The pale cheek of the Abbess grew suddenly suffused, the slim hand clenched rigid upon the crucifix at her bosom, but she stirred not nor lifted her sad gaze from the fire.
"Liveth thy father yet, my son?"
"'Tis so I pray God, lady."
"And--thy mother?"
"'Tis so I've heard."
"Pray you not for--for her also?"
"I never knew my mother, lady."
"Alas! poor lonely mother! So doth she need thy prayers the more. Ah, think you she hath not perchance yearned with breaking heart for her babe? To have kissed him into rosy slumber! To have cherished his boyish hurts and sorrows! To have gloried in his youthful might and manhood! O sure there is no sorrow like the loneliness of desolate motherhood. Would'st seek this unknown mother, lord Beltane?"
"Truly there be times when I do yearn to find her--and there be times when I do fear--"
"Fear, my lord?"
"Holy mother, I learned of her first as one false to her vows, light-minded and fickle from her youth--"
"O hath there been none to speak thee good of her--in all these years?"
"There was Jolette, that folk did call a witch, and there is Sir Benedict that doth paint her pure and noble as I would have her. Yet would I know for myself, fain would I be sure ere we do meet, if she is but the woman who bore me, or the proud and noble mother I fain would love."
"Could'st not love her first and judge her after, my son? Could not her very motherhood plead her cause with thee? Must she be weighed in the balance ere thou yield her a son's respect and love? So many weary years--'tis something hard, methinks! Nay, heed me not, my lord--seek out thy mother, unbeknown--prove for thyself her worthiness or falsity, prove for thyself her honour or her shame--'tis but just, aye, 'tis but just in very truth. But I, beholding things with woman's eyes, know only that a mother's love shrinketh not for any sin, but reacheth down through shame and evil with sheltering arms outstretched--a holy thing, fearless of sin, more lasting than shame and stronger than death itself."
So saying, the lady Abbess rose and turned to look up at the lights that burned within the tower.
"'Tis late, my lord," she sighed, "get thee now to thy rest, for I must begone to my duty till the dawn. There be many sick, and good Sir Bertrand lieth very nigh to death--he ne'er will see another dawn, methinks, so needs must I away. Good night, sweet son, and in thy prayers forget not thy--thy most unhappy mother!"