“What God and the Church offer is ever an offer,” he said, dropping his eyes again, and finding his intuition in touch with something that was invisible, and yet to be felt. He heard Denise draw her breath in deeply. “Sometimes we seem wise, sometimes foolish,” she said. “Life teaches the heart many things. You offer me some such place as this to lodge in? And that I shall be alone?” Silvius threw aside vague conjectures, to seize the prize he had long coveted. “It is a sweet place,” said he. “With a garden, and fruit trees, and a croft below it. The garden has a good quick hedge all about it. As to the flesh, your soul shall be as Solomon’s lily, Sanctissima. We have no ritual for those whose eyes see into Paradise.” So as the great purple cloud shadows drifted over the young green of the beech wood, and the sun shone forth with moments of gold, Dom Silvius warmed with his own words, and in his kindling never so much as saw that Denise listened like one who struggled against some inward anguish. What light and shade were there over her own soul as Silvius put his visions into his voice? The monk thought her calm and sensible, a little cold perhaps, but then the snow of her chastity would make her that. Silvius was no coarse colourist, no noisy twanger of strings. There should be mysticism, aloofness, a play of pearly light about such a part. His exultation burnt delicate flattery. For Silvius knew that many sacred souls loved their sanctity as a gay quean loves her clothes. How many Magdalenes were there who dreamt of being seen while they washed the feet of God and the Saints! And Silvius wished to lead this child of the Miraculous Heart so that she should walk in a path of his own conceiving, a sweet saint who should draw the country, aye far countrysides, as the moon draws the sea. The coming of Denise to the bounds of Battle should be as the coming of the Bride to the Church of God. It should be a pageant, and a poem. For in those days pageantry preached to the people, and through the eyes the heart was persuaded. Denise heard him, like one very weary, one who listens because there is no escape. And in good season Silvius had the wit to see that he had pressed wine enough for the day. Denise had given him her promise, and he took his leave of her with sweetness, and all reverence, putting himself beneath her, and speaking of her wishes as commands. “Would their most blessed Sister take up her new cell soon?” Denise leant her weight against the door, feeling that if she were not rid of Silvius she would drop at his feet and weep. “Before the moon is full,” she answered. And the monk mounted his horse, and rode away like one who has received a pallium, dreaming miraculous dreams, and beholding innumerable pilgrims, peasant and prince, knight and lady, riding and journeying towards Senlac over hill and dale.