Prior Matthew bit his nail. “That is as I supposed. It mounts and mounts.--I would get from you, too, the cry after that burst of wonders!--But there is the vesper bell. Go into church, my son! afterwards I will talk with you in the garden.” The church at Westforest was not like the church of Silver Cross. That was great, this was small. That had starry windows of rich glass, that had tombs of lords and ladies, that had the great altar picture. This was plain and cold of aspect. Yet was there an altar painting, and now sunlight and candle light showed it for what it was,--copy, done half as large, of the Silver Cross great picture. The Lady of Heaven lifted a rich Italian face, rose toward heaven, toward God the Father and God the Son, with a rich, Italian beauty, nobly done by the great Italian, her painter,--rose with love and majesty, with memory of sorrow and of earth-stain falling away, fading, falling, with height of joy opening; rose with bliss and power, who yet understood, who knew children’s crying and would answer; rose from world’s woe, from the dust, to heaven. She was heaven, the Rose of Heaven. Yet had she been painted in Italy from mortal woman. Queen of Heaven, but with framework of likeness to earthly faces. “Like Isabel--like Isabel!” at this moment Montjoy cried to himself, in the church of Silver Cross. In the small grey church at Westforest young Thomas Bettany had place where he might well and plainly view the smaller picture, but well copied from the first and greater. Light beat against draperies pure red and pure blue and upon form and face, rising from darkness into glory. He looked worshipfully, and he felt worship. But when vespers were done, and the Prior kept him alone with him walking in the garden, John Cobb not here, only Prior Matthew and Thomas Bettany pacing between the blue flags and the rose trees, he burst out suddenly, very young and very bold. “Reverend father, did ever you see Morgen Fay?” “God forbid! No!” “She is much like yonder picture.” “What picture?--Not the altar picture!” “Of course this is holy and heavenly--and she is only faery--” “‘Faery!’--She is an accursed woman!” The Prior stood still, his hand upon the espaliered pear tree against the south wall. His thin face, his tall thin figure grew extraordinarily alive. “Do you never tell that fancy!” His voice had a fearful sternness. “Do you never tell that fancy to any living wight!” Thomas Bettany himself was afraid of it. “Jesu knows I would not do Our Lady disrespect!” “It will be heinous disrespect if you say that that sinner hath her face--” Bettany carefully made distinctions. “I meant not like Her--but like the woman the painter must have used just for hint of form and face! Once I saw a monk painting on a missal border where it said ‘Rose of Sharon.’ But he had in a cup beside him which he looked often upon a rose from the garden.”