points of light.

The Bishop's whisper, when at length he spoke, was more alarming than
if he had shouted.

"Fool!" he said. "Ungrateful, unspeakable fool! What mean you by such
words?"

"Call me fool if you will, my Lord Bishop," said the Knight, "so long
as I give not mine own conscience cause to call me knave."

"What mean you by such words?" persisted the Bishop. "I mean, my lord,
that if the truth opened out an abyss which plunged me into hell, I
would sooner know it than attempt to enter Paradise across the flimsy
fabric of a lie."

Now during many days, Symon of Worcester had worked incessantly,
suffered much, accomplished much, surrendered much, lost much. Perhaps
it is hardly to be wondered at, that, at this juncture, he lost his
temper.

"By Saint Peter's keys!" he cried, "I care not, Sir Knight, whether you
drop to hell or climb to Paradise. But it is my business to see to it
that you do not disturb the peace of mind of the woman you have wed.
Therefore I warn you, that if you ride from here set upon so doing, you
will not reach your destination alive."

The Knight smiled. The film of weariness lifted as if by magic from
his eyes, and they shone bright and serene.

"I cannot draw my sword upon threats, my Lord Bishop; but let those
threats take human shape, and by Saint George, I shall find pleasure in
rendering a good account of them. With this same sword I once did hew
my way through a score of Saracens. Think you a dozen Worcester
cut-throats could keep me from reaching my wife?"

Something in the tone with which the Knight spoke these final words
calmed the Bishop; something in the glance of his eye quelled the angry
Prelate. In the former he recognised a depth of love such as he had
not hitherto believed possible to Hugh d'Argent; in the latter, calm
courage, nay, a serene joy at the prospect of danger, against which his
threats and fury could but break themselves, even as stormy waves
against the granite rocks of the Cornish coast.

The Bishop possessed that somewhat rare though valuable faculty, the
ability to recognise instantly, and instantly to accept, the
inevitable. Also when he had made a false move, he knew it, and was
preparing to counteract it almost before his opponent had perceived the
mistake.

So rarely was the Bishop angry, that his anger now affected him
physically, with a sickening sense of faintness. With closed eyes, he
leaned his head against the back of the