Shrieking she leapt to her feet, flew across the room, beat upon the sacred Form with her fists; tore at It with her fingers.
One instant of petrifying horror. Then the Prioress was upon her.
Seizing her by both wrists she flung her to the floor, then pulled a rope passing over a pulley in the wall, which started the great alarm-bell, in the passage, clanging wildly.
At once there came a rush of flying feet; calls for the Sub-Prioress; but she was already there.
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When they flung wide the door, lo, the Prioress stood—with white face and blazing eyes, her arms outstretched—between them and the crucifix.
Upon the floor, a crumpled heap, lay Sister Mary Seraphine.
The nuns, in a frightened crowd, filled the doorway, none daring to speak, or to enter; till old Mary Antony, pushing past the Sub-Prioress, kneeled down beside the Reverend Mother, and, lifting the hem of her robe, kissed it and pressed it to her breast.
Slowly the Prioress let fall her arms.
"Enter," she said; and they flocked in.
"Sister Seraphine," said the Prioress, in awful tones, "has profaned the crucifix, reviling our blessèd Lord, Who hangs thereon."
All the nuns, falling upon their knees, hid their faces in their hands.
There was a terrifying quality in the silence of the next moments.
Slowly the Prioress turned, prostrated herself at the foot of the cross, and laid her forehead against the floor at its base. Then the nuns heard one deep, shuddering sob.
Not a head was lifted. The only nun who peeped was Sister Mary
Seraphine, prone upon the floor.
After a while, the Prioress arose, pale but calm.
"Carry her to her cell," she said.
Two tall nuns to whom she made sign lifted Sister Seraphine, and bore her out.
When the shuffling of their feet died away in the distance, the
Prioress gave further commands.
"All will now go to their cells and kneel in adoration before the crucifix. Doors are to be left standing wide. The Miserere is to be chanted, until
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the ringing of the Refectory bell. Mother Sub-Prioress will remain behind."
The nuns dispersed, as quickly as they had gathered; seeking their cells, like frightened birds fleeing before a gathering storm.
The tall nuns who had carried Sister Seraphine returned and waited outside the Reverend Mother's door.
The Prioress stood alone; a tragic figure in her grief.
Mother Sub-Prioress drew near. Her narrow face, peering from out her veil, more than ever resembled a ferret. Her small eyes gleamed with a merciless light.
"Is mine the task, Reverend Mother?" she whispered.
The Prioress inclined her head.
Mother Sub-Prioress murmured a second question.
The Prioress turned and looked at the crucifix.
"Yes," she said, firmly.
Mother Sub-Prioress sidled nearer; then whispered her third question.
The Prioress did not answer. She was looking at the carved, oaken stool, overthrown. She was wondering whether she could have acted with better judgment, spoken more wisely. Her heart was sore. Such noble natures ever blame themselves for the wrong-doing of the worthless.
Receiving no reply, Mother Sub-Prioress whispered a suggestion.
"No," said the Prioress.
Mother Sub-Prioress modified her suggestion.
The Prioress turned and looked at the tender figure of the Madonna, brooding over the blessèd Babe.
"No," said the Prioress.
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Mother Sub-Prioress frowned, and made a further modification; but in tones which suggested finality.
The Prioress inclined her head.
The Sub-Prioress, bowing low, lifted the hem of the Reverend Mother's veil, and kissed it; then passed from the room.
The Prioress moved to the window.
The sunset was over. The evening star shone, like a newly-lighted lamp, in a pale purple sky. The fleet-winged swallows had gone to rest.
Bats flitted past the casement, like homeless souls who know not where to go.
Low chanting began in the cells; the nuns, with open doors, singing Miserere.
But, as she looked at the evening star, the Prioress heard again, with startling distinctness, the final profanity of poor Sister Seraphine: "I want life—not death!"
Along the corridor passed a short procession, on its way to the cell of
Mary Seraphine.
First went a nun, carrying a lighted taper.
Next, the two tall nuns who had borne Mary Seraphine to her cell.
Behind them, Mother Sub-Prioress, holding something beneath her scapulary which gave to her more of a presence than she usually possessed.
Solemn and official,—nay, almost sacrificial—was their measured shuffle, as they moved along the passage, and entered the cell of Mary Seraphine.
The Prioress closed her door, and, kneeling before the crucifix, implored forgiveness for the sacrilege which, all unwittingly, she had provoked.
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The nuns, in their separate cells, chanted the Miserere. But—suddenly—with one accord, their voices fell silent; then hastened on, in uncertain, agitated rhythm.
Old Mary Antony below, playing her favourite game, also paused, and pricked up her ears: then filliped the wizen pea, which stood for Mother Sub-Prioress, into the darkest corner, and hurried off to brew a soothing balsam.
So, when the Refectory bell had summoned all to the evening meal, the old lay-sister crept to the cell of Mary Seraphine, carrying broth and comfort.
But Sister Seraphine was better content than she had been for many weeks.
At last she had become the centre of attention; and, although, during the visit of Mother Sub-Prioress to her cell, this had been a peculiarly painful position to occupy, yet to the morbid mind of Mary Seraphine, the position seemed worth the discomfort.
Therefore, her mind now purged of its discontent, she cheerfully supped old Antony's broth, and applied the soothing balsam; yet planning the while, to gain favour with the Prioress, by repeating to her, at the first convenient opportunity, the naughty remarks concerning Mother Sub-Prioress, now being made for her diversion, by the kind old woman who had risked reproof, in order to bring to her, in her disgrace, both food and consolation.
CHAPTER VI
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLOODY VEST
"Nay, I have naught for thee this morning," said Mary Antony to the robin; "naught, that is, save spritely conversation. I can tell thee a tale or two; I can give thee sage advice; but, in my wallet, little Master Mendicant, I have but my bag of peas."
The old lay-sister sat resting in the garden. She had had a busy hour, yet complicated in its busy-ness, for, starting out to do weeding, she had presently fancied herself intent upon making a posy, and now, sat upon the stone seat beneath the beech tree, holding a large nosegay made up of many kinds of flowering weeds, arranged with much care, and bound round with convolvulus tendrils.
Keen and uncommon