y; "So much for Seraphine!"

"I know not any lady of that name," said the Knight.

"Not by that name, my son. The nuns are not known in the Convent by
the names they bore before they left the world. I happen to know that
the Prioress, before she professed, was Mora, Countess of Norelle. I
know this because, years ago, I saw her at the Court, when she was a
maid of honour to the Queen; very young and lovely; yet, even then
remarkable for wisdom, piety, and a certain sweet dignity of
deportment. Sometimes now, when she receives me in the severe habit of
her Order, I find myself remembering the flow of beautiful hair, soft
as spun silk, bound by a circlet of gold round the regal head; the
velvet and ermine; the jewels at her breast. Yet do I chide myself for
recalling things which these holy women have renounced, and doubtless
would fain forget."

The Bishop struck a silver gong with his left hand.

At once a distant door opened in the dark panelling and two black-robed
figures glided in.

"Kindle a fire on the hearth," commanded the Bishop; adding to his
guest: "The evening air strikes chilly. Also I greatly love the smell
of burning wood. It is pungent to the nostrils, and refreshing to the
brain."

The monks hastened to kindle the wood and to fan it into a flame.

Presently, the fire blazing brightly, the Bishop rose, and signed to
the monks to place the chairs near the great fireplace. This they did;
and, making profound obeisance, withdrew.

Thus the Bishop and the Knight, alone once more, were seated in the
firelight. As it illumined the white and silver doublet, and glowed in
the rubies, the Bishop conceived the whimsical fancy that the Knight
might well be some splendid archangel, come down to force the Convent
gates and carry off a nun to heaven. And the Knight, watching the
leaping flame flicker on the Bishop's crimson robes and silvery hair,
saw the lenient smile upon the saintly face and took courage as he
realised how kindly was the heart, filled with most human sympathy,
which beat beneath the cross of gold upon the Prelate's breast.

Leaning forward, the Bishop lifted the faggot-fork and moved one of the
burning logs so that a jet of blue smoke, instead of mounting the
chimney, came out toward them on the hearth.

Symon of Worcester sat back and inhaled it with enjoyment.

"This is refreshing," he said. "This soothes and yet braces the mind.
And now, my son, let us return to the quest