The loud ringing of the dinner-bell arrested the conversation.
"Come, we will go down," said the abbess, rising.
They descended to the refectory.
The long hall, that had been the scene of so much horror and confusion in the morning, was now restored to its normal condition.
The plain, frugal, midday meal of the abbess and the elder nuns was arranged with pure cleanliness upon the table, where, but a few hours before, the body of the wounded man had lain. But the awful event of the morning had taken a deep effect upon the quiet and sensitive sisterhood. They sat down at the table, but scarcely touched the food.
When the form of dining—for it was little more than a form that day—was over, the abbess and her nuns arose, and separated about their several vocations.
Later on, the abbess sent a message to the Old Men's Home, inquiring after the wounded man.
She received an answer to the effect that the patient had waked up, and had been told of the telegram from the Duke of Hereward, and the expected arrival of his grace at five o'clock.
The news had satisfied the suffering man, who had been calmer ever since its reception. He had also been told of the arrival of his wife, but he had declined to see her, or any one, until he should have seen the Duke of Hereward. He was saving up all his little strength for his interview with the duke.
As the hours of the afternoon crept slowly away, the impatience of the young wife, Salome, arose to fever heat. She could not rest in any one room, but roamed about the convent, and through all its departments and offices, until, at length, she was met in the main corridor by the abbess, who gravely took her hand, drew it within her arm, and led her along, saying: