“And how old were you, Mother?” saith Sister Amphyllis.
“Nineteen years,” saith she.
“There must many an one have died since you came here, Mother?”
“Ay,” quoth Mother Alianora, with a far-away look at the trees without. “The oldest nun in all the Abbey, Sister Margery de Burgh, died the month after I came hither. She remembered a Sister that was nearly an hundred years old, and that had received the holy veil from the hand of Saint Gilbert himself.”
Sister Amphyllis crossed herself.
“Annora,” saith Mother Alianora, “canst thou remember Mother Guendolen?”
What did I know about Mother Guendolen? Some faint, vague, misty memories seemed to awake within me—an odd, incongruous mixture like a dream—dark eyes like Margaret’s, which told a tale, but this seemed a tale of terror; and an enamelled cross, which had somewhat to do with a battle and a queen.
“I scarcely know, Mother,” said I. “Somewhat do I recall, yet what it is I hardly know. Were her eyes dark, with an affrighted look in them?”
“They were dark,” said Mother Alianora, “but the very peace of God was in them. Ah, thou art mixing up two persons—herself and her cousin, Mother Gladys. They were near of an age, and Mother Guendolen only outlived Mother Gladys by one year: but they were full diverse manner of women. Thou shouldst remember her, Annora. Thou wert a maiden of fifteen when she died.”
All at once she seemed to flash up before me.