CHAPTER XIV.
FAREWELL--HERE, AND NOW When the Prioress, a lighted lantern in her hand, opened the door of her chamber, a tall figure in the dress of the White Ladies of Worcester stood motionless against the wall, facing the door.
"Come!" she whispered, beckoning; and, noiselessly, it stood beside her.

Then she closed the door and, using her master-key, locked it behind her.
Silently the two white figures passed along the passage, through the cloister, and down the flight of steps into the Convent crypt.

The Prioress unlocked the door and stooping they passed under the arch, and entered the subterranean way.
Placing the lantern on the ground, the Prioress drew out the key, closed the door, and locked it on the inside.
She turned, and lifting the lantern, saw that the Knight had rid himself of his disguise, and now stood before her, very straight and tall, just within the circle of light cast by her lantern.
With the closing and locking of the door a strange sense came over them, as of standing together in a third world--neither his nor hers--tomblike in its complete isolation and darkness; heavy with a smell of earth and damp stones; the slightest sound reverberating in hollow exaggeration; yet, in itself, silent as the grave.
This tomblike quality in their surroundings seemed to make their own vitality stronger and more palpitating.
The seconds of silence, after the grating of the key in the lock ceased, seemed hours.
Then the Knight spoke.
"Give me the lantern," he said.
She met his eyes.

Again the dignity of her Office slipped from her.
Again it was sweet to obey.
He held the lantern so that its light illumined her face and his.
"Mora," he said, "it is long since thou and I last walked together over the sunny fields, amid buttercups and cowslips, and the sweet-smelling clover.

To-night we walk beneath the fields instead of through them.
We are under the grass, my sweet.