remembering when he chanced to look upon it----

She also begged him to forgive her the many times when she had tried
his patience, and been herself impatient of his wise counsel and
control.

And, finally, she signed herself ---- ---- ----

Mora held the cross to her lips, then placed it within the letter,
folded the packet, sealed it with her own seal, addressed it with full
directions, and called for the messenger.

Thus, fully four days before he had looked to have it, the answer for
which he waited, reached the Bishop's hand. As he opened it, and
perceived the gleam of gold and emeralds, he glanced across to the deed
chest, where lay the Knight's white stone.

The rose beside it had not yet faded. It might have been plucked and
placed in the water that morning, so fair it bloomed--a red, red rose.
Ah, Verity! Little Angel Child!

* * * * * *

It was said in sunny Florence in the years that followed, and, later
on, it was remarked in Rome, that if the Lord High Cardinal--kindest of
men--was tried almost beyond bearing, if even _his_ calm patience
seemed in danger of ruffling, or if he was weary, or sad, or
disheartened, he had a way of slipping his hand into the bosom of his
scarlet robe, as if he gently fingered something that lay against his
heart.

Whereupon at, once his brow grew serene again, his blue eyes kindly and
bright, his lips smiled that patient smile which never failed; and, as
he drew forth his hand, the stone within his ring, though pale before,
glowed deep red, as juice of purple grapes in a goblet.

CHAPTER LVII

"I CHOOSE TO RIDE ALONE"

Mora escaped from the restraining arms of old Debbie, and appeared at
the top of the steps leading down to the courtyard.

Framed in the doorway, in her green riding dress, she stood for a
moment, surveying the scene before her.

The two men bound for Worcester, bearing her packet to the Bishop, had
just ridden out at the great gates. Through the gates, still standing
open, she could see them guiding their horses down the hill and taking
the southward road.

The porter was attempting to close the gates, but a stable lad hindered
him, pointing to Icon, whom a groom was leading, ready saddled, to and
fro, before the door; Icon, with proudly arched neck and swishing tail,
as conscious of his snowy beauty as when, in the river meadow at
Worcester, he found himself the centre of an admiring crowd of nuns.