ger returned, bringing a letter from the Holy
Father, with this enclosed."

The Bishop held out the folded document.

The Prioress rose, took it from him, and unfolded it.

As she read the opening lines, the amazement on her face quickly
gathered into a frown.

"What!" she said. "The name and rank I resigned on entering this
Order! Who dares to write or speak of me as 'Mora, Countess of
Norelle'?"

"Merely His Holiness the Pope, and the Bishop of Worcester," said the
Bishop meekly, in an undertone, not meaning the Prioress to hear; and,
indeed, she ignored this answer, her words having been an angry
ejaculation, rather than a question.

But there was worse to come.

"Dispensation!" exclaimed the Prioress.

"Absolution!" she cried, a little further on.

And at last, reading rapidly, in tones of uncontrollable anger and
indignation: "'Empowers Symon, Lord Bishop of Worcester, or any priest
he may appoint, to unite in the holy sacrament of marriage the
Knight-Crusader, Hugh d'Argent, and Mora de Norelle, sometime Prioress
of the White Ladies of Worcester.' _Sometime_ Prioress? In very
truth, they have dared so to write it! SOMETIME Prioress! It will be
well they should understand she is Prioress NOW--not some time or any
time, but NOW and HERE!"

She turned upon the Bishop.

"My lord, the Church seems to be bringing its powers to bear on the
side of the World, the Flesh, and the Devil, leaving a woman and her
conscience to stand alone and battle unaided with the grim forces
arrayed against her. But you shall see that she knows how to deal with
any weapon of the adversary which happens to fall into her hands."

Upon which the Prioress rent the mandate from top to bottom, then
across and again across; flung the pieces upon the floor, and set her
foot upon them.

"Thus I answer," she cried, "your attempt, my lord, to induce the Pope
to release me from vows which I hold to be eternally sacred and
binding. And if you are bent upon divorcing a nun from her Heavenly
Union, and making her to become the chattel of a man, you must seek her
elsewhere than in the Convent of the White Ladies of Worcester, my Lord
Bishop!"

So spoke the angry Prioress, making the quiet chamber to ring with her
scorn and indignation.

The Bishop had made no attempt to prevent the tearing of the document.
When she flung it upon the floor, placing her foot upon the fragments,
he merely looked at them regretfully, and then back