THE POPE'S MANDATE
The Bishop and Hugh d'Argent were once more alone. It was
characteristic of both that they sat for some minutes in unbroken
silence.
Then the Bishop put out his hand, took up the packet from Rome, and
looked at the Knight.
Hugh d'Argent rose, walked over to the casement, and leaned out into
the still, summer night.
He could hear the Bishop breaking the seals of the Pope's letter.
Below in the courtyard, all was quiet. The great gates were barred.
He wondered whether the steaming horse had been well rubbed down,
clothed, and given a warm mash mixed with ale.
He could hear the Bishop unfolding the parchment, which crackled.
The moon, in her first quarter, rode high in the heavens. The towers
of St. Mary's church looked black against the sky.
The Palace stood on the same side of the Cathedral as the main street
of the city, in the direct route to the Foregate, the Tithing, and the
White Ladies' Nunnery at Whytstone. How strange to remember, that
beneath him lay that mile-long walk in darkness; that just under the
Palace, so near the Cathedral, she and he, pacing together, had known
the end of their strange pilgrimage to be at hand. Yet then----
He could hear the Bishop turning the parchment.
How freely the silvery moon sailed in this stormy sky, like a noble
face looking calmly out, and ever out again, from amid perplexities and
doubts.
In two nights' time, the moon would be well-nigh full. Would he be
riding to Warwick alone, or would she be beside him?
As the Bishop had said, he had described her as riding all day, like a
bird, on the moors. Yet now he loved best to picture her riding forth
upon Icon into the river meadow, her veil streaming behind her; "on her
face the light of a purposeful radiance."
Ah, would she come? Would she come, or would she stay? Would she
stay, or would she come?
The moon was now hidden by a cloud; but he could see the edge of the
cloud silvering.
If the moon sailed forth free, before he had counted to twelve, she
would come.
He began to count, slowly.
At nine, the moon was still hidden; and the Knight's heart failed him.
But at ten, the Bishop called: "Hugh!" and turning from the casement
the Knight answered to the call.
The Bishop held in his hands the Pope's letter, and also a
legal-looking document, from which seals depended.
"This doth closely concern you, my son," said the Bishop, with some
emotion, and placed the parchment in the Knight's hands.
Hugh d'Argent could have mastered its contents by the light of the wax
taper burning beside the Bishop's chair. But some instinct he could
not have explained, caused him to carry it over to the table in the
centre of the hall, whereon four wax candles still burned. He stood to
read the document, with his back to the Bishop, his head bent close to
the flame of the candles.
Once, twice, thrice, the Knight read it, before his bewildered brain
took in its full import. Yet it was clear and unmistakable--a
dispensation, signed and sealed by the Pope, releasing Mora, Countess
of Norelle, from all vows and promises taken and made when she entered
the Nunnery of the White Ladies of Worcester, at Whytstone, in the
parish of dairies, and later on when she became Prioress of that same
Nunnery; and furthermore stating that this full absolution was granted
because it had been brought to the knowledge of His Holiness that this
noble lady had entered the cloistered life owing to a wicked and
malicious plot designed to wrest her castle and estates from her, and
also to part her from a valiant Knight, at that time fighting in the
Holy Wars, to whom she was betrothed.
Furthermore the deed empowered Symon, Bishop of Worcester or any priest
he might appoint, to unite in marriage the Knight Crusader, Hugh
d'Argent, and Mora de Norelle, sometime Prioress of the White Ladies of
Worcester.
The Knight walked back to the hearth and stood before the Bishop, the
parchment in his hand.
"My Lord Bishop," he said, "do I dream?"
Symon of Worcester smiled. "Nay, my son. Surely no dream of thine was
ever signed by His Holiness, nor bore suspended from it the great seal
of the Vatican! The document you hold will be sufficient answer to all
questions, and will ensure your wife's position at Court and her
standing in the outer world--should she elect to re-enter it.
"But whether she shall do this, or no, is not a matter upon which the
Church would give a decisive or even an authoritative pronouncement;
and the Holy Father adds, in, his letter to me, further important
instructions.
"Firstly: that it must be the Prioress's own wish and decision, apart
from any undue pressure from without, to resign her office and to
accept this dispensation, freeing her from her vows.
"Secondly; that she must leave the Nunnery and the neighbourhood,
secretly; if it be possible, appearing in her new position, as your
wife, without much question being raised as to whence she came.
"Thirdly: that when her absence becomes known in the Nunnery, I am
authorized solemnly to announce that she has been moved on by me,
secretly, with the knowledge and approval of the Holy Father, to a
place where she was required for higher service."
The Bishop smiled as he pronounced the final words. There was triumph
in his eye.
The Knight still looked as if he felt himself to be dreaming; yet on
his face was a great gladness of expectation.
"And, my lord," he exclaimed joyously, "what news for her! Shall you
send it, in the morn, or yourself take it to her?"
The Bishop's lips were pressed against his finger-tips.
"I know not," he answered, slowly; "I know not that I shall either take
or send it."
"But, my lord, surely! It will settle all doubts, solve all questions,
remove all difficulties----"
"Tut! Tut! Tut!" exclaimed the Bishop. "Good heavens, man! Dare I
wed you to a woman you know so little? Not for one instant, into her
consideration of the matter, will have entered any question as to what
Church or State might say or do. For her the question stands upon
simpler, truer, lines, not involved by rule or dogma: 'Is it right for
me, or wrong for me? Is it the will of God that I should do this
thing?'"
"But if you tell her, my lord, of the Holy Father's dispensation and
permission; what will she then say?"
"What will she then say?" Symon of Worcester softly laughed, as at
something which stirred an exceeding tender memory. "She will probably
say: 'You amaze me, my lord! Indeed, my lord, you amaze me! His
Holiness the Pope may rule at Rome; _you_, my Lord Bishop, rule in the
cities of this diocese; but _I_ rule in this Nunnery, and while I rule
here, such a thing as this shall never be!'"
The Bishop gently passed his hands the one over the other, as was his
habit when a recollection gave him keen mental pleasure.
"That is what the Prioress would probably say, my dear Knight, were I
so foolish as to flaunt before her this most priceless parchment. And
yet--I know not. It may be wise to send it, or to show it without much
comment, simply in order that she may see the effect upon the mind of
the Holy Father himself, of a full knowledge of the complete facts of
the case."
"My lord," said the Knight, with much earnestness, "how came that full
knowledge to His Holiness in Rome?"
"When first you came to me," replied the Bishop, "with this grievous
tale of wrong and treachery, I knew that if you won your way with Mora,
we must be armed with highest authority for the marriage and for her
return to the world, or sorrow and much trial for her might follow,
with, perhaps, danger for you. Therefore I resolved forthwith to lay
the whole matter, without loss of time, before the Pope himself. I
know the Holy Father well; his openness of mind, his charity and
kindliness; his firm desire to do justly, and to love mercy. Moreover,
his friendship for me is such, that he would not lightly refuse me a
request. Also he would, of his kindness, incline to be guided by my
judgment.
"Wherefore, no sooner were all the facts in my possession, those you
told me, those I already knew, and those I did for myself deduce from
both, than I sent for young Roger de Berchelai, whose wits and devotion
I could safely trust, gave him all he would need for board and lodging,
boats and steeds, that he might accomplish the journey in the shortest
possible time, and despatched him to Rome with a written account of the
whole matter, under my private seal, to His Holiness the Pope."
The Knight stood during this recital, his eyes fixed in searching
question upon the Bishop's face.
Then: "My lord," he said, "such kindness on your part, passes all
understanding. That you should have borne with me while I told my
tale, was much. That you should tacitly have allowed me the chance to
have speech with my betrothed, was more. But that, all this time,
while I was giving you half-confidence, and she no confidence at all,
you should have been working, spending, planning for us, risking much
if the Holy Father had taken your largeness of heart and breadth of
mind amiss! All this, you did, for Mora and for me! That you were, as
you tell me, a frequent guest in my childhood's home, holding my
parents in warm esteem, might account for the exceeding kindness of the
welcome you did give me. But this generosity--this wondrous
goodness--I stand amazed, confounded! That you should do so great a
thing to make it possible that I should wed the Prioress-- It passes
understanding!"
When Hugh d'Argent ceased speaking, Symon of Worcester did not
immediately make reply. He sat looking into the fire, fingering, with
his left hand, the gold cross at his breast, and drumming, with the
fingers of his right, upon the carved lion's head which formed the arm
of his chair.
It seemed as if the Bishop had, of a sudden, grown restive under the
Knight's gratitude; or as if some train of thought had awakened within
him, to which he did not choose to give expression, and which must be
beaten back before he allowed himself to speak.
At length, folding his hands, he made answer to the Knight, still
looking into the fire, a certain air of detachment wrapping him round,
as with an invisible yet impenetrable shield.
"You overwhelm me, my dear Hugh, with your gratitude. It had not
seemed to me that my action in this matter would demand either thanks
or explanation. There are occasions when to do less than our best,
would be to sin against all that which we hold most sacred. To my
mind, the most useful definition of sin, in the sacred writings, is
that of the apostle Saint James, most practical of all the inspired
writers, when he said: 'To him that knoweth to do good, and doeth it
not, to him it is sin.' I knew quite clearly the 'good' to be done in
this case. Therefore no gratitude is due to me for failing to fall
into the sin of omission.
"Also, my son, many who seem to deserve the gratitude of others, would
be found not to deserve it, if the entire inward truth of motive could
be fully revealed.
"With me it is well-nigh a passion that all good things should attain
unto full completeness.
"It may be I was better able to give full understanding to your tale
because, for love of a woman, I dwelt seven years in exile from this
land, fearing lest my great love for her, which came to me all
unsought, should--by becoming known to her--lead her young heart, as
yet fresh and unawakened, to respond. There was never any question of
breaking my vows; and I hold not with love-friendships between man and
woman, there where marriage is not possible. They are, at best,
selfish on the part of the man. They keep the woman from entering into
her kingdom. The crown of womanhood is to bear children to the man she
loves--to take her place in his home, as wife and mother. The man who
cannot offer this, yet stands in the way of the man who can, is a poor
and an unworthy lover."
The Bishop paused, unclasped his hands, withdrew his steadfast regard
from the fire, and sat back in his chair. The stone in his ring
gleamed blue, the colour of forget-me-nots beside a meadow brook.
Presently he looked at the silent Knight. There was a kindly smile, in
his eyes, rather than upon his lips.
"It may be, my dear Hugh, that this heart discipline of mine--of which,
by the way, I have never before spoken--has made me quick to understand
the sufferings of other men. Also it may explain the great desire I
always experience to see a truly noble woman come to the full
completion of her womanhood.
"I returned to England not long after your betrothed had entered the
cloistered life in the Whytstone Nunnery. I was appointed to this See
of Worcester, which appointment gave me the spiritual control of the
White Ladies. My friendship with the Prioress has been a source of
interest, pleasure, and true helpfulness to myself and I trust to her
also. I think I told you while we supped that, many years ago, I had
known her at the Court when I was confessor to the Queen, and preceptor
to her ladies. But no mention has ever been made between the Prioress
and myself of any previous acquaintance. I doubt whether she
recognised, in the frail, white-haired, old prelate who arrived from
Italy, the vigorous, bearded priest known to her, in her girlhood's
days, as"--the Bishop paused and looked steadily at the Knight--"as
Father Gervaise."
"Father Gervaise!" exclaimed Hugh d'Argent, lifting his hand to cross
himself as he named the Dead, yet arrested in this instinctive movement
by something in those keen blue eyes. "Father Gervaise, my lord,
perished in a stormy sea. The ship foundered, and none who sailed in
her were seen again."
The Knight spoke with conviction; yet, even as he spoke, the amazing
truth rushed in upon him, and struck him dumb. Of a sudden he knew why
the Bishop's eyes had instantly won his fearless confidence. A trusted
friend of his childhood had looked out at him from their dear depths.
Often he had searched his memory, since the Bishop had claimed
knowledge of him in his boyhood, and had marvelled that no recollection
of Symon as a guest in his parents' home came back to him.
Now--in this moment of revelation--how clearly he could see the figure
of the famous priest, in brown habit, cloak, and hood, a cord at his
waist, with tonsured head, full brown beard, and sandalled feet, pacing
the great hall, standing in the armoury, or climbing the Cumberland
hills to visit the chapel of the Holy Mount and the hermit who dwelt
beside it.
As is the way with childhood's memories, the smallest, most trivial
details leapt up vivid, crystal clear. The present was forgotten, the
future disregarded, in the sudden intimate dearness of that long-ago
past.
The Bishop allowed time for this realisation. Then he spoke.
"True, the ship foundered, Hugh; true, none who sailed in her were seen
again. And, if I tell you that one swimmer, after long buffeting, was
flung up on a rocky coast, lay for many weeks sick unto death in a
fisherman's humble cot, rose at last the frail shadow of his former
self, to find that his hair had turned white in that desperate night,
to find that none knew his name nor his estate, that--leaving Father
Gervaise and his failures at the bottom of the ocean--he could shave
his beard, and make his way to Rome under any name he pleased; if I
tell you all this, I trust you with a secret, Hugh, known to one other
only, during all these years--His Holiness, the Pope."
"Father!" exclaimed the Knight, with deep emotion; "Father"-- Then,
his voice broke. He dropped on one knee in front of the Bishop, and
clasped the bands stretched out to him.
What strange thing had happened? One, greatly loved and long mourned,
had risen from the dead; yet she who had best loved and most mourned
him, had herself passed to the Realm of Shadows, and was not here to
wonder and to rejoice.
"Father," said Hugh, when he could trust his voice, "in her last words
to me, my mother spoke of you. I went to her chamber to bid her sleep
well, and together we knelt before the crucifix. 'Let us repeat,'
whispered my mother, 'those holy words of comfort which Father Gervaise
ever bid his penitents to say, as they kneeled before the dying
Redeemer.' 'Mother,' said I, 'I know them not.' 'Thou wert so young,
my son,' she said, 'when Father Gervaise last was with us.' 'Tell me
the words,' I said; 'I should like well to have them from thy lips.'
So, lifting her eyes to the dead Christ, my mother said, with awe and
reverence in her voice and a deep gladness on her face:
'He--ever--liveth--to make intercession for us.' And, in the dawn of
the new day, her spirit passed."
The Bishop laid his hand upon the Knight's bowed head. "My son," he
said, "of all the women I have known, thy gentle mother bore the most
beautiful and saintly character. I would there were more such as she,
in our British homes."
"Father," said Hugh, brokenly, "knew you how much she had to bear? My
father's fierce feuds with all, shut her up at last to utter
loneliness. His anger against Holy Church and his contempt of Her
priests, cost my mother the comfort of your visits. His life-long
quarrel with Earl Eustace de Norelle caused that our families, though
dwelling within a three hours' ride, were allowed no intercourse.
Never did I enter Castle Norelle until I rode up from the South, with a
message for Mora from the King. And, to this day, Mora has never been
within the courtyard of my home! When we were betrothed, I dared not
tell my parents--though Earl Eustace and his Countess both were
dead--lest my father's wrath might reach Mora, when I had gone. News
of his death, chancing to me in a far-off land, brought me home. And
truly, it was home indeed, at last! Peace and content, where always
there had been turbulence and strain. Father, I tell you this because
I know my gentle mother feared you did not understand, and that you may
have thought her love for you had failed."
Symon of Worcester smiled.
"Dear lad," he said, "I understood."
"Ah why," cried Hugh, with sudden passion, "why should a woman's whole
life be spoiled, and other lives be darkened and made sad, just by the
angry, churlish, sullen whims of----"
"Hush, boy!" said the Bishop, quickly. "You speak of your father, and
you name the Dead. Something dies in the Living, each time they speak
evil of the Dead. I knew your father; and, though he loved me not,
yet, to be honest, I must say this of him: Sir Hugo was a good man and
true; upright, and a man of honour. He carried his shield untarnished.
If he was feared by his friends, he was also feared by his foes. Brave
he was and fearless. One thing he lacked; and often, alas, they who
lack just one thing, lack all.
"Hugo d'Argent knew not love for his fellow-men. To be a man, was to
earn his frown; all things human called forth his disdain. To view the
same landscape, breathe the same air, in fact walk the same earth as
he, was to stand in his way, and raise his ire. Yet in his harsh,
vexed manner he loved his wife, and loved his little son. Nor had he
any self-conceit. He realised in himself his own worst foe. Lest we
fall into this snare, it is well daily to pray: 'O Lover of Mankind,
grant unto me truly to love my fellow-men; to honour them, until they
prove worthless; to trust them, until they prove faithless; and ever to
expect better of them, than I expect of myself; to think better of
them, than I think of myself.' Let us go through life, my son,
searching for good in others, not for evil; we may miss the good, if we
search not for it; the evil, alas, will find us, quite soon enough,
unsought."
Suddenly Hugh lifted his head.
"Father," he said, "the starling! Mind you the starling with the
broken wing, which you and I found in the woods and carried home; and
you did set his wing, and tamed him, and taught him to say 'Hugh'?
Each time I brought him food, you said: 'Hugh! Hugh!' And soon the
starling, seeing me coming, also said: 'Hugh! Hugh!' Do you remember,
Father?"
"I do remember," said the Bishop. "I see thee now, coming across the
courtyard, bread and meat in thy hands--a little lad, bareheaded in the
sunshine, glowing with pleasure because the starling ran to meet thee,
shouting 'Hugh!'"
"Then listen, dear Father. (Ah, how often have I wished to tell you
this!) Soon after you were gone, that starling rudely taught me a hard
lesson. Gaining strength, one day he left the courtyard, ran through
the buttery, and wandered in the garden. I followed, whistling and
watching. It greatly delighted the bird to find himself on turf.
There had been rain. The grass was wet. Presently a rash worm,
gliding from its hole, adventured forth. The starling ran to the worm,
calling it 'Hugh.' 'Hugh! Hugh!' he cried, and tugged it from the
earth. 'Hugh! Hugh!' and pecked it, where helpless it lay squirming.
Then, shouting 'Hugh!' once more, gobbled it down. I stood with heavy
heart, for I had thought that starling loved me with a true, personal
love, when he ran at my approach shouting my name. Yet now I knew it
was the food I carried, he called 'Hugh'; it was the food, not me, he
loved. Glad was I when, his wing grown strong, he flew away. It cut
me to the heart to hear the worms, the grubs, the snails, the
caterpillars, all called 'Hugh'!"
The Bishop smiled, then sighed. "Poor little eager heart," he said,
"learning so hard a lesson, all alone! Yet is it a lesson, lad, sooner
or later learned in sadness by all generous hearts. . . . And now,
leaving the past, with all its memories, let us return to the present,
and face the uncertain future. Also, dear Knight, I must ask you to
remember, even when we are alone, that your old friend, Father
Gervaise, in his brown habit, lies at the bottom of the ocean; yet that
your new friend, Symon of Worcester, holds you and your interests very
near his heart."
The Bishop put out his hand.
Hugh seized and kissed it, knowing this was his farewell to Father
Gervaise.
Then he rose to his feet.
The Bishop said nothing; but an indefinable change came over him.
Again he extended his hand.
The Knight kneeled, and kissed the Bishop's ring.
"I thank you, my lord," he said, "for your great trust in me. I will
not prove unworthy." With this he went back to his seat.
The Bishop, lifting the faggot-fork, carefully stirred and built up the
logs.
"What were we saying, my dear Knight, when we strayed into a side
issue? Ah, I remember! I was telling you of my appointment to the See
of Worcester, and my belief that the Prioress failed to recognise in
me, one she had known long years before."
The Bishop put by the faggot-fork and turned from the fire.
"I found the promise of that radiant girlhood more than fulfilled. She
was changed; she shewed obvious signs of having passed through the
furnace; but pure gold can stand the fire. The strength of purpose,
the noble outlook upon life, the gracious tenderness for others, had
matured and developed. Even the necessary restrictions of monastic
life could not modify the grand lines--both mental, and physical--on
which Nature had moulded her.
"I endeavoured to think no thoughts concerning her, other than should
be thought of a holy lady who has taken vows of celibacy. Yet, seeing
her so fitted to have made house home for a man, helping him upward,
and to have been the mother of a fine race of sons and daughters, I
felt it grievous that in leaving the world for a reason which in no
sense could be considered a true vocation, she should have cut herself
off from such powers and possibilities.
"So passed the years in the calm service of God and of the Church; yet
always I seemed aware that a crisis would come, and that, when that
crisis came, she would need me."
The Bishop paused and looked at the Knight.
Hugh's face was in shadow; but, as the Bishop looked at him, the rubies
on his breast glittered in the firelight, as if some sudden thought had
set him strongly quivering.
At sight of which, a flash of firm resolve, like the swift drawing of a
sword, broke o'er the Bishop's calmness. It was quick and powerful; it
seemed to divide asunder soul and spirit, joints and marrow, and to
discern the thoughts and intents of the heart. And before that
two-edged blade could sheathe itself again, swiftly the Bishop spoke.
"Therefore, my dear Hugh, when you arrived with your tale of wrong and
treachery, all unconsciously to yourself, every word you spoke of your
betrothed revealed her to the man who had loved her while you were yet
a youth, with your spurs to win, and all life before you.
"I saw in your arrival, and in the strange tale you told, a wondrous
chance for her of that fuller development of life for which I knew her
to be so perfectly fitted.
"It had seemed indeed the irony of fate that, while I had fled and
dwelt in exile lest my presence should hold her back from marriage, the
treachery of others should have driven her into a life of celibacy.
"Therefore while, with my tacit consent, you went to work in your own
way, I sent my messenger to Rome bearing to the Holy Father a full
account of all, petitioning a dispensation from vows taken owing to
deception, and asking leave to unite in the holy sacrament of marriage
these long-sundered lovers, undertaking that no scandal should arise
therefrom, either in the Nunnery or in the City of Worcester.
"As you have seen, my messenger this night returned; and we now find
ourselves armed with the full sanction of His Holiness, providing the
Prioress, of her own free will, desires to renounce the high position
she has won in her holy calling, and to come to you."
The quiet voice ceased speaking.
The Knight rose slowly to his feet. At first he stood silent. Then he
spoke with a calm dignity which proved him worthy of the Bishop's trust.
"I greatly honour you, my lord," he said; "and were our ages and
conditions other than they are, so that we might fight for the woman we
love, I should be proud to cross swords with you."
The Bishop sat looking into the fire. A faint smile flickered at the
corners of the sensitive mouth. The fights he had fought for the woman
he loved had been of sterner quality than the mere crossing of knightly
swords.
Hugh d'Argent spoke again.
"Profoundly do I thank you, Reverend Father, for all that you have
done; and even more, for that which you did not do. It was six years
after her first sojourn at the Court that I met Mora, loved her, and
won her; and well I know that the sweet love she gave to me was a love
from which no man had brushed the bloom."
Hugh paused.
Those kindly and very luminous eyes were still bent upon the fire. Was
the Bishop finding it hard to face the fact that his life's secret had
now, by his own act, passed into the keeping of another?
Hugh moved a pace nearer.
"And deeply do I love you, Reverend Father, for your wondrous goodness
to her, and--for her sake--to me. And I pray heaven," added Hugh
d'Argent simply, "that if she come to me, she may never know that she
once won the love of so greatly better a man than he who won hers."
With which the Knight dropped upon one knee, and humbly kissed the hem
of the Bishop's robe.
Symon of Worcester was greatly moved.
"My son," he said, "we are at one in desiring her happiness and highest
good. For the rest, God, and her own pure heart, must guide her feet
into the way of peace."
The Bishop rose, and went to the casement.
"The aurora breaks in the east. The dawn is near. Come with me, Hugh,
to the chapel. We pray for His Holiness, giving thanks for his
gracious letter and mandate; we praise for the safe return of my
messenger. But we will also offer up devout petition that the Prioress
may have clear light at this parting of the ways, and that our
enterprise may be brought to a happy conclusion."
So, presently, in the dimly-lighted chapel, the Knight knelt alone;
while, away at the high altar, remote, wrapt, absorbed in the supreme
act of his priestly office, stood the Bishop, celebrating mass.
Yet one anxious prayer ascended from the hearts of both.
And, in the pale dawn of that new day, the woman for whom both the
Knight and the Bishop prayed, kept vigil in her cell, before the shrine
of the Madonna.
"Blessèd Virgin," she said; "thou who lovedst Saint Joseph, being
betrothed to him, yet didst keep thyself an holy shrine consecrate to
the Lord and His need of thee--oh, grant unto me strength to put from
me this constant torment at the thought of his sufferings to whom once
I gave my troth, and to reconsecrate myself wholly to the service of my
Lord."
Thus these three knelt, as a new day dawned.
And the Knight prayed: "Give her to me!"
And the Bishop prayed: "Guide her feet into the way of peace."
And the Prioress, with hands crossed upon her breast and eyes uplifted,
said: "Cause me to know the way wherein I should walk; for I lift up my
soul unto Thee."
The silver streaks of the aurora paled before soaring shafts of gold,
bright heralds of the rising sun.
Then from the Convent garden trilled softly the first notes, poignant
but passing sweet, of the robin's song.