But for the silver moonlight of his hair, he might have been a man in his prime--so erect was his carriage, so keen and bright were his eyes.
The tall woman in the doorway gave a little cry; then moved quickly forward.
"You ?" she said.

"You! The priest who is to wed us?
You!" He stood his ground, awaiting her approach.
"Yes, I," he said; "I." Half-way across the hall, she paused.
"No," she said, as if to herself.

"I dream.

It is not Father Gervaise.

It is the Bishop." She drew nearer.
Earnestly he looked upon her, striving to see in her the Prioress of Whytstone--the friend of all these happy, peaceful, blessed years.
But the Prioress had vanished.
Mora de Norelle stood before him, taller by half a head than he, flushed by long galloping in the night breeze; nerves strung to breaking point; eyes bright with the great unrest of a headlong leap into a new world.