He had removed his biretta, and placed it upon the table.

His silvery hair rolled back from his forehead in silky waves.

His was the look of the saint and the scholar, almost of the mystic--save for the tender humour in those keen blue eyes, gleaming like beacon lights from beneath the level eyebrows; eyes which had won the confidence of many a man who else had not dared unfold his very human story, to one of such saintly aspect as Symon, Bishop of Worcester.

They were turned toward the sunset, as he made answer to the Prioress.
"The little foolish bird," said the Bishop--and he spoke in that gently musing tone, which conveys to the mind of the hearer a sense of infinite leisure in which to weigh and consider the subject in hand--"The little foolish bird might soon wish herself back in the safety of the cage.

On such as she, the cruel hawks of life do love to prey.