None of the Bishop's flashes of humour had found any place in the Knight's recital.
But now his voice, of a sudden, fell silent.

The tale was told.
Mora had sat throughout leaning forward, her right elbow on her knee, her chin resting in the palm of her right hand; her left toying with the jewelled cross upon her lap.
Now she looked up.
"Hugh, you have made no mention of the Bishop's opinion as regards the effect of this upon myself.

Did he advise that I be told the entire truth ?" The Knight hesitated.
"Nay," he admitted at length, seeing that she must have an answer.
"The Bishop had, as you indeed know, from the first considered our previous betrothal and your sister's perfidy, sufficient justification for your release from all vows made through that deception.

Armed with the Pope's mandate, the Bishop saw no need for a divine manifestation, nor did he, from the first, believe in the vision of this old lay-sister.

Yet, knowing you set great store by it, he feared for your peace of mind, should you learn the truth." "Did he command you not to tell me, Hugh ?" "For love of you, Mora, out of tender regard for your happiness, the Bishop counselled me not to tell you." "He would have had you to become a party, with himself, and old Mary Antony, in my permanent deception ?" Hugh was a loyal friend.
"He would have had me to become a party, with himself, in securing your permanent peace, Mora," he said, sternly.
She loved his sternness.