“She tore it up and planted her foot upon it,” remarked the Bishop.

“I will not give up hope,” said the Knight.

“Nothing short of a miracle, my son, will change her mind, or move her from her fixed resolve.”

“Then our Lady will work a miracle,” declared the Knight bravely.  “I prayed ‘Send her to me!’ and our blessed Lady smiled.”

“A sculptured smile, dear lad, is ever there.  Had you prayed ’Hold her from me!’ our Lady would equally have smiled.”

“Nay,” said the Knight; “I keep my trust in prayer.”

They paused at the parapet overhanging the river.

“I was successful,” said the Knight, “in dealing with Eustace, her nephew.  There will be no need to apply to the King.  The ambition was his mother’s.  Now Eleanor is dead, he cares not for the Castle.  Next month he weds an heiress, with large estates, and has no wish to lay claim to Mora’s home.  All is now once more as it was when she left it.  Her own people are in charge.  I plan to take her there when we leave Warwick, riding northward by easy stages.”

The Bishop, stooping, picked up a smooth, white stone, and flung it into the river.  It fell with a splash, and sank.  The water closed upon it.  It had vanished instantly from view.

Then the Bishop spoke.  “Hugh, my dear lad, she thought it was the Pope’s own deed and signature, yet she tore it across, and then again across; flung it upon the ground, and set her foot upon it.  I deem it now as impossible that the Prioress should change her mind upon this matter, as that we should ever see again that stone which now lies deep on the river-bed.”

It was a high dive from the parapet; and, to the Bishop, watching the spot where the Knight cleft the water, the moments seemed hours.

But when the Knight reappeared, the white stone was in his hand.

The Bishop went down to the water-gate.

“Bravely done, my son!” he called, as the Knight swam to the steps.  “You deserve to win.”

But to himself he said:  “Fighting men and quick-witted women will be ever with us, gaining their ends by strenuous endeavour.  But the age of miracles is past.”

Hugh d’Argent mounted the steps.

“I shall win,” he said, and shook himself like a great shaggy dog.

The Bishop, over whom fell a shower, carefully wiped the glistening drops from his garments with a fine Italian handkerchief.

“Go in, boy,” he said, “and get dry.  Send thy man for another suit, unless it would please thee better that Father Benedict should lend thee a cassock!  Give me the stone.  It may well serve as a reminder of that famous sacred stone from which the Convent takes its name.  Methinks we have, between us, contrived something of an omen, concluding in thy favour.”

Presently the Bishop, alone in his library, stood the white stone upon the iron-bound chest within which he had placed the Pope’s mandate.