hilip?"

"Nay, my lord, none; save that the Prioress is distraught with anxiety
concerning the aged nun, and has commanded that the underground way to
the Cathedral crypt be searched; though, indeed, the porteress
confesses to having let Sister Mary Antony out at the gate."

"Rumour again," said the Bishop, "and not a word of truth in it, I
warrant. Deny it, right and left, my good Philip; and say, on my
authority, that the Reverend Mother hath most certainly not caused the
crypt way to be searched. I would I could lay hands on the originator
of these foolish tales."

The Bishop spoke with apparent vexation, but his heart had bounded in
the upspring of a great relief. Was he after all in time to save with
outstretched hand that most priceless crystal bowl?

The Bishop dismounted outside the Convent gate. He took Shulamite's
nose into his hand, and spoke gently in her ear.

Then: "Lead her home, Philip," he said, "and surround her with
tenderest care. Her brave heart hath done wonders this day. It is for
us to see that her body doth not pay the penalty. Here! Take her
rein, and go."

Mary Mark looked out through the wicket, in response to a knocking on
the door. She gasped when she saw the Lord Bishop, on foot, without
the gate.

Quickly she opened, wide, and wider; hiding her buxom form behind the
door.

But the Bishop had no thought for Mary Mark, nor inclination to play
hide-and-seek with a conscience-stricken porteress.

Avoiding the front entrance, he crossed the courtyard to the right,
passed beneath the rose-arch, along the yew walk, and over the lawn, to
the seat under the beech, where two days before he had awaited the
coming of the Prioress.

Here he paused for a moment, looking toward the silent cloisters, and
picturing her tall figure, her flowing veil and stately tread,
advancing toward him over the sunny lawn.

Yet no. Even in these surroundings he could not see her now as
Prioress. Even across the Convent lawn there moved to meet him the
lovely woman with jewelled girdle, white robe, and coronet of golden
hair--the bride of Hugh.

Perhaps this was the hardest moment to Symon of Worcester, in the whole
of that hard day.

It was the one time when he thought of himself.

"I have lost her!" he said. "Holy Jesu--Thou Whose heart did break
after three hours of darkness and of God-forsaken loneliness--have
pity! The light of my life is gone from me, yet must I live."

Overwhelm