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What will ye see in the Shulamite? As it were the company of two armies. How beautiful are thy feet with shoes, O prince's daughter! the joints of thy thighs are like jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning workman. Thy navel is like a round goblet, which wanteth not liquor: thy belly is like an heap of wheat set about with lilies. Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins.
Gallop, gallop, Shulamite! If no hand be put forth to save it, between Mother Sub-Prioress and Father Benedict, this crystal bowl will be broken into a hundred pieces. At length the Bishop drew rein, and walked his mare a mile. He had left Warwick ten miles behind him. He would soon be half-way to Worcester. He had left Warwick behind him!
"'Downward' belongs to that great modern school of fiction built upon woman's downfall. * I cordially commend this bit of fiction to the thousands of young women who are yearning to see what they call life." James L. Ford in the N. Y. Herald. =TWO APACHES OF PARIS, by Alice and Claude Askew= Authors of "The Shulamite," "The Rod of Justice," etc.
If Mother Sub-Prioress should send to the Palace, mischief will be done, which it will not be easy to repair. If news of the flight of the Prioress reaches the city of Worcester, a hundred tongues, spiteful, ignorant, curious, or merely idle, will at once start wagging. Gallop, gallop, Shulamite! How impossible to overtake a rumour, if it have an hour's start of you.
Once she put the horse to so sudden and swift a gallop that the Bishop, watching from afar, reined back Shulamite almost on to her haunches, in a sudden fear that Icon was about to leap into the stream. For an hour the Prioress rode, with flying veil, white on the white steed; a fair marble group, quickened into motion. Then, that penance being duly performed, she vanished through the archway.
A corpse for a bride!" the hoofs of the black mare Shulamite had seemed to beat out upon the road. "Alas, poor Knight! A corpse for a bride!" The Bishop came down from the battlements. When he left his chamber an hour later, he had donned those crimson robes which he wore on the evening when the Knight supped with him at the Palace.
In his thought she always appeared to him as he saw her at the fountain; and he felt the influence of her voice, sweeter because in tearful expression of gratitude to him, and of her eyes the large, soft, black, almond-shaped eyes declarative of her race eyes which looked more than lies in the supremest wealth of words to utter; and recurrences of the thought of her were returns just so frequent of a figure tall, slender, graceful, refined, wrapped in rich and floating drapery, wanting nothing but a fitting mind to make her, like the Shulamite, and in the same sense, terrible as an army with banners.
The Bishop smiled again, and there was in his look a gentle merriment. "You were over-strained, my daughter. When you drew near, you found instead of a ghostly priest with eyes of fire, drowned many years ago, off the coast of Spain your old friend, Symon of Worcester, who had stolen a march on you, by reason of the swift paces of his good mare, Shulamite."
An hour later, mounted upon his black mare, Shulamite, the Bishop rode to the high ground, on the north-east, above the city, from whence he could look down upon the river meadow. As he had done on the previous day, he watched the Prioress riding upon Icon.
The Bishop bade the lay-brother ride with him to the Nunnery and, so soon as he should have dismounted, lead Shulamite to the Palace stables, carefully feed and tend her; then bring him out a fresh mount. As they rode forward: "Hath any message arrived at the Palace from the Convent, Philip?" inquired the Bishop. "None, my lord." "Or at the Priory?" "Nay, my lord.
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