The Palace stood on the same side of the Cathedral as the main street of the city, in the direct route to the Foregate, the Tithing, and the White Ladies' Nunnery at Whytstone. How strange to remember, that beneath him lay that mile-long walk in darkness; that just under the Palace, so near the Cathedral, she and he, pacing together, had known the end of their strange pilgrimage to be at hand. Yet then——
He could hear the Bishop turning the parchment.
How freely the silvery moon sailed in this stormy sky, like a noble face looking calmly out, and ever out again, from amid perplexities and doubts.
In two nights' time, the moon would be well-nigh full. Would he be riding to Warwick alone, or would she be beside him?
As the Bishop had said, he had described her as riding all day, like a bird, on the moors. Yet now he loved best to picture her riding forth upon Icon into the river meadow, her veil streaming behind her; "on her face the light of a purposeful radiance."
Ah, would she come? Would she come, or would she stay? Would she stay, or would she come?
The moon was now hidden by a cloud; but he could see the edge of the cloud silvering.
If the moon sailed forth free, before he had counted to twelve, she would come.
He began to count, slowly.
At nine, the moon was still hidden; and the Knight's heart failed him.