t rest by that which had seemed to her old Antony's
fortunate mistake in believing herself to have been mistaken.

In recounting the fictitious vision, with an almost uncanny cleverness,
Mary Antony had described the Knight, not as he had appeared in the
Prioress's cell, in tunic and hose, a simple dress of velvet and cloth,
but in full panoply as a Knight-Crusader. The shining armour and the
blood-red cross, fully in keeping with the vision, would have precluded
the idea of an eye-witness of the actual scene, had such a thought
unconsciously suggested itself to the Prioress.

As it was, it seemed beyond question that all the knowledge of Hugh
shewn by the old lay-sister, of his person his attitude, his very
words, could have come to her by Divine revelation alone. That being
so, how could the Prioress presume to doubt the climax of the vision,
when our blessed Lady placed her hand in Hugh's, uttering the wondrous
words: "Take her. She hath been ever thine. I have but kept her for
thee."

Over and over the Prioress repeated these words; over and over she
thanked our Lady for having vouchsafed so explicit a revelation. Yet
was she distressed that her inmost spirit failed to respond, acclaiming
the words as divine. She knew they must be divine, yet could not feel
that they were so.

As dawn crept into the cell, she found herself repeating again and
again "A sign, a sign! Thy will was hid from me; yet I accept its
revelation through this babe. But I ask a sign which shall speak to
mine own heart, also! A sign, a sign!"

She rose and opened wide the casement, not of the oriel window, but of
one to the right of the group of the Virgin and child, and near by it.

She was worn out both in mind and body, yet could not bring herself to
leave the shrine or to seek her couch.

She remembered the example of that reverend and holy man, Bishop
Wulstan. She had lately been reading, in the Chronicles of Florence,
the monk of Worcester, how "in his early life, when appointed to be
chanter and treasurer of the Church, Wulstan embraced the opportunity
of serving God with less restraint, giving himself up to a
contemplative life, going into the church day and night to pray and
read the Bible. So devoted was he to sacred vigils that not only would
he keep himself awake during the night, but day and night also; and
when the urgency of nature at last compelled him to sleep, he did not
pamper his limbs by resting on a bed or