He lifted his head and held out his hand.
The Bishop was slipping the letter into his sash.
He paused.

Those eyes implored.

That outstretched hand demanded.
"Nay, dear lad," said the Bishop.

"I may not give it you, because it mentions the White Ladies by name, the Order, and poor little shallow, changeful Seraphine herself, But this much I will do: as _you_ may not have it, none other shall." With which the Bishop, unfolding the Prioress's letter, flung it upon the burning logs.
Together they watched it curl and blacken; uncurl again, and slowly flake away.

Long after the rest had fallen to ashes, this sentence remained clear: "Better an empty hearth; than a hearth where broods a curse." The flames played about it, but still it remained legible; white letters, upon a black ground; then, letters of fire upon grey ashes.
Of a sudden the Knight, seizing the faggot-fork, dashed out the words with a stroke.
"I would risk the curse," he cried, with passion.