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.

“By Saint Peter’s keys!” he cried, “I care not, Sir Knight, whether you drop to hell or climb to Paradise.  But it is my business to see to it that you do not disturb the peace of mind of the woman you have wed.  Therefore I warn you, that if you ride from here set upon so doing, you will not reach your destination alive.”

The Knight smiled.  The film of weariness lifted as if by magic from his eyes, and they shone bright and serene.

“I cannot draw my sword upon threats, my Lord Bishop; but let those threats take human shape, and by Saint George, I shall find pleasure in rendering a good account of them.  With this same sword I once did hew my way through a score of Saracens.  Think you a dozen Worcester cut-throats could keep me from reaching my wife?”

Something in the tone with which the Knight spoke these final words calmed the Bishop; something in the glance of his eye quelled the angry Prelate.  In the former he recognised a depth of love such as he had not hitherto believed possible to Hugh d’Argent; in the latter, calm courage, nay, a serene joy at the prospect of danger, against which his threats and fury could but break themselves, even as stormy waves against the granite rocks of the Cornish coast.

The Bishop possessed that somewhat rare though valuable faculty, the ability to recognise instantly, and instantly to accept, the inevitable.  Also when he had made a false move, he knew it, and was preparing to counteract it almost before his opponent had perceived the mistake.

So rarely was the Bishop angry, that his anger now affected him physically, with a sickening sense of faintness.  With closed eyes, he leaned his head against the back of the chair.  His face, always white and delicate, now appeared as if carved in ivory.  His lips fell apart, but no breath issued from them.  Except for a slight twitching of the eyelids, the Bishop’s countenance was lifeless.

Startled and greatly alarmed, Hugh looked around for some means whereby he might summon help, but could see none.

Hastening to the table, he poured wine into the Venetian goblet, brought it back, and moistened the Bishop’s lips.  Then kneeling on one knee loosed the cold fingers from their grip.

Presently the Bishop opened his eyes—­no longer points of blue steel, but soft and dreamy like a mist of bluebells on distant hills.  He looked, with unseeing gaze, into the anxious face on a level with his own; then turned his eyes slowly upon the ruby goblet which the Knight had lifted from the floor and was trying to hold to his lips.

Waving it away, the Bishop slipped the finger and thumb of his left hand into his sash, and drew out a small gold box of exquisite workmanship, set with emeralds.