Читать книгу: «The White Ladies of Worcester: A Romance of the Twelfth Century», страница 8

But the Bishop, now eagerly launched, had no interest in pallor, or possible palsy. His vigorous words cut the calm atmosphere. The gem on his finger sparkled like red wine in a goblet.

"I knew him of old," he said; "knew him as a high-spirited lad, yet loving, and much belovèd. He came to me, in his grief, distraught with anguish of heart, and told me this tale of treachery and wrong. Never did I hear of such a network of evil device, such a tragedy of loving hearts sundered. And when at last he returned to this land, he found that the girl whom he had thought false, thinking him so, had entered a Nunnery. Also he seemed convinced that she was to be found among our White Ladies of Worcester. Now tell me, dear Prioress, think you she could be Seraphine?"

The Prioress smiled; and truly it was a very creditable smile for a face which might have been carved in marble.

"From my knowledge of Sister Mary Seraphine," she said, "it seems unlikely that for loss of her, so noble a Knight as you describe would be distraught with anguish of heart."

"Nay, there I do not agree," said the Bishop. "It is ever opposites which attract. The tall wed the short; the stout, the lean; the dark, the fair; the grave, the gay. Wherefore my stern Crusader may be breaking his heart for your foolish little bird."

"I do not think so," said the Prioress, shortly; then hastened to add:

"Not that I would presume to differ from you, Reverend Father.

Doubtless you are better versed in such matters than I. But—if it be as you suppose—what measures do you suggest? How am I to deal with Sister Mary Seraphine?"

The Bishop leaned forward and whispered, though not another soul was within hearing; but at this juncture in the conversation, a whisper was both dramatic and effective. Also, when he leaned forward, he could almost hear the angry beating of the heart of the Prioress.

The Bishop held the Prioress in high regard, and loved not to distress her. But he did not think it right that a woman should have such complete mastery over herself, and therefore over others. A fine quality in a man, may be a blemish in a woman. For which reason the Bishop leaned forward and whispered.

"Let her fly, my daughter; let her fly. If his arms await her, she will not have far to go, nor many dangers to face. Her lover will know how to guard his own."

"My lord," said the Prioress, now flushed with anger, "you amaze me! Am I to understand that you would have me open the Convent door, so that a renegade nun may escape to her lover? Or perhaps, my lord, it would better meet your ideas if I bid the porteress stand wide the great gates, so that this high-spirited Knight may ride in and carry off the nun he desires, in sight of all! My Lord Bishop! You rule in Worcester and in the cities of the diocese. But I rule in this Nunnery; and while I rule here, such a thing as this shall never be."

The Prioress flashed and quivered; rose to her feet and towered; flung her arms wide, and paced the floor.

"The Knight has bewitched you, my lord," she said. "You forget the rules of our holy Church. You fail in your trust toward the women who look to you as their spiritual Father and guide."

The Prioress walked up and down the cell, and each time she passed her chair she wheeled, and gripping the back with her strong fingers, shook it. Not being able to shake the Bishop, she needs must shake something.

"You amaze me!" she said. "Truly, my lord, you amaze me!"

The Bishop put on his biretta.

Only once before, in his eventful life, had he made a woman as angry as this. Very young he was, then; and the angry woman had seized him by his hair.

The Bishop did not really think the Prioress would do this; but it amused him to fancy he was afraid, and to put on his biretta.

Then, as he leaned back in his chair, and his finger tips met, the stone in his ring was blue again, and his eyes were more than ever the eyes of a merry schoolboy out on a holiday.

Yet, presently, he sought to calm the tempest he had raised.

"My daughter," he said, "I did but agree to that which you yourself suggested. Did you not ask whether it would seem to me right or possible to grant absolution from her vows, tacitly to allow the opening of the cage door, that the little foolish bird might, if she wished it, escape? Why this exceeding indignation, when I do but yield to your arguments and fall in with your suggestions?"

"I did not suggest that a lover's arms were awaiting one of my nuns," said the angry Prioress.

"You did not mention arms," replied the Bishop, gently; "but you most explicitly mentioned a voice. 'Supposing the voice of an earthly lover calls,' you said. And—having admitted that I am better versed in such matters than you—you must forgive me, dear Prioress, if I amaze you further by acquainting you with the undoubted fact, recognised, in the outer world, as beyond dispute, that when a lover's voice calls, a lover's arms are likely to be waiting. Earthly lovers, my daughter, by no means resemble those charming cherubs which you may have observed on the carved woodwork in our Cathedral. Otherwise you might have just a voice, flanked by seraphic wings. Some such fanciful creation must have been in your mind for Sister Mary Seraphine; for, until I made mention of the noble Knight who had arrived in Worcester distraught with anguish of heart by reason of his loss, you had decided leanings toward tacitly allowing flight. Therefore it was not the fact of the broken vows, but the idea of Seraphine wedded to the brave Crusader, which so greatly roused your ire."

The Prioress stood silent. Her hot anger cooled, enveloped in the chill mantle of self-revelation and self-scorn.

It seemed to her that the gentle words of the Bishop indeed expressed the truth far more correctly than he knew.

The thought of Hugh, consoling himself with some foolish, vain, unworthy, little Seraphine, had stung with intolerable pain.

Yet, how should she, the cause of his despair, begrudge him any comfort he might find in the love of another?

Then, suddenly, the Prioress knelt at the feet of the Bishop.

"Forgive me, most Reverend Father," she said. "I did wrong to be angry."

Symon of Worcester extended his hand, and the Prioress kissed the ring. As she withdrew her lips from the precious stone, she saw it blood-red and sparkling, as the juice of purple grapes in a goblet.

The Bishop laid his biretta once more upon the table, and smiled very tenderly on the Prioress, as he motioned her to rise from her knees and to resume her seat.

"You did right to be angry, my daughter," he said. "You were not angry with me, nor with the brave Crusader, nor with the foolish Seraphine. Your anger, all unconsciously, was aroused by a system, a method of life which is contrary to Nature, and therefore surely at variance with the will of God. I have long had my doubts concerning these vows of perpetual celibacy for women. For men, it is different. The creative powers in a man, if denied their natural functions, stir him to great enterprise, move him to beget fine phantasies, creations of his brain, children of his intellect. If he stamp not his image on brave sons and fair daughters, he leaves his mark on life in many other ways, both brave and fair. But it is not so with woman; in the very nature of things it cannot be. Methinks these Nunneries would serve a better purpose were they schools from which to send women forth into the world to be good wives and mothers, rather than store-houses filled with sad samples of Nature's great purposes deliberately unfulfilled."

The merry schoolboy look had vanished. The Bishop's eyes were stern and searching; yet he looked not on the Prioress as he spoke.

Amazement was writ larger than ever, on her face; but she held herself well under control.

"Such views, my lord, if freely expressed and adopted, would change the entire monastic system."

"I know it," said the Bishop. "And I would not express them, saving to you and to one other, to whom I also talk freely. But the older I grow, the more clearly do I see that systems are man-made, and therefore often mistaken, injurious, pernicious. But Nature is Divine. Those who live in close touch with Nature, who rule their lives by Nature's rules, do not stray far from the Divine plan of the Creator. But when man takes upon himself to say 'Thou shalt,' or 'Thou shalt not,' quickly confusion enters. A false premise becomes the starting-point; and the goal, if it stop short of perdition, is, at best, folly and failure."

The Bishop paused.

The eyes of the woman before him were dark with sorrow, regret, and the dawning of a great fear. Presently she spoke.

"To say these things here, my lord, is to say them too late."

"It is never too late," replied Symon of Worcester. "'Too late' tolls the knell of the coward heart. If we find out a mistake while we yet walk the earth where we made it, it is not too late to amend it."

"Think you so, Reverend Father? Then what do you counsel me to do—with Seraphine?"

"Speak to her gently, and with great care and prudence. Say to her much of that which you have said to me, and a little of that which I have said to you, but expressed in such manner as will be suited to a foolish mind. You and I can hurl bricks at one another, my dear Prioress, and be the better for the exercise. But we must not fling at little Seraphine aught harder than a pillow of down. Empty heads, like empty eggshells, are soon broken. Tell her you have consulted me concerning her desire to return to the world; and that I, being lenient, and holding somewhat wider views on this subject than the majority of prelates, also being well acquainted with the mind of His Holiness the Pope concerning those who embrace the religious life for reasons other than a true vocation, have promised to arrange the matter of a dispensation. But add that there must be no possibility of any scandal connected with the Nunnery. Since the Lady Wulgeova, mother of Bishop Wulstan, of blessèd memory, took the veil here a century and a half ago, this house has ever been above reproach. You will tacitly allow her to slip away; and, once away, I will set matters right for her. But nothing must transpire which could stumble or scandalise the other members of the Community. The peculiar circumstances which the Knight made known to me—always, of course, without making any mention of the name of Seraphine—can hardly have occurred in any other case. It is not likely, for instance, that our worthy Sub-Prioress was torn by treachery from the arms of a despairing lover; and she would undoubtedly share your very limiting ideas of a lover's physical qualities and requirements; possibly not even allowing him a voice.

"Now I happen to know that the Knight daily spends the hour of Vespers in the Cathedral crypt, kneeling before the shrine of Saint Oswald beside a stretcher whereon lies one of his men, much bandaged about the head, swathed in linen, and covered with a cloak. The Knight has my leave to lay the sick man before the holy relics, daily, for five days. I asked of him what he expected would result from so doing. He made answer: 'A great recovery and restoration.'"

The Bishop paused, as if meditating upon the words. Then he slowly repeated them, taking evident pleasure in each syllable.

"A great recovery and restoration," said the Bishop, and smiled.

"Well? The blessèd relics can do much. They may avail to mend a broken head. Could they mend a broken heart? I know not. That were, of the two, the greater miracle."

The Bishop glanced at the Prioress.

Her face was averted.

"Well, my daughter, matters being as they are, you may inform Sister Mary Seraphine that, should she chance to lose her way among the hundred and forty-two columns, when passing through the crypt after Vespers, she will find a Knight, who will doubtless know what to do next. If he can contrive to take her safely from the Cathedral and out of the Precincts, she will have to ride with him to Warwick, where a priest will be in readiness to wed them. But it would be well that Sister Mary Seraphine should have some practice in mounting and riding, before she goes on so adventurous a journey. She may remember the crimson trappings of her palfrey, and yet have forgotten how to sit him. It is for us to make sure that the Knight's brave plans for the safe capture of his lady, do not fail for lack of any help which we may lawfully give."

The Bishop stretched out his hand and took up his biretta.

"When did the nuns last have a Play Day?" he asked.

"Not a month ago," replied the Prioress. "They made the hay in the river meadow, and carried it themselves. They thought it rare sport."

The Bishop put on his biretta.

"Give them a Play Day, dear Prioress, in honour of my visit. Tell them I asked that they should have it the day after to-morrow. I will then send you my white palfrey, suitably caparisoned. Brother Philip, who attends me when I ride, and who has the palfrey well controlled, shall lead him in. The nuns can then ride in turns, in the river meadow; and our little foolish bird can try her wings, before she attempts the long flight from Worcester to Warwick."

The Bishop rose, crossed the cell, and knelt long, in prayer, before the crucifix.

When he turned toward the door, the Prioress said: "I pray you, give me your blessing, Reverend Father, before you go."

She knelt, and the Bishop extended his hand over her bowed head.

Expecting a Latin formula, she was almost startled when tender words, in the English tongue, fell softly from the Bishop's lips.

"The Lord bless thee, and keep thee; and grant unto thee grace and strength to choose and to do the harder part, when the harder part is His will for thee."

After which: "Benedictio Domini sit vobiscum," said the Bishop; and made the sign of the cross over the bowed head of the Prioress.

CHAPTER XX
HOLLY AND MISTLETOE

Symon, Bishop of Worcester, had bidden Sir Hugh d'Argent to sup with him at the Palace.

It was upon the second day after the Bishop's conversation with the Prioress in the Convent at Whytstone; the evening of the Nun's Play Day, granted in honour of his visit.

The Bishop and the Knight supped together, with much stately ceremony, in the great banqueting hall.

Knowing the Bishop's love of the beautiful, and his habit of being punctilious in matters of array and deportment, acquired no doubt during his lengthy sojourns in France and Italy, the Knight had donned his finest court suit—white satin, embroidered with silver; jewelled collar, belt, and shoes; a small-sword of exquisite workmanship at his side. A white cloak, also richly embroidered with silver, hung from his shoulders; white silk hose set off the shapely length of his limbs. The blood-red gleam of the magnificent rubies on his breast, sword-belt, and shoe-buckles, were the only points of colour in his attire.

The Bishop's keen eyes noted with quiet pleasure how greatly this somewhat fantastically beautiful dress enhanced the dark splendour of the Knight's noble countenance, displayed his superb carriage, and shewed off the supple grace of his limbs, which, in his ordinary garb, rather gave the idea of massive strength alone.

The Bishop himself wore crimson and gold; and, just as the dark beauty of the Knight was enhanced by the fair white and silver of his dress, so did these gorgeous Italian robes set off the frail whiteness of the Bishop's delicate face, the silvery softness of his abundant hair. And just as the collar of rubies gleamed like fiery eyes upon the Knight's white satin doublet, so from out the pallor of the Prelate's countenance the eyes shone forth, bright with the fires of eternal, youth, the gay joy of life, the twinkling humour of a shrewd yet kindly wit.

They supped at a round table of small size, in the very centre of the huge apartment. It formed a point of light and brightness from which all else merged into shadow, and yet deeper shadow, until the eye reached the dark panelling of the walls.

The light seemed to centre in the Knight—white and silver; the colour, in the figure of the Bishop—crimson and gold.

In and out of the shadows, swift and silent, on sandalled feet, moved the lay-brothers serving the feast; watchful of each detail; quickly supplying every need.

At length they loaded the table with fruit; put upon it fresh flagons of wine, and finally withdrew; each black-robed figure merging into the black shadows, and vanishing in silence.

The Bishop's Chaplain appeared in a distant doorway.

"Benedicite," said Symon of Worcester, looking up.

"Deus," replied the Chaplain, making a profound obeisance.

Then he stood erect—a grim, austere figure, hard features, hollow eyes, half-shrouded within his cowl.

He looked with sinister disapproval at the distant table, laden with fruit and flagons; at the Bishop and the Knight, now sitting nigh to one another; the Bishop in his chair of state facing the door, the Knight, on a high-backed seat at the Bishop's right hand, half-way round the table.

"Holly and Mistletoe," muttered the Chaplain, as he closed the great door.

"Yea, verily! Mistletoe and Holly," he repeated, as he strode to his cell. "The Reverend Father sups with the World, and indulges the Flesh. Methinks the Devil cannot be far off."

Nor was he.

He was very near.

He had looked over the Chaplain's shoulder as he made his false obeisance in the doorway.

But he liked not the pure white of the Knight's dress, and he feared the clear light in the Prelate's eyes. So, when the Chaplain closed the door, the Devil stayed on the outside, and now walked beside the Chaplain along the passage leading to his cell.

There is no surer way of securing the company of the Devil, than to make sure he is at that moment busy with another—particularly if that other chance to be the most saintly man you know, and merely displeasing to you, at the moment, because he hath not bidden you to sup with him. The Devil and the Chaplain made a night of it.

The Bishop's gentle "Benedicite" spread white wings and flew, like an affrighted dove, over the head of the bowing Chaplain, into the chill passage beyond.

But, just as the great door was closing, it darted in again, circled round the banqueting hall, and came back to rest in the safe nest of the kindly heart which had sent it forth.

No blessing, truly vitalised, ever ceases to live. If the blessed be unworthy, it returns on swift wing to the blesser.

CHAPTER XXI
SO MUCH FOR SERAPHINE!

A sense of peace fell upon the banqueting hall, with the closing of the door. All unrest and suspicion seemed to have departed. An atmosphere of confidence and serenity pervaded the great chamber. It was in the Bishop's smile, as he turned to the Knight.

"At length the time has come when we may talk freely; and truly, my son, we have much to say."

The Knight glanced round the spacious hall, and his look implied that he would prefer to talk in a smaller chamber.

"Nay, then," said the Bishop. "No situation can be better for a private conversation than the very centre of a very large room. Have you not heard it said that walls have ears? Well, in a small room, they may use them to some purpose. But here, we sit so far removed from the walls that, strain their ears as they may, they will hear nothing; even the very key-hole, opening wide its naughty eye, will see naught, neither will the adjacent ear hear anything. We may speak freely."

The Bishop, signing to the Knight to help himself to fruit, moved the wine toward him. At his own right hand stood a Venetian flagon and goblet of ruby glass, ornamented with vine leaves and clusters of grapes. The Bishop drank only from this flagon, pouring its contents himself into the goblet which he held to the light before he drank from it, enjoying the rich glow of colour, and the beauty of the engraving. His guests sometimes wondered what specially choice kind of wine the Bishop kept for his own, exclusive use. If they asked, he told them.

"The kind used at the marriage feast at Cana in Galilee, when the supply of an inferior quality had failed. This, my friends, is pure water, wholesome, refreshing, and not costly. I drink it from glass which gives to it the colour of the juice of the grape, partly in order that my guests may not feel chilled in their own enjoyment of more gay and luscious beverage; partly because I enjoy the emblem.

"The gifts of circumstance, life, and nature, vary, not so much in themselves, as in the human vessels which contain them. If the heart be a ruby goblet, the humblest form of pure love filling it, will assume the rich tint and fervour of romance. If the mind be, in itself, a thing of vivid tints and glowing colours, the dullest thought within it will take on a lustre, a sparkle, a glow of brilliancy. Thus, whensoever men or matters seem to me dull or wearisome, to myself I say: 'Symon! Thou art this day, thyself, a pewter pot.'"

Then the Bishop would fill up his goblet and hold it to the light.

"Aye, the best wine!" he would say. "'Thou hast kept the best wine until now.' The water of earth—drawn by faithful servants, acting in unquestioning obedience to the commands of the blessèd Mother of our Lord—transmuted by the word and power of the Divine Son; outpoured for others, in loving service; this is ever 'the best wine.'"

The Knight filled his goblet and took some fruit. Then, leaving both untouched, turned his chair sidewise, that he might the better face the Bishop, crossed his knees, leaned his right elbow on the table and his head upon his hand, pushing his fingers into his hair.

Thus, for a while, they sat in silence; the Knight's eyes searching the Bishop's face; the Bishop, intent upon the colour of his ruby goblet.

At length Hugh d'Argent spoke.

"I have been through deep waters, Reverend Father, since last I supped with you."

The Bishop put down the goblet.

"So I supposed, my son. Now tell me what you will, neither more nor less. I will then give you what counsel I can. On the one point concerning which you must not tell me more than I may rightly know, I will question you. Have you contrived to see the woman you loved, and lost, and are now seeking to regain? Tell me not how, nor when, nor where; but have you had speech with her? Have you made clear to her the treachery which sundered you? Have you pleaded with her to remember her early betrothal, to renounce these later vows, and to fly with you?"

The Knight looked straight into the Bishop's keen eyes.

At first he could not bring himself to answer.

This princely figure, with his crimson robes and golden cross, so visibly represented the power and authority of the Church.

His own intrusion into the Nunnery, his attempt to win away a holy nun, suddenly appeared to him, as the most appalling sacrilege.

With awe and consternation in his own, he met the Bishop's eyes.

At first they were merely clear and searching, and the Knight sat tongue-tied. But presently there flicked into them a look so human, so tender, so completely understanding, that straightway the tongue of the Knight was loosed.

"My lord, I have," he said. "All those things have I done. I have been in heaven, Reverend Father, and I have been in hell–"

"Sh, my son," murmured the Bishop. "Methinks you have been in a place which is neither heaven nor hell; though it may, on occasion, approximate somewhat nearly to both. How you got there, is a marvel to me; and how you escaped, without creating a scandal, an even greater wonder. Yet I think it wise, for the present, not to know too much. I merely required to be certain that you had actually found your lost betrothed, made her aware of your proximity, your discovery, and your desires. I gathered that you had succeeded in so doing; for, two days ago, the Prioress herself sent to beg a private interview with me, in order to ask whether, under certain circumstances, I could approve the return of a nun to the world, and obtain absolution from her vows."

The rubies on the Knight's breast suddenly glittered, as if a bound of his heart had caused them all to leap together. But, except for that quick sparkle, he sat immovable, and made no sign.

The Bishop had marked the gleam of the rubies.

He lifted his Venetian goblet to the light and observed it carefully, as he continued: "The Prioress—a most wise and noble lady, of whom I told you on the day when you first questioned me concerning the Nunnery—has been having trouble with a nun, by name Sister Mary Seraphine. This young and lovely lady has, just lately, heard the world loudly calling—on her own shewing, through the neighing of a palfrey bringing to mind past scenes of gaiety. But—the Prioress suspicioned the voice of an earthly lover; and I, knowing how reckless and resolute an earthly lover was attempting to invade the Nunnery, we both—the Prioress and I—drew our own conclusions, and proceeded to face the problem with which we found ourselves confronted, namely:—whether to allow or to thwart the flight of Seraphine."

The Knight, toying with walnuts, held at the moment four in the palm of his right hand. They broke with a four-fold crack, which sounded but as one mighty crunch. Then, all unconscious of what he did, the Knight opened his great hand and let fall upon the table, a little heap of crushed nuts, shells and white flesh inextricably mixed.

The Bishop glanced at the small heap. The veiled twinkle in his eyes seemed to say; "So much for Seraphine!"

"I know not any lady of that name," said the Knight.

"Not by that name, my son. The nuns are not known in the Convent by the names they bore before they left the world. I happen to know that the Prioress, before she professed, was Mora, Countess of Norelle. I know this because, years ago, I saw her at the Court, when she was a maid of honour to the Queen; very young and lovely; yet, even then remarkable for wisdom, piety, and a certain sweet dignity of deportment. Sometimes now, when she receives me in the severe habit of her Order, I find myself remembering the flow of beautiful hair, soft as spun silk, bound by a circlet of gold round the regal head; the velvet and ermine; the jewels at her breast. Yet do I chide myself for recalling things which these holy women have renounced, and doubtless would fain forget."

The Bishop struck a silver gong with his left hand.

At once a distant door opened in the dark panelling and two black-robed figures glided in.

"Kindle a fire on the hearth," commanded the Bishop; adding to his guest: "The evening air strikes chilly. Also I greatly love the smell of burning wood. It is pungent to the nostrils, and refreshing to the brain."

The monks hastened to kindle the wood and to fan it into a flame.

Presently, the fire blazing brightly, the Bishop rose, and signed to the monks to place the chairs near the great fireplace. This they did; and, making profound obeisance, withdrew.

Thus the Bishop and the Knight, alone once more, were seated in the firelight. As it illumined the white and silver doublet, and glowed in the rubies, the Bishop conceived the whimsical fancy that the Knight might well be some splendid archangel, come down to force the Convent gates and carry off a nun to heaven. And the Knight, watching the leaping flame flicker on the Bishop's crimson robes and silvery hair, saw the lenient smile upon the saintly face and took courage as he realised how kindly was the heart, filled with most human sympathy, which beat beneath the cross of gold upon the Prelate's breast.

Leaning forward, the Bishop lifted the faggot-fork and moved one of the burning logs so that a jet of blue smoke, instead of mounting the chimney, came out toward them on the hearth.

Symon of Worcester sat back and inhaled it with enjoyment.

"This is refreshing," he said. "This soothes and yet braces the mind. And now, my son, let us return to the question of your own private concerns. First, let me ask—Hugh, dear lad, as friend and counsellor I ask it—are you able now to tell me the name of the woman you desire to wed?"

"Nay, my dear lord," replied the Knight, "that I cannot do. I guard her name, as I would guard mine honour. If—as may our Lady be pleased to grant—she consent to fly with me, her name will still be mine to guard; yet then all men may know it, so they speak it with due respect and reverence. But if—as may our blessèd Lady forbid—she withhold herself from me, so that three days hence I ride away alone; then must I ride away leaving no shadow of reproach on her fair fame. Her name will be forever in my heart; but no word of mine shall have left it, in the mind of any man, linked with broken vows, or a forsaken lover."

The Bishop looked long and earnestly at the Knight.

"That being so, my son," he said at length, "for want of any better name, I needs must call her by the name she bears in the Nunnery, and now speak with you of Sister Mary Seraphine."

Hugh d'Argent frowned.

"I care not to hear of this Seraphine," he said.

"Yet I fear me you must summon patience to hear of Seraphine for a few moments," said the Bishop, quietly; "seeing that I have here a letter from the Prioress herself, in which she sends you a message. . . . Ah! I marvel not that you are taken by surprise, my dear Knight; but keep your seat, and let not your hand fly so readily to your sword. To transfix the Reverend Mother's gracious epistle on your blade's keen point, would not tend to elucidate her meaning; nor could it alter the fact that she sends you important counsel concerning Sister Mary Seraphine."

The Bishop lighted a wax taper standing at his elbow, drew a letter from the folds of his sash, slowly unfolded and held it to the light.

The Knight sat silent, his face in shadow. The leaping flame of the fire played on his sword hilt and on the rubies across his breast.

As the parchment crackled between the Bishop's fingers, the Knight kept himself well in hand; but he prayed he might not have need to speak, nor to meet the Bishop's eyes. These—the saints be praised—were now intent upon the closely written page.