The gaunt Chaplain stood in the archway, making obeisance.
"Well?" said the Bishop, dispensing with the usual formalities.
"My lord, your messenger has returned, and requests an audience without delay."
"Bid him enter," said the Bishop, gripping the arms of the chair, and leaning forward.
The Chaplain, half-turning, beckoned with uplifted hand; then stood aside, as rapid feet approached.
A young man, clad in a brown riding-suit, dusty and travel-stained, appeared in the doorway. Not pausing for any monkish salutations or genuflections, he strode some half-dozen paces up the hall; then swung off his hat, stopped short with his spurs together, and bowed in soldierly fashion toward the great fireplace.
Thrusting his hand into his breast, he drew out a packet, heavily sealed.
"I bring from Rome," he said—and his voice rang through the chamber—"for my Lord Bishop of Worcester, a letter from His Holiness the Pope."
The Knight sprang to his feet. The Bishop rose, a noble figure in crimson and gold, and the dignity of his high office straightway enveloped him.
In complete silence, he stretched out his right hand for the letter.