He was hers, to comfort; she was his, to soothe his pain.

Then--the exquisite moment of yielding; the relief of the clasp of his strong arms; the passing away of the suffering of long years, as she felt his lips on hers, and surrendered to the hunger of his kiss.
Then--one last picture--when loyal to her wish, felt rather than expressed, he had freed her, and passed, without further word or touch, up into that dim grey light like a pearly dawn at sea--passed, and been lost to view; she saw herself left in utter loneliness, the heavy door locked by her own turning of the key, he on one side, she on the other, for ever; she saw herself lying beneath the ground, in darkness and desolation, her face in the damp dust where his feet had stood.
"Do you love Hugh ?" again demanded the Bishop.
And the Prioress lifted eyes full of suffering, reproach, and pain, but also full of courage and truth, to his face, and answered simply: "Alas, my lord, I do." The silence thereafter following was tense with conflict.

The Bishop turned his eyes to the figure of the Redeemer upon the cross, self-sacrifice personified, while the Prioress mastered her emotion.
Then: "'Love never faileth,'" said the Bishop gently.
But the Prioress had regained command over herself, and the gentle words were to her a challenge.

She donned, forthwith, the breastplate of holy resolve, and drew her sword.
"My Lord Bishop, you have wrung from me a confession of my love; but in so doing, you have wrung from me a confession of sin.

A nun may not yield to such love as Hugh d'Argent still desires to win from me.