d an unworthy lover."

The Bishop paused, unclasped his hands, withdrew his steadfast regard
from the fire, and sat back in his chair. The stone in his ring
gleamed blue, the colour of forget-me-nots beside a meadow brook.

Presently he looked at the silent Knight. There was a kindly smile, in
his eyes, rather than upon his lips.

"It may be, my dear Hugh, that this heart discipline of mine--of which,
by the way, I have never before spoken--has made me quick to understand
the sufferings of other men. Also it may explain the great desire I
always experience to see a truly noble woman come to the full
completion of her womanhood.

"I returned to England not long after your betrothed had entered the
cloistered life in the Whytstone Nunnery. I was appointed to this See
of Worcester, which appointment gave me the spiritual control of the
White Ladies. My friendship with the Prioress has been a source of
interest, pleasure, and true helpfulness to myself and I trust to her
also. I think I told you while we supped that, many years ago, I had
known her at the Court when I was confessor to the Queen, and preceptor
to her ladies. But no mention has ever been made between the Prioress
and myself of any previous acquaintance. I doubt whether she
recognised, in the frail, white-haired, old prelate who arrived from
Italy, the vigorous, bearded priest known to her, in her girlhood's
days, as"--the Bishop paused and looked steadily at the Knight--"as
Father Gervaise."

"Father Gervaise!" exclaimed Hugh d'Argent, lifting his hand to cross
himself as he named the Dead, yet arrested in this instinctive movement
by something in those keen blue eyes. "Father Gervaise, my lord,
perished in a stormy sea. The ship foundered, and none who sailed in
her were seen again."

The Knight spoke with conviction; yet, even as he spoke, the amazing
truth rushed in upon him, and struck him dumb. Of a sudden he knew why
the Bishop's eyes had instantly won his fearless confidence. A trusted
friend of his childhood had looked out at him from their dear depths.
Often he had searched his memory, since the Bishop had claimed
knowledge of him in his boyhood, and had marvelled that no recollection
of Symon as a guest in his parents' home came back to him.

Now--in this moment of revelation--how clearly he could see the figure
of the famous priest, in brown habit, cloak, and hood, a cord at his
waist, with tonsured head, full brown beard, and s