Probably Father Benedict had closed the trap-door, concealed behind an upright beam, through which he was wont to peer down into the banqueting hall below, in order to satisfy himself that all was well and that the Reverend Father needed naught.
Let it be here recorded that this exceeding vigilance, on the part of Father Benedict, met with but scant reward.

For, having deduced a draught, and its reason, from the slight stirring of the banner during his conversation with the Knight, the Bishop gave certain secret instructions to Brother Philip, with the result that the next time the Chaplain peered down upon a private conference he found, at its close, the door by which he had gained access to the roof chamber barred on the outside, and, forcing it, he was in no better case, the ladder which connected it with another disused chamber below having been removed.

Thereafter Father Benedict watched the Bishop, and his guest, partake of three meals, before he could bring himself to make known his predicament, and beg to be released.

And, even then, the Bishop was amazingly slow in locating the place from which issued the agitated voice imploring assistance.

Several brethren were summoned to help; so that quite a little crowd stood gazing up at the pallid countenance of Father Benedict, framed in the trap-door as, lying upon his very empty stomach, he called down replies to the Bishop's questions; vainly striving to give a plausible reason for the peculiar situation in which he was discovered.
But, to return to the interview which brought about this later development.
The Knight had lifted his head, yet had still remained silent and impassive.
Where at length the Bishop had paused, awaiting comment of some kind, Hugh d'Argent, removing his eyes from the rafters, had asked: "When, my lord, do you propose to meet the Prioress, should my wife, upon learning the truth, elect to return to the Nunnery ?" Thus had the Bishop been forced to realise that the flow of his eloquence, the ripple of his humour, the strong current of his arguments, the gentle lapping of his tenderness, the breakers of his threats, and the thunderous billows of his denunciations, had alike expended themselves against the rock of the Knight's unshakable resolve, and left it standing.
Whereupon, in silence, the Bishop had risen, and had led the way to the library.
Here they now faced one another in final farewell.
Each knew that his loss would be the other's gain; his gain, the other's irreparable loss.
Yet, at that moment, each thought only of Mora's peace of soul.