CHAPTER XLVII.
THE BISHOP IS TAKEN UNAWARES Symon of Worcester, seated before a table in the library, pondered a letter which had reached him the evening before, brought by a messenger from the Vatican.
It was a call to return to the land he loved best; the land of sunshine and flowers, of soft speech and courteous ways; the land of heavenly beauty and seraphic sounds; and, moreover, to return as a Cardinal of Holy Church.
His acceptance or refusal must be penned before night.

The messenger expected to start upon his return journey early on the morrow.
Should he go?
Or should he stay?
Was all now well for Mora?
Or did she yet need him?
Surely never had Cardinal's hat hung poised for such a reason! How little would the Holy Father dream that a question affecting the happiness or unhappiness of a woman could be a cause of hesitancy.
Presently, with a quick movement, the Bishop lifted his head.

The library was far removed from the courtyard; but surely he heard the clatter of horses' hoofs upon the raving stones.
He had hardly hoped for Brother Philip's return until after sunset; yet--with fast riding---- If the Knight's answer were in all respects satisfactory--If Mora's happiness was assured--why, then---- He sounded the silver gong.
His servant entered.
"What horsemen have just now ridden into the courtyard, Jasper ?" "My lord, Brother Philip has this moment returned, and with him----" "Bid Brother Philip to come hither, instantly." "May it please you, my lord----" "Naught will please me," said the Bishop, "but that my commands be obeyed without parley or delay." Jasper's obeisance took him through the door.
The Bishop bent over the letter from Rome, shading his face with his hand.
He could scarcely contain his anxiety; but he did not wish to give Brother Philip occasion to observe his tremulous eagerness to receive the Knight's reply.
He heard the door open and close, and a firm tread upon the floor.

It struck him, even then, that the lay-brother had not been wont to enter his presence with so martial a stride, and he wondered at the ring of spurs.

But his mind was too intently set upon Hugh d'Argent's letter, to do more than unconsciously notice these things.
"Thou art quickly returned, my good Philip," he said, without looking round.