_Miserere_.

But, as she looked at the evening star, the Prioress heard again, with
startling distinctness, the final profanity of poor Sister Seraphine:
"I want life--not death!"

Along the corridor passed a short procession, on its way to the cell of
Mary Seraphine.

First went a nun, carrying a lighted taper.

Next, the two tall nuns who had borne Mary Seraphine to her cell.

Behind them, Mother Sub-Prioress, holding something beneath her
scapulary which gave to her more of a presence than she usually
possessed.

Solemn and official,--nay, almost sacrificial--was their measured
shuffle, as they moved along the passage, and entered the cell of Mary
Seraphine.

The Prioress closed her door, and, kneeling before the crucifix,
implored forgiveness for the sacrilege which, all unwittingly, she had
provoked.

The nuns, in their separate cells, chanted the _Miserere_.
But--suddenly--with one accord, their voices fell silent; then hastened
on, in uncertain, agitated rhythm.

Old Mary Antony below, playing her favourite game, also paused, and
pricked up her ears: then filliped the wizen pea, which stood for
Mother Sub-Prioress, into the darkest corner, and hurried off to brew a
soothing balsam.

So, when the Refectory bell had summoned all to the evening meal, the
old lay-sister crept to the cell of Mary Seraphine, carrying broth and
comfort.

But Sister Seraphine was better content than she had been for many
weeks.

At last she had become the centre of attention; and, although, during
the visit of Mother Sub-Prioress to her cell, this had been a
peculiarly painful position to occupy, yet to the morbid mind of Mary
Seraphine, the position seemed worth the discomfort.

Therefore, her mind now purged of its discontent, she cheerfully supped
old Antony's broth, and applied the soothing balsam; yet planning the
while, to gain favour with the Prioress, by repeating to her, at the
first convenient opportunity, the naughty remarks concerning Mother
Sub-Prioress, now being made for her diversion, by the kind old woman
who had risked reproof, in order to bring to her, in her disgrace, both
food and consolation.

CHAPTER VI

THE KNIGHT OF THE BLOODY VEST

"Nay, I have naught for thee this morning," said Mary Antony to the
robin; "naught, that is, save spritely conversation. I can tell thee a
tale or two; I can give thee sage advice; but, in my wallet, little
Master Mendicant, I have but my bag of