"You were over-strained, my daughter. When you drew near, you found—instead of a ghostly priest with eyes of fire, drowned many years ago, off the coast of Spain—your old friend, Symon of Worcester, who had stolen a march on you, by reason of the swift paces of his good mare, Shulamite."
Mora leaned forward, and laid her hand on his.
"Mock not, my friend," she said. "There was a time when Father Gervaise stood to me for all my heart held dearest. Yet I loved him, not as a girl loves a man, but rather as a nun loves her Lord. He stood to me for all that was noblest and best; and, above all, for all that was vital and alive in life and in religion; strong to act; able to endure. He confessed me once, and told me, when I kneeled before the crucifix, to say of Him Who hangs thereon: 'He ever liveth to make intercession for us.' Never have I forgotten it. And—sometimes—when I say the sacred words, and, saying them, my mind turns to Father Gervaise, an echo seems to whisper to my spirit: 'He, also, liveth.'"
Symon of Worcester rose.
"My daughter," he said, "the sun is high in the heavens. We must not linger here. Hugh will be seeking his bride, and Mistress Deborah be waxing anxious over the escape of her charge. The morning meal will be ready in the banqueting hall; after which we must to the chapel, for the marriage. Then, without delay, I ride to Worcester to make all right at the Nunnery. Let us go."
As Mora walked beside him across the sunny lawn, "Father," she said, "think you the heart of a nun can ever become again as the heart of other women?"
CHAPTER XXXVI
STRONG TO ACT; ABLE TO ENDURE
Back to Worcester rode the Bishop.
Gallop! Gallop! along the grassy rides, beside the hard highway.