Slowly the Prioress rose, feeling her way, as one blinded by too great a light.
She stood for some moments leaning against the doorpost, her hand upon the latch, watching the furrowed face upon the pillow, gently slumbering; still illumined by a halo of sunset light.
Then she opened the door, and passed out; closing it behind her.
As the Prioress closed the door, Mary Antony opened one eye.
Yea, verily! She was alone!
She raised herself upon the couch, listening intently.
Far away in the distance, she fancied she could hear the door of the Reverend Mother's chamber shut—yes!—and the turning of the key within the lock.
Then Mary Antony arose, tottered over to the crucifix, and, falling on her knees, lifted clasped hands to the dying Redeemer.
"O God," she said, "full well I know that to lie concerning holy things doth damn the soul forever. But the great Lord Bishop said she would thrust happiness from her with both hands, unless our Lady vouchsafed a vision. Gladly will I bear the endless torments of hell fires, that she may know fulness of joy and pleasures for evermore. But, oh, Son of Mary, by the sorrows of our Lady's heart, by the yearnings of her love, I ask that—once a year—I may come out—to sit just for one hour on my jasper seat, and see the Reverend Mother walk, between the great Lord Bishop and the splendid Knight, up the wide golden stair. And some day at last, O Saviour Christ, I ask it of Thy wounds, 'Thy dying love, Thy broken heart, may the sin of Mary Antony—her great sin, her sin of thus lying about holy things—be forgiven her, because—because—she loved"——
Old Mary Antony fell forward on the stones. This time, she had really swooned.