"What if, after all, I can help you in this," he said. "What if I can throw light upon the whole situation, and find a cause for the little foolish bird's restless condition, proving to you that she may have heard something more than the mere neighing of a palfrey! Listen!
"A Knight arrived in this city, rather more than a month ago; a very noble Knight, splendid to look upon; one of our bravest Crusaders. He arrived here in sore anguish of heart. His betrothed had been taken from him during his absence from England, waging war against the Turks in Palestine—taken from him by a most dastardly and heartless plot. He made many inquiries concerning this Nunnery and Order, rode north again on urgent business, but returned, with a large retinue, five days since."
The Prioress did not stir. She maintained her quiet posture as an attentive listener. But her face grew as white as her wimple, and she folded her hands to steady their trembling.
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.