over the rest of the company until they were caught and held by a
woman's face. It was Eleanor, the fairest of the knight's three
fair daughters; and when Hilarius saw her he felt as a weary
traveller feels who meets a fellow citizen in a far-off land.

"Even such a face must the Blessed Agnes have had," he thought, his
mind reverting to his favourite Saint; "she is like the lilies in
the garth at home."

It was a strange comparison, for the girl was extravagantly dressed
in costly materials and brilliant colours, her hair coifed in the
foolish French fashion of the day; and yet, despite it all, she
looked a nun. Her face was pale, her brows set straight; her eyes,
save when she was much moved, were like grey shadows veiling an
unknown soul; her mouth, delicately curved, was scarcely reddened;
her head drooped slightly on her long, slender neck, a gesture
instinct with gracious humility. She was like a pictured saint:
Hilarius' gaze clung to her, followed her as she left the hall, and
saw her still as he sat apart while the serving men cleared the
lower tables and brought in the sleeping gear for the night. He
lay down with the rest, and through the high, lancet windows the
moonlight kissed his white and weary face as it was wont to do on
bright nights in the cloister dormitory. Around him men lay
sleeping soundly after the day's toils; there was none to heed, and
he sobbed like a little homesick child, until his tired youth
triumphed, and he fell asleep, to dream of Martin and the Prior,
the lady at the raised table, and the pale, sweet lilies in the
cloister garth.