The Bishop passed along the gallery, after the messenger had left the library, mounted to the banqueting hall and watched him ride away, from that casement, overlooking the courtyard, from which Hugh had looked down upon the arrival of Roger de Berchelai, bringing the letter from Rome.

A great relief filled the mind of the Bishop as he heard the clattering hoofs of the fastest nag in his stables, ring on the paving stones without, and die away in the distance.

A serious danger would be averted, if the Knight were warned in time.

The Bishop prayed that his letter might reach Hugh’s hands before Mora was moved to speak to him of Mary Antony’s vision.

He blamed himself bitterly for not having sooner recalled that conversation on the lawn.  How easy it would have been, after hearing Mora’s story in the arbour, to have given Hugh a word of caution before leaving Warwick.

Just after sunset, one of the Bishop’s men, who had remained behind at Warwick, reached the Palace, bringing news that the Knight, his Lady, and their entire retinue, had ridden out from Warwick in the afternoon of the previous day.

The Bishop chafed at the delay this must involve, yet rejoiced at the prompt beginning of the homeward journey, having secretly feared lest Hugh should find some difficulty in persuading his bride to set forth with him.

After all, they were but two days ahead of the messenger who, by fast riding, might overtake them on the morrow.  Mistress Deborah, even on a pillion, should prove a substantial impediment to rapid progress.

But, alas, before noon on the day following, Brother Philip appeared in haste, with an anxious countenance.

The messenger had returned, footsore and exhausted, bruised and wounded, with scarce a rag to his back.

In the forest, while still ten miles from Warwick, overtaken by the darkness, he had met a band of robbers, who had taken his horse and all he possessed, leaving him for dead, in a ditch by the wayside.  Being but stunned and badly bruised, when he came to himself he thought it best to make his way back to Worcester and there report his misadventure.

The Bishop listened to this luckless tale in silence.

When it was finished he said, gently:  “My good Philip, thou art proved right, and I, wrong.  Had I been guided by thee, I should not have lost a good horse, nor—­which is of greater importance at this juncture—­twenty-four hours of most precious time.”

Brother Philip made a profound obeisance, looking deeply ashamed of his own superior foresight and wisdom, and miserably wishful that the Reverend Father had been right, and he, wrong.

“However,” continued the Bishop, after a moment of rapid thought, “I must forgo the melancholy luxury of meditating upon my folly, until after we have taken prompt measures, so far as may be, to put right the mischief it has wrought.