"Father," said Mora, with deep emotion, "during all these years, you have been most good to me; kind beyond words; patient always. I fear I ofttimes tried you by being too firmly set on my own will and way. But, I pray you to believe, I ever valued your counsel and could scarce have lived without your friendship. Last night, on first entering the Castle, I fear I spoke wildly and acted strangely. I was sore overwrought. I came in, out of the night, not knowing whom I should find in the hall chamber; and—for a moment, my lord, for one wild, foolish moment—I took you not for yourself but for another."
"For whom did you take me, my daughter?" asked the Bishop.
"For one of whom you have oft reminded me, my lord, if I may say so without offence, seeing I speak of a priest who was the ideal of my girlhood's dreams. Knew you, many years ago, one Father Gervaise, held in high regard at the Court, confessor to the Queen and her ladies?"
The Bishop smiled, and his blue eyes looked into Mora's with an expression of quiet interest.
"Father Gervaise?" he said. "Preacher at the Court? Indeed, I knew him, my daughter; and more than knew him. Father Gervaise and I had the same grandparents."
"Ah," cried Mora, eagerly, "then that accounts for a resemblance which from the first has haunted me, making of our friendship, at once, so sweetly intimate a thing. The voice and the eyes alone were like—but, ah, so like! Father Gervaise wore a beard, which hid his mouth and chin; but his blue eyes had in them that kindly yet searching look, though not merry as yours oft are, my lord; and your voice has ever made me think of his.
"And once—just once—his eyes looked at me, across the Castle hall at Windsor, with a deep glow of fire in them; a look which made me feel called to an altar whereon, if I could but stand the test of fire, I should be forever purified, uplifted, blest as was never earthly maid before, save only our blessèd Lady. All that night I dreamed of it, and my whole soul was filled with it, yet never again did I see Father Gervaise. The next morning he left the Court, and soon after sailed for Spain; and on the passage thither the ship foundered in a great storm, and he, with all on board, perished. Heard you of that, my lord?"
"I heard it," said the Bishop.
"All believed it, and mourned him; for by all he was belovèd. But never could I feel that he was dead. Always for me it seemed that he still lived. And last night—when I entered—across the great hall chamber, it seemed as if, once more, the eyes of Father Gervaise looked upon me, with that glowing fire in them, which called me to an altar."
The Bishop smiled again, and there was in his look a gentle merriment.