CHAPTER V.
THE WAYWARD NUN Sister Mary Seraphine lay prone upon the floor of her cell.
Tightly clenched in her hands were fragments of her torn veil.
She beat her knuckles upon the stones with rhythmic regularity; then, when her arms would lift no longer, took up the measure with her toes, in wild imitation of a galloping horse.
As she lay, she repeated with monotonous reiteration: "Trappings of crimson, and silver bells: mane and tail, like foam of the waves; a palfrey as white as snow!" The Prioress entered, closed the door behind her, and looked searchingly at the prostrate figure; then, lifting the master-key which hung from her girdle, locked the door on the inside.
Sister Mary Seraphine had been silent long enough to hear the closing and locking of the door.
Now she started afresh.
"Trappings of crimson, and silver bells----" The Prioress walked over to the narrow casement, and stood looking out at the rosy clouds wreathing a pale green sky.
"Oh!.

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Oh!.

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