He had stretched out the right hand of his withered faith, and lo, it had proved strong and vital.
Yet as, in the heavy silence of the crypt, he heard the turning of the key in the lock, his heart stood still, and every emotion hung suspended, as the first veiled figure--shadowy and ghostlike--moved into view.
It was not she.
The Knight's pulses throbbed again.

His heart pounded violently as, keeping their measured distances, nine, ten, eleven, white figures passed.
Then--twelfth: a tall nun, almost her height; yet not she.
Then--thirteenth: Oh, blessed Virgin! Oh, saints of God! Mora! She, herself.

Never could he fail to recognize her carriage, the regal poise of her head.

However veiled, however shrouded, he could not be mistaken.

It was Mora; and that she should be walking in this central position meant that she might with comparative safety, step aside.
Yet, even this---- But, at that moment, passing him, she turned her head, and for an instant her eyes met the eyes of the Knight looking out from the shadows.
Another moment and she had vanished up the winding stairway in the wall.
But that instant was enough.