Moreover Hugh was here, under this very roof.

Yet had he bidden her a grave good-night, without so much as touching her hand.

Yet his dark eyes had said: "I love thee." Kneeling at the casement, Mora reviewed the days since they rode forth from Warwick.
It had been a wondrous experience for her--she, who had been Prioress of the White Ladies--thus to ride out into the radiant, sunny world.
Hugh was ever beside her, watchful, tender, shielding her from any possible pain or danger, yet claiming nothing, asking nothing, for himself.
One night, not being assured of the safety of the place where they lodged, she found afterwards that he had lain all night across the threshold of the chamber within which she and Debbie slept.
Another night she saw him pacing softly up and down beneath her window.
Yet when each morning came, and they began a new day together, he greeted her gaily, with clear eye and unclouded brow; not as one chilled or disappointed, or vexed to be kept from his due.
And oh, the wonder of each new day! The glory of those rides over the mossy softness of the woodland paths, where the sunlight fell, in dancing patches, through the thick, moving foliage, and shy deer peeped from the bracken, with soft eyes and gentle movements; out on to the wild liberty of the moors, where Icon, snuffing the fresher air, would stretch his neck and gallop for pure joy at having left cobbled streets and paved courtyards far behind him.

And ever they rode northward, and home drew nearer.

Looking back upon those long hours spent alone together, Mora realised how simply and easily she had grown used to being with Hugh, and how entirely this was due to his unselfishness and tact.