The Bishop met the earnest eyes, full of a deep searching. He stirred uneasily; then smiled, waving a deprecatory hand.
"Between ourselves, my dear Hugh—though even so, it is not well to be too explicit—between ourselves of course nothing—well—miraculous happened, beyond the fact that our Lady most certainly sharpened the wits of old Antony. Therefore is it, that you undoubtedly owe your wife to those same wits, and may praise our Lady for sharpening them."
Then it was that the Knight rose to his feet.
"And I refuse," he said, "to owe my wife to sacrilege, fraud, and falsehood."
The Bishop leaned forward, gripping with both hands the arms of his chair. His face was absolutely colourless; but his eyes, like blue steel, seemed to transfix the Knight, who could not withdraw his regard from those keen points of light.
The Bishop's whisper, when at length he spoke, was more alarming than if he had shouted.
"Fool!" he said. "Ungrateful, unspeakable fool! What mean you by such words?"
"Call me fool if you will, my Lord Bishop," said the Knight, "so long as I give not mine own conscience cause to call me knave."
"What mean you by such words?" persisted the Bishop. "I mean, my lord, that if the truth opened out an abyss which plunged me into hell, I would sooner know it than attempt to enter Paradise across the flimsy fabric of a lie."
Now during many days, Symon of Worcester had worked incessantly, suffered much, accomplished much, surrendered much, lost much. Perhaps it is hardly to be wondered at, that, at this juncture, he lost his temper.