And this had happened eight years ago, as men count time. But as nuns count it? And lovers? A lifetime? A night?
It had seemed indeed a lifetime to the Prioress of the White Ladies, during the first days of her return to the world. But to the woman who now kneeled at the casement, drinking in the balmy sweetness of the summer night, looking with soft yearning eyes at the well-remembered landscape flooded in silvery moonlight, it seemed—a night.
A night—since she stood on the battlements, her lover's arms about her.
A night—since she said: "Thou wilt come back to me, Hugh. . . . My love will ever be around thee as a silver shield."
A night—since, as the last words he should hear from her lips, she had said: "Maid or wife, God knows I am all thine own. Thine, and none other's, forever."
Of all the memories connected with this chamber, the clearest to-night was of the hungry ache at her heart, when Hugh had gone. It had seemed to her then that never could that ache be stilled, until she could once again clasp his head to her breast. She knew now that it never had been stilled. Dulled, ignored, denied; called by other names; but stilled—never.
On this night it was as sweetly poignant as on that other night eight years ago, when she had slowly descended to this very room, from the moonlit battlements.
Yet to-night she was maid and wife. Moreover Hugh was here, under this very roof. Yet had he bidden her a grave good-night, without so much as touching her hand. Yet his dark eyes had said: "I love thee."
Kneeling at the casement, Mora reviewed the days since they rode forth from Warwick.
It had been a wondrous experience for her—she, who had been Prioress of the White Ladies—thus to ride out into the radiant, sunny world.