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Therefore, with no little interest, I awaited the return of Iconoklastes, in charge of Brother Philip." The Bishop lifted the faggot-fork and, bending over the hearth, began to build the logs, quickening the dying flame. "Well?" cried the Knight, chafing like a charger on the curb. "Well, my lord? And then?" The Bishop stood the faggot-fork in its corner.
"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.
The Bishop broke off, while he carefully stood the faggot-fork up in its corner. "She paused and said: 'None need remain here longer than they will. But, being up and mounted, and our Lord Bishop in no haste for the return of his palfrey, it is my intention to ride for an hour." Symon of Worcester turned and looked full at the Knight. "And the Prioress rode for an hour," he said.
"Well, that made of the Play Day a success. But the best of all was yet to come." The Bishop took up the faggot-fork, and again tended the fire. He seemed to find it difficult to tell that which must next be told. The Knight was breathing quickly. He sat immovable; yet the rubies on his breast glittered continuously, like so many eager, fiery eyes.
Leaning forward, the Bishop lifted the faggot-fork and moved one of the burning logs so that a jet of blue smoke, instead of mounting the chimney, came out toward them on the hearth. Symon of Worcester sat back and inhaled it with enjoyment. "This is refreshing," he said. "This soothes and yet braces the mind. And now, my son, let us return to the question of your own private concerns.
The Bishop went on, speaking rapidly, the faggot-fork still in his hand, his face turned to the fire. "They had lifted Mary Antony down, and were crowding round Icon, patting and praising him, when a message came from the Reverend Mother, bidding Brother Philip to bring the palfrey into the courtyard; the nuns to remain in the field.
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.
The flames played about it, but still it remained legible; white letters, upon a black ground; then, letters of fire upon grey ashes. Of a sudden the Knight, seizing the faggot-fork, dashed out the words with a stroke. "I would risk the curse," he cried, with passion. "By Pilate's water, I would risk the curse!"
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