"See, mother," cried Lady Margaret, "the sword has fallen from the hand of the blessed apostle!"
"Nay," replied the abbess, "I removed it with my own hand. On that evil day when we heard that Sir Fulke de Breauté had destroyed the fair church of St. Paul at Bedford, I vowed to the saints that his statue in our church should not bear the sword again till vengeance had been taken upon the destroyer."
The unhappy wife covered her face with her hands with a low moan.
"May it be the vengeance of a true repentance!" she ejaculated.
The abbess laid her hand soothingly on her head.
"Pardon me, my daughter," she said, "I should not have told you of the vow."
They passed on through the choir of the nuns, whose stalls occupied the central crossing under the tower and a portion of the chancel, and approached the high altar. At the foot of the steps a black-robed figure knelt motionless in prayer.
"See," whispered Lady Margaret, "one of the sisters is here already!"
"Nay," replied the abbess; "she is not one of our sisters. She is a young damsel of the neighbourhood who has come to our retreat and has craved permission to wear for the time the habit of our novices. Poor child, she is in sore distress! It is sad to see one so young and fair thus cast down. Her talk is all of embracing the religious life. But a vocation is not given to all damsels of lovely face and form. God has for each woman her work and her duty. Some must perchance be wives and mothers."
The abbess paused. A faint smile flickered over her still handsome face as her thoughts wandered for a brief moment, even in the precincts of her abbey church, back to bygone days when she, too, had been a young and high-born beauty.