It shone--as the Prioress had once seen it shine--like a large tear-drop on the Bishop's finger.
Deep dejection was in the Bishop's attitude.

With the riding away of the Knight, something strong and vital seemed to have passed out of his life.
A sense of failure oppressed him.

He had not succeeded in bending Hugh d'Argent to his will, neither had he risen to a frank appreciation of the loyal chivalry which would not enjoy happiness at the expense of honour.
While his mind refused to accept the Knight's code, his soul yearned to rise up and acclaim it.
Yet, working to the last for Mora's peace of mind, he had maintained his tone of scornful disapproval.
He would never again have the chance to cry "Hail!" to the Silver Shield.

The deft fingers of his sophistry had striven to loosen the Knight's shining armour.

How far they had succeeded, the Bishop could not tell.