our pleadings; I withstood the Bishop's
arguments; I withstood the yearnings of my own poor heart. I tore up
the Pope's mandate, and set my foot upon it. I said that nothing could
induce me to break my vows, unless our Lady herself gave me a clear
sign that my highest duty was to you, thus absolving me from my vows,
and making it evident that God's will for me was that I should leave
the Cloister, and keep my early troth to you."

"And gave our Lady such a sign?" asked the Knight, his dark eyes fixed
on Mora's face.

She lifted it, white and lovely; radiant in the moonlight.

"Better than a sign," she said. "Our Lady vouchsafed a wondrous
vision, in which her own voice was heard, giving command and consent."

The Knight, crossing himself, dropped upon his knees, lifting his eyes
heavenward in fervent praise and adoration. He raised to his lips a
gold medallion, which he wore around his neck, containing a picture of
the Virgin, and kissed it devoutly; then overcome by emotion, he
covered his face with his hands and knelt with bowed head, reciting in
a low voice, the _Salve Regina_.

Mora watched him, with deep gladness of heart. This fervent joy and
devout thanksgiving differed so greatly from the half-incredulous,
whimsically amused, mental attitude with which Symon of Worcester had
received her recital of the miracle. Hugh's reverent adoration filled
her with happiness.

Presently he rose and stood beside her again, expectant, eager.

"Tell me more; nay, tell me all," he said.

"The vision," began Mora, "was given to the old lay-sister, Mary
Antony."

"Mary Antony?" queried Hugh, with knitted brow. "'The old lay-sister,
Mary Antony'? Why do I know that name? I seem to remember that the
Bishop spoke of her, as we walked together in the Palace garden, the
day following the arrival of the messenger from Rome. Methinks the
Bishop said that she alone knew of my intrusion into the Nunnery; but
that she, being faithful, could be trusted."

"Nay, Hugh," answered Mora, "you mistake. It was I who told you so,
even before I knew you were the intruder, while yet addressing you as
Sister Seraphine's 'Cousin Wilfred.' I said that you had been thwarted
in your purpose by the faithfulness of the old lay-sister, Mary Antony,
who never fails to count the White Ladies, as they go, and as they
return, and who had reported to me that one more had returned than
went. Afterward I was greatly perplexed as to what expl