Yet then---- He could hear the Bishop turning the parchment.
How freely the silvery moon sailed in this stormy sky, like a noble face looking calmly out, and ever out again, from amid perplexities and doubts.
In two nights' time, the moon would be well-nigh full.

Would he be riding to Warwick alone, or would she be beside him?
As the Bishop had said, he had described her as riding all day, like a bird, on the moors.

Yet now he loved best to picture her riding forth upon Icon into the river meadow, her veil streaming behind her; "on her face the light of a purposeful radiance." Ah, would she come?
Would she come, or would she stay?
Would she stay, or would she come?
The moon was now hidden by a cloud; but he could see the edge of the cloud silvering.
If the moon sailed forth free, before he had counted to twelve, she would come.
He began to count, slowly.
At nine, the moon was still hidden; and the Knight's heart failed him.
But at ten, the Bishop called: "Hugh!" and turning from the casement the Knight answered to the call.
The Bishop held in his hands the Pope's letter, and also a legal-looking document, from which seals depended.
"This doth closely concern you, my son," said the Bishop, with some emotion, and placed the parchment in the Knight's hands.
Hugh d'Argent could have mastered its contents by the light of the wax taper burning beside the Bishop's chair.

But some instinct he could not have explained, caused him to carry it over to the table in the centre of the hall, whereon four wax candles still burned.

He stood to read the document, with his back to the Bishop, his head bent close to the flame of the candles.
Once, twice, thrice, the Knight read it, before his bewildered brain took in its full import.