Often, she felt lonely by reason of her dignity.
And now--a man's dark face frowned on her in scornful anger; a man's stern voice flung back her elaborate threat with a short command, which disarmed her, yet which she obeyed.

Moreover, she found it strangely sweet to obey.

Behind the sternness, behind the scornful anger, there throbbed a great love.

In that love she trusted; but with that love she had to deal, putting it from her with a finality which should be beyond question.
Yet the "Prioress" fell from her, as she closed the panel.

It was the Woman and the Saint who moved over to the window and stood beside the Knight, in the radiance of a golden sunset after storm.
There was about her, as she spoke, a wistful humbleness; and a patient sadness, infinitely touching.
"Sir Hugh," she said, "my dear Knight, whom I ever found brave and tender, and whom I now know to have been always loyal and true--there is no need that I should add a word to your recital.