n had seized him by
his hair.

The Bishop did not really think the Prioress would do this; but it
amused him to fancy he was afraid, and to put on his biretta.

Then, as he leaned back in his chair, and his finger tips met, the
stone in his ring was blue again, and his eyes were more than ever the
eyes of a merry schoolboy out on a holiday.

Yet, presently, he sought to calm the tempest he had raised.

"My daughter," he said, "I did but agree to that which you yourself
suggested. Did you not ask whether it would seem to me right or
possible to grant absolution from her vows, tacitly to allow the
opening of the cage door, that the little foolish bird might, if she
wished it, escape? Why this exceeding indignation, when I do but yield
to your arguments and fall in with your suggestions?"

"I did not suggest that a lover's arms were awaiting one of my nuns,"
said the angry Prioress.

"You did not mention arms," replied the Bishop, gently; "but you most
explicitly mentioned a voice. 'Supposing the voice of an earthly lover
calls,' you said. And--having admitted that I am better versed in such
matters than you--you must forgive me, dear Prioress, if I amaze you
further by acquainting you with the undoubted fact, recognised, in the
outer world, as beyond dispute, that when a lover's _voice_ calls, a
lover's _arms_ are likely to be waiting. Earthly lovers, my daughter,
by no means resemble those charming cherubs which you may have observed
on the carved woodwork in our Cathedral. Otherwise you might have just
a voice, flanked by seraphic wings. Some such fanciful creation must
have been in your mind for Sister Mary Seraphine; for, until I made
mention of the noble Knight who had arrived in Worcester distraught
with anguish of heart by reason of his loss, you had decided leanings
toward tacitly allowing flight. Therefore it was not the fact of the
broken vows, but the idea of Seraphine wedded to the brave Crusader,
which so greatly roused your ire."

The Prioress stood silent. Her hot anger cooled, enveloped in the
chill mantle of self-revelation and self-scorn.

It seemed to her that the gentle words of the Bishop indeed expressed
the truth far more correctly than he knew.

The thought of Hugh, consoling himself with some foolish, vain,
unworthy, little Seraphine, had stung with intolerable pain.

Yet, how should she, the cause of his despair, begrudge him any comfort
he might find in the love of another?