"The message," he said.
The Bishop lifted the letter.
"'But,'" he read, "'if you still believe your noble Knight to be the lover of Seraphine, then I pray you to tell him this from me. No nun worthy of a brave man's love, would consent to break her vows. A nun who could renounce her vows to go to him, would wrong herself and him, bringing no blessing to his home. Better an empty hearth, than a hearth where broods a curse. I ask you, my lord, to give this as a message to that noble Knight from me—the Prioress of this House—and to bid him go in peace, praying for a heart submissive to the will of God.'"
The Bishop's voice fell silent. He had maintained its quiet tones, yet perforce had had to rise to something of the dignity of this final pronouncement of the Prioress, and he spoke the last words with deep emotion.
Hugh d'Argent leaned forward, his elbows on his knees; then dropped his head upon his hands, and so stayed motionless.
The portcullis had fallen. Its iron spikes transfixed his very soul.
She was his, yet lost to him.
This final word of her authority, this speaking, through the Bishop's mouth, yet with the dignity of her own high office, all seemed of set intent, to beat out the last ray of hope within him.
As he sat silent, with bowed head, wild thoughts chased through his brain. He was back with her in the subterranean way. He knelt at her feet in the yellow circle of the lantern's light. Her tender hands, her woman's hands, her firm yet gentle hands, fell on his head; the fingers moved, with soothing touch, in and out of his hair. Then—when his love and longing broke through his control—came her surrender.
Ah, when she was in his arms, why did he loose her? Or, when she had unlocked the door, and the dim, grey light, like a pearly dawn at sea, stole downward from the crypt, why, like a fool, did he mount the steps alone, and leave her standing there? Why did he not fling his cloak about her, and carry her up, whether she would or no? "Why?" cried the demon of despair in his soul. "Ah, why!"