The apologetic tone the Knight had used, seemed warrant for her hesitancy, and rendered compliance more difficult.
Each moment it became more impossible to place herself upon the stretcher.
"Lie down," said the Knight, sternly.
At the curt word of command, the Prioress shuddered again; but, without a word, she laid herself down upon the stretcher, closing her eyes, and crossing her hands upon her breast.

So white she was, so still, so rigid; as Hugh d'Argent, the bandages in his hand, stood looking down upon her, she seemed the marble effigy of a recumbent Prioress, graven upon a tomb; save that, as the Knight looked upon that beautiful, proud face, two burning tears forced their way from beneath the closed lids and rolled helplessly down the pale cheeks.
She did not see the look of tender compunction, of adoring love, in Hugh's eyes.
Her shame, her utter humiliation, seemed complete.
Not when she took off her jewelled cross, and placed it upon our Lady's hand; not when she stepped aside and allowed herself to be hidden by the cloak; not even when she removed her ring and handed it to Hugh, did she cease to be Prioress of the White Ladies of Worcester; but when she laid herself down before the shrine of Saint Oswald, full length upon the stretcher, at her lover's feet.
Hugh stooped, and hid the bandages beside her.

He could not bring himself to touch or to disguise that lovely head.

Instead, he covered her completely with the cloak; saying, in deep tones of infinite tenderness: "Our Lady be with thee.

It will not be for long." Then, shrill through the silent crypt, rang the dear call of the blackbird..