He returned to Westforest. The next day, sitting in Prior’s stall in the cold, small church, he kept his eyes fast upon the monk Richard. He noted his turning, he noted his uplifted, now bloodless face, and his eyes directed to the copy of the Silver Cross picture. Prior Matthew half closed his own eyes, covered, as was his wont when he was playing chess, his mouth with his hand. Again the Prior sat as confessor. The kneeling monk met gathered subtlety and old skill. Deep, recessed matters, loves and longings, must come forth. The Prior listened, questioned, listened, and at both was skilfull. He imposed penance, and in part it was to be performed at Silver Cross, “--returning there as you do, my son, this week.” The monk bowed his head. He had not known when, or indeed if ever, he should return to Silver Cross. It was among his efforts at self-crucifixion not to care. As it was his effort here and at Silver Cross to withdraw attention from outward happenings, outward talk. No other of his brethren knew so little as he of the flare and clang about Saint Leofric. He returned to Silver Cross. The bell rang for the noon office. He went into church with his brethren. With them he bowed, stood, chanted, kneeled. It was nigh to Christmas tide, a clear winter day. The sun dwelled in each jewel pane of the windows and shot thence arrows of love. The sun blessed nave and aisles and high groined roof. The candles stood like angels, the great picture glowed. It was a home-coming. Warmness wrapped his heart that had been naked and desolate. All grew fair, honest, friendly. He was glad to see the Brothers, even those he had most distasted, glad to see Abbot Mark, cloister and church, all things! Out of topaz and amber a beam touched the carven tomb of Montjoy’s wife. It warmed the Lady Isabel, lying in robe and mantle with a half smile upon her face. Not Montjoy only, but also Richard Englefield thought stone form and face had strange likeness to those of the Glorified in the picture. Now the light warmed her, too, the pale, golden lady, so still, so still, waiting for the Resurrection. Amber light, topaz light. But on the great picture every heart-red, every heavenly blue, every rose and every lily, the upward flowing amethyst and the diamond light above, where no more might be seen. His heart bowed, his heart grew alive. “Ah, Blessed among women, I am come back!” CHAPTER IX William, Lord of Montjoy, was ignorant of what machinations might be in progress up the Vale of Wander. The Abbot had said, “Would he be helpful? It is for the glory of Silver Cross church, which, truly, is for him his lady whom he must serve!” The Prior shook his head. “No! No more than that monk himself! Let him think naught save that there is holiness there!” Abbot Mark drew groaning breath. “There was--there is--there shall be--!”