Presently these roses became symbolic to the Bishop—the white, of the fair presence of the Prioress; the red, of the high honour awaiting him in Rome.
He was seized by the whimsical idea that, were he to close his eyes, beseech the blessèd Saint Joseph to guide his hand, take three steps forward, and pluck the first blossom his fingers touched, he might put an end to this tiresome uncertainty.
But he smiled at the childishness of the fancy. It savoured of the old lay-sister, Mary Antony, playing with her peas and confiding in her robin. Moreover the Bishop never did anything with his eyes shut. He would have slept with them open, had not Nature decreed otherwise.
Once again he paced the full length of the lawn, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes looking beyond the river to the distant hills.
"Will she come, or shall I go? Shall I depart, or will she return?"
As he turned at the parapet, a voice seemed to whisper with insistence:
"A white rose for her pure presence in the Cloister. A red rose for
Rome."
And, as he reached the wall again, the bright eyes of a little maiden peeped at him through the archway.
He stood quite still and looked at her.
Never had he seen so lovely an elf. A sunbeam had made its home in each lock of her tumbled hair. Her little brown face had the soft bloom of a ripe nectarine; her eyes, the timid glance of a startled fawn.
The Bishop smiled.