"No," answered Neville, "only the thorns on its stem; the blossoms are not yet out." "Ay or no?" repeated the child, oblivious of the discussion going on around him. "Oh, _ay_, and get thee gone!" cried his mother, thoroughly out of patience with the child and herself and every one else. Cecil ran round to her seat, hugged her in a stifling embrace, and then pattered out of the room and up the stair, reassuring his timid little heart by saying aloud as he went, "Bearth come not into houtheth! Bearth come not into houtheth!" Father Mohl sat with bent head, the enigmatic smile still playing round his lips. At length, making the sign of the cross, he spoke aside to Father White,-- "Have I leave to depart?" "Go--and _pax tibi_!" The company rose. "Father, must thou be gone so soon?" Mary Brent asked, with hospitable entreaty in her tones. "I must, my daughter." "This very night?" "This very night." "But the road to St. Mary's is dark and rough." "Ay, but our feet are used to treading rough roads, and the moon will show the blazed path as clearly as the sun itself." "Farewell," said Father White. "Bear my greetings to my brothers at St. Inigo's, and charge them that they cease not from their labors till I come." When Father Mohl passed Neville, Sir Christopher, moved by a sudden compunction, held out his hand. "Hey for St. Mary's!" he exclaimed, with a note of cordiality which if a trifle forced was at least civil. Father Mohl ignored the outstretched hand, and with his own grasped the crucifix at his breast. The sneer in his smile deepened, and one heard the breath of scorn in his nostrils as he answered, with a meaning glance at Elinor, "The latter part of the Marylanders' battle-cry were perchance honester. Why not make it 'Wives for us all'?" This passed the bounds of patience, and Neville cast overboard that self-control which is the ballast of the soul. His outstretched hand clenched itself into a fist. "Sir!" he cried, very white about the lips, "if you wore a sword instead of a scapular, we might easily settle our affairs. But since your garb cries 'Sanctuary!' while your tongue doth cut and thrust rapier-like, I'll e'en grant you the victory in the war of words. Good-night, Sir Priest!" For answer the father only folded his cloak about him and slipped out of the door as quietly as though he were to re-enter in an hour. Father White followed Mistress Brent to the hall, from the window of which she strove to watch the retreating figure of Father Mohl. Neville thus found himself alone with Elinor Calvert once more. He regarded her with some anxiety, an anxiety justified by her bearing. The full round chin was held an inch higher than its wont, the nostrils were dilated and the eyelids half closed. A wise man would have been careful how he offered a vent for her scorn; but to her lover it seemed that any utterance would be better than this contemptuous silence. "You are very angry--" ventured Neville, timidly.