y, he was ready in this, as in all else, to play the man,
going straight on, unhindered by vain regret.

Once again her pride in him, in that he was finer than her own
conceptions, quickened her love, even while it humbled her, in her own
estimation, to a place at his feet.

A glory of joy was on her face as, making her way through to the
terrace, now bathed in sunset light, she passed up to the chamber she
had prepared during Hugh's absence.

All was as she had left it.

Fastening the door by which she had entered from the garden, she
noiselessly opened that which gave on to the great hall.

The hall was dark and deserted, but the door into the armoury stood
ajar.

A shaft of golden sunshine streamed through the half-open door.

She heard the clang of armour. She could not see Hugh, but even as she
stood in her own doorway, looking across the hall, she heard his voice,
singing, as he worked, snatches of the latest song of Blondel, the
King's Minstrel.

With beating heart, Mora turned and closed her door, making it fast
within.

CHAPTER LIX

THE MADONNA IN THE HOME

Hugh d'Argent had polished his armour, put a keen edge on his
battle-axe, and rubbed the rust from his swords.

The torment of suspense, the sickening pain of hope deferred, could be
better borne, while he turned his mind on future battles, and his
muscles to vigorous action.

Of the way in which the cup of perfect bliss had been snatched from his
very lips, he could not trust himself to think.

His was the instinct of the fighter, to bend his whole mind upon the
present, preparing for the future; not wasting energy in useless
reconsideration of an accomplished past.

He had acted as he had felt bound in honour to act. Gain or loss to
himself had not been the point at issue. Even as, in the hot fights
with the Saracens, slaying or being slain might incidentally result
from the action of the moment, but the possession of the Holy Sepulchre
was the true object for which each warrior who had taken the cross,
drew his sword or swung his battle-axe.

Was honour, held unsullied, to prove in this case, the tomb of his
life's happiness? Three days of suspense, during which Mora
considered, and he and the Bishop waited. On the third day, would Love
arise victorious, purified by suffering, clad in raiment of dazzling
whiteness? Would there be Easter in his heart, and deep peace in his
home? Or would his beloved wind herself once more