As her eyes met his, Hugh d'Argent knew that his betrothed was once more his own.
His heart ceased pounding; his pulses beat steadily.
The calm of a vast, glad certainty enfolded him; a joy beyond belief.
Yet he knew now that he had been sure of it, ever since he came up from the depths of the Severn into the summer sunshine, grasping the white stone.
"I keep my trust in prayer.

.

.

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Give her to me! Give her to me! Blessed Virgin, give her to me! 'A sculptured smile'?
Nay, my lord.
I keep my trust in prayer!" The solemn chanting of the monks, stole down from the distant choir.
Vespers had begun.
The Knight strode to the altar, and knelt for some minutes, his hands clasped upon the crossed hilt of his sword.
Then he rose, and spoke in low tones to his men-at-arms.
"When a thrush calls, you will leave the crypt, and guard the entrance from without; allowing none, on any pretext, to pass within.