, my Love," he said. "Our Lady comfort thee; and may Heaven
forgive me, for that I have disturbed thy peace."

With which he lifted the hem of her robe, and pressed his lips upon it.

Thus he knelt, for a space, his dark head bent.

Slowly, slowly, the Prioress let drop her hands until, lightly as the
fall of autumn leaves,--sad autumn leaves--they rested upon his head,
in blessing and farewell.

But feeling his hair beneath her hands, she could not keep from softly
smoothing it, nor from passing her fingers gently in and out of its
crisp thickness.

Then her heart stood still, for of a sudden, in the silence, she heard
a shuddering sob.

With a cry, she bent and gathered him to her, holding his head first
against her knees, then stooping lower to clasp it to her breast; then
as his strong arms were flung around her, she loosed his head, and, as
he rose to his feet, slipped her arms about his neck, and surrendered
to his embrace.

His lips sought hers, and at once she yielded them. His strong hands
held her, and she, feeling the force of their constraint, did but clasp
him closer.

Long they stood thus. In that embrace a life-time of pain passed from
them, a life-time of bliss was born, and came with a rush to maturity,
bringing with it a sense of utter completeness. A world of sweetest
trust and certainty filled them; a joy so perfect, that the lonely
vista of future years seemed, in that moment, to matter not at all.

All about them was darkness, silence as of the tomb; the heavy smell of
earth; the dank chill of the grave.

Yet theirs was life more abundant; theirs, joy undreamed of; theirs,
love beyond all imagining, while those moments lasted.