ould
find in the hall chamber; and--for a moment, my lord, for one wild,
foolish moment--I took you not for yourself but for another."

"For whom did you take me, my daughter?" asked the Bishop.

"For one of whom you have oft reminded me, my lord, if I may say so
without offence, seeing I speak of a priest who was the ideal of my
girlhood's dreams. Knew you, many years ago, one Father Gervaise, held
in high regard at the Court, confessor to the Queen and her ladies?"

The Bishop smiled, and his blue eyes looked into Mora's with an
expression of quiet interest.

"Father Gervaise?" he said. "Preacher at the Court? Indeed, I knew
him, my daughter; and more than knew him. Father Gervaise and I had
the same grandparents."

"Ah," cried Mora, eagerly, "then that accounts for a resemblance which
from the first has haunted me, making of our friendship, at once, so
sweetly intimate a thing. The voice and the eyes alone were like--but,
ah, so like! Father Gervaise wore a beard, which hid his mouth and
chin; but his blue eyes had in them that kindly yet searching look,
though not merry as yours oft are, my lord; and your voice has ever
made me think of his.

"And once--just once--his eyes looked at me, across the Castle hall at
Windsor, with a deep glow of fire in them; a look which made me feel
called to an altar whereon, if I could but stand the test of fire, I
should be forever purified, uplifted, blest as was never earthly maid
before, save only our blessed Lady. All that night I dreamed of it,
and my whole soul was filled with it, yet never again did I see Father
Gervaise. The next morning he left the Court, and soon after sailed
for Spain; and on the passage thither the ship foundered in a great
storm, and he, with all on board, perished. Heard you of that, my
lord?"

"I heard it," said the Bishop.

"All believed it, and mourned him; for by all he was beloved. But
never could I feel that he was dead. Always for me it seemed that he
still lived. And last night--when I entered--across the great hall
chamber, it seemed as if, once more, the eyes of Father Gervaise looked
upon me, with that glowing fire in them, which called me to an altar."

The Bishop smiled again, and there was in his look a gentle merriment.

"You were over-strained, my daughter. When you drew near, you
found--instead of a ghostly priest with eyes of fire, drowned many
years ago, off the coast of Spain--your old friend, Symon of Worce