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Updated: May 28, 2025
His was the look of the saint and the scholar, almost of the mystic save for the tender humour in those keen blue eyes, gleaming like beacon lights from beneath the level eyebrows; eyes which had won the confidence of many a man who else had not dared unfold his very human story, to one of such saintly aspect as Symon, Bishop of Worcester.
Symon, Bishop of Worcester, attended by his Chaplain, chanced to be walking through the Precincts on his way from the Priory to the Palace, just as the men-at-arms bearing the stretcher came through the great door of the Cathedral. Father Benedict, cowled, and robed completely in black, a head and shoulders taller than the Bishop, walked behind him, a somewhat sinister figure. The Bishop stopped.
It was evident that it did connect, for no sooner had the boy given it a twitch than the whole room went black, as if they had all been struck blind, and an instant afterward they heard the dull crash of the closing door. "Well, you've done it now," said Symon, in his tranquil fashion.
The seuenth a pinnas called Frisland, of burden about seuenty tuns. The Master Iacob Cornelison, the Factor Walter Willekens. The eighth a pinnas that had been in the former voiage called the Pidgeon, now the Ouerijssel, of the burden of fifty tuns. The Master Symon Iohnson. The Factor Arent Hermanson.
"This one thing I do," she said aloud; "this one thing I do." And moving forward, in the strength of that resolve, she passed out into the sunshine. "Do it now!" sang the thrush, in the rowan-tree. Symon of Worcester, seated before a table in the library, pondered a letter which had reached him the evening before, brought by a messenger from the Vatican.
While most of us were getting comfortably settled in our deck chairs, someone noticed that Louis Glass, George Vranizan, C. W. Hinchcliffe, Carl Westerfeld, C. A. Thayer, C. H. James, William Symon, F. S. Ballinger, P. H. Lyon, S. L. Schwartz and Henry Mattlage had disappeared below.
Paul to Britain, was probably preserved in this chapel until the eighth century," Symon was saying in his clear but colorless voice. "In the ninth century it is supposed to have been carried away by the barbarians, and it reappears, after the conversion of the northern Goths, in the possession of the royal family of Gothland.
"My dear Knight, hearing much champing of horses in my courtyard, I looked down from a casement and saw a lay-brother well known to me, and three other horsemen wearing the Bishop's livery. What can Symon of Worcester have written which takes you from me on this day, of all days?" "That I cannot tell thee," he made answer.
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.
It remains for us to consider, and to decide upon, the best line to take with Mora in order to safeguard most surely her peace of mind, and permanently to secure her happiness." "I have considered, Reverend Father," said the Knight, simply; "and I have decided." "What have you decided to do, my son?" questioned Symon of Worcester, in his smoothest tones.
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