Then----

The hands about his neck loosened, unclasped, fell gently away.

He set free her lips, and they took their liberty.

He unlocked his arms, and stepping back she stood erect, like a fair
white lily, needing no prop nor stay.

So they stood for a space, looking upon one another in silence. This
thing which had happened, was too wonderful for speech.

Then the Prioress turned the key in the lock.

The heavy door swung open.

A dim, grey light, like a pearly dawn at sea, came downwards from the
crypt.

Without a word the Knight, bending his head, passed under the archway,
mounted the steps, and was lost to view among the many pillars.

She closed the door, locked it, and withdrawing the key, stood alone
where they had stood together.

Then, sinking to the ground, she laid her face in the dust, there where
his feet had been.

It was farewell, here and now; farewell forever.

* * * * * *

After a while the Prioress rose, took up the lantern, and started upon
her lonely journey, back to the cloister door.

CHAPTER XV

"SHARPEN THE WITS OF MARY ANTONY"

When the Prioress started upon her pilgrimage to the Cathedral with the
Knight, she locked the door of her chamber, knowing that thus her
absence would remain undiscovered; for if any, knocking on the door,
received no answer, or trying it, found it fast, they would hasten away
without question; concluding that some special hour of devotion or time
of study demanded that the Reverend Mother should be free from
intrusion.

The atmosphere of the empty cell, charged during the past hour with
such unaccustomed forces of conflict and of passion, settled into the
quietude of an unbroken stillness.

The Madonna smiled serenely upon the Holy Babe. The dead Christ, with
bowed head, hung forlorn upon the wooden cross. The ponderous volumes
in black and silver bindings, lay undisturbed upon the table; and the
Bishop's chair stood empty, with that obtrusive emptiness which, in an
empty seat, seems to suggest an unseen presence filling it. The
silence was complete.

But presently a queer shuffling sound began in the inner cell, as of
something stiff and torpid compelling itself to action.

Then a weird figure, the wizen face distorted by grief and terror,
appeared in the doorway--old Mary Antony, holding a meat chopper in her
shaking hands, and staring, with chattering gums, into the empty cell.

That faithf