At this he gazed for some time, as if uncertain what to do with it; then touched a spring and as the lid flew open, sat up and took from the box a tiny white tablet.  This he dropped into the wine.

The Knight, watching with anxious eyes, saw it rapidly dissolve as it sank to the bottom.

But all consciousness of the tablet, the wine, or the kneeling Knight, appeared to have instantly faded from the Bishop’s mind.  He lay back gazing dreamily at a banner which, for no apparent reason, stirred and wafted to and fro, as it hung from an oaken beam, high up among the rafters.

“Wherefore doth it waft?” murmured the Bishop, thereby adding greatly to the Knight’s alarm.  “Wherefore?—­Wherefore?—­Wherefore doth it waft?”

“Drink this, Reverend Father,” urged the Knight.  “I implore you, my dear lord, raise yourself and drink.”

“Methinks there must be a draught,” mused the Bishop.

“Yea, truly,” said the Knight, “of your famous Italian wine.  Father, I pray you drink.”

“Among the rafters,” said the Bishop.  But he sat up, took the goblet from the Knight’s hand, and slowly sipped its contents.

Almost at once, a faint tinge of colour shewed in his cheeks and on his lips; his eyes grew bright.  He smiled at the Knight, as he placed the empty goblet on the table beside him.

“Ah, my dear Hugh,” he said, extending his hand; “it is good to find you here.  Let us continue our conversation, if you are sufficiently rested and refreshed.  I have much to say to you.”

In the reaction of a great relief, Hugh d’Argent seized the extended hand and fervently kissed the Bishop’s ring.

It was the reverent homage of a loyal heart.  Symon of Worcester, as with a Benedicite he graciously acknowledged it, suffered a slight twinge of conscience; almost as unusual an experience as the ebullition of temper.  He took up the conversation exactly at that point to which it best suited him to return, namely, there where he had made the first false step.

“Therefore, my dear Hugh, I have now given you in detail the true history of the vision, making it clear that we owe it, alas! to earthly devotion, rather than to Divine interposition—­though indeed the one may well be the means used by the other.  It remains for us to consider, and to decide upon, the best line to take with Mora in order to safeguard most surely her peace of mind, and permanently to secure her happiness.”

“I have considered, Reverend Father,” said the Knight, simply; “and I have decided.”

“What have you decided to do, my son?” questioned Symon of Worcester, in his smoothest tones.

“To make known to Mora, so soon as I return, the entire truth.”

The Bishop cast his eyes upward, to see whether the banner still waved.

It did.

Undoubtedly there must be a current of air among the rafters.