Hugh d’Argent stood in the shadow of a pillar facing the narrow archway in the wall from which the winding stairs led up to the clerestory.

From this position he could also command a view of the steps leading up into the crypt from the underground way, and of the ground to be traversed by the White Ladies as they passed from the steps to the staircase in the wall.

Here the Knight kept his final vigil.

A strange buoyancy possessed him.  He seemed to have left his despondence, like a heavy weight, at the bottom of the river.  From the moment when, his breath almost exhausted, he had seen and grasped the Bishop’s stone, bringing it in triumph to the surface, Hugh had felt sure he would win.  Aye, even before Symon had flung the stone; when, in reply to the doubt cast by him on our Lady’s smile, the Knight had said:  “I keep my trust in prayer,” a joyous confidence had then and there awakened within him.  He had stretched out the right hand of his withered faith, and lo, it had proved strong and vital.

Yet as, in the heavy silence of the crypt, he heard the turning of the key in the lock, his heart stood still, and every emotion hung suspended, as the first veiled figure—­shadowy and ghostlike—­moved into view.

It was not she.

The Knight’s pulses throbbed again.  His heart pounded violently as, keeping their measured distances, nine, ten, eleven, white figures passed.

Then—­twelfth:  a tall nun, almost her height; yet not she.

Then—­thirteenth:  Oh, blessed Virgin!  Oh, saints of God!  Mora!  She, herself.  Never could he fail to recognize her carriage, the regal poise of her head.  However veiled, however shrouded, he could not be mistaken.  It was Mora; and that she should be walking in this central position meant that she might with comparative safety, step aside.  Yet, even this——­

But, at that moment, passing him, she turned her head, and for an instant her eyes met the eyes of the Knight looking out from the shadows.

Another moment and she had vanished up the winding stairway in the wall.

But that instant was enough.  As her eyes met his, Hugh d’Argent knew that his betrothed was once more his own.

His heart ceased pounding; his pulses beat steadily.

The calm of a vast, glad certainty enfolded him; a joy beyond belief.  Yet he knew now that he had been sure of it, ever since he came up from the depths of the Severn into the summer sunshine, grasping the white stone.

“I keep my trust in prayer. . . .  Give her to me!  Give her to me!  Blessed Virgin, give her to me!  ‘A sculptured smile’?  Nay, my lord.  I keep my trust in prayer!”

The solemn chanting of the monks, stole down from the distant choir.  Vespers had begun.

The Knight strode to the altar, and knelt for some minutes, his hands clasped upon the crossed hilt of his sword.