The old Priory of Appuldurcombe was situated in a most lovely spot, nestling in thick woods whose brown and russet foliage climbed the steep sides of the lofty downs surrounding it; the high-pitched gable of the little chapel, and the quaintly-grouped pile of grey buildings, looked serene and peaceful in that sequestered nook amid the ever-lasting hills.

Originally granted by the piety of stout Earl Richard de Redvers to his new foundation of Montsburg in Normandy, it was used as a cell for a prior and two monks to look after their farms of Appuldurcombe, Sandford, and Week. But, sharing the fate of other alien foundations, it was taken from them by Henry IV. and granted to the nuns of St Clare, without Aldgate, who eventually obtained a grant of it from the Monastery of Montsburg, and so possessed it until the dissolution of the monasteries.

The Convent of St Clare, without Aldgate, at this time was accustomed to send two sisters and a prioress to look after their interests, and used the cell as a place of peaceful resort and change of air from London. The sisters could walk in these retired woods and sheltered groves without fear of observation or molestation, and were much beloved by the labourers on the farms belonging to the Nunnery. It is quite evident from Chaucer that the nuns did not always observe the strictest seclusion, even in the Metropolis; and how well some at least of them were versed in the pleasures and technicalities of field sports is abundantly clear in the works of Dame Juliana Berners, popularly supposed to have been Prioress of Sopewell, near St Albans.

As the Captain of the Wight rode up with Yolande and Ralph, the chapel bell ceased.

"We will wait till their orisons be over," said Lord Woodville.

They had now leisure to look round, and even the matter-of-fact Ralph and high-spirited Yolande were impressed with the still loveliness of the scene. The blue smoke from the conventual kitchen and labourers' cottages curled into the quiet air, and floated away amid the rich brown leaves of the autumnal wood. The grass, green and soft, like velvet to the tread, showed the fertility of the soil, and the lowing of the cows, which were being driven from their pasture, added a pastoral melody to the sylvan scene.

An old woman and a young girl came out of a small door pierced in the high stone wall which surrounded the little settlement, and hid the lower storey from outward observation.

"What a pretty child!" said Yolande, with generous admiration. "Did you ever see such eyes?"

Ralph looked as he was told, but, boy like, paid little attention to the looks of a girl evidently younger than himself. Besides, in comparison with the brilliant Yolande, whose every movement was grace, and every word fascination, how could he admire aught else? And was not Yolande, in addition, at least four years older than himself?

The soft eyes of the girl, however, seemed to recognise Ralph. She gave him a shy little nod of welcome and acknowledgment.

"Why, my cousin, she knoweth thee!" said Yolande. "Who is she?"

"Nay, I know not," said Ralph, not quite pleased at being nodded to in that familiar way by so poorly clad a little girl.

"Good mother," said the Captain of the Wight, "wilt thou ask the Lady Prioress if she will grant this fair lady a draught of ale or hippocras?"

The old woman only shook her head, but the girl glanced up at the Captain's face, and then said,--

"Noble sir, Gammer Audrey is deaf. I will run in and ask Sister Agnes," and the child drew her hand out of that of the old woman, and disappeared through the door.

"'Tis strange!" muttered the Lord Woodville; "her eyes are wondrous like, and the voice--old memories are stirring, methinks, to-day."

In a few minutes the figure of a nun carrying a tray on which were a flagon and some pewter cups, appeared at the narrow door, followed by the girl, bearing a dish with a few apples piled upon it.

The nun had hardly passed out of the door when she gave a little stagger, and nearly dropped the things she was carrying. Recovering herself with an effort, she approached Yolande.

"My faith, my Lord Woodville, if the girl were lovely, what think you of the sister?" said Yolande.

Lord Woodville looked at the nun, as she approached, and became deadly pale.

"How could it be!" he murmured. "I heard she was dead!"

"Well," observed Yolande, "of all strange things, this is the most parlous bewildering! Who'd have thought the unmoved Lord Woodville could be so passing stirred twice in the same hour?"

The nun poured out the hippocras, and offered it to Yolande, who took it from the fair hand of the draped and veiled figure, with the curiosity and awe which all women feel when brought face to face with one of their own sex who is utterly dead to the world. The air of mystery, romance, and sanctity which surround the convent life was not then probably so powerful as now. Then, the nuns lived more openly, and were a part of the everyday life of society. But to Yolande, with her strong love of life, its amusements, its follies, and its excitement, it seemed like being confronted with death to look at that pale face, downcast eyes, and shrouded figure.
THE NUN OFFERED THE WINE TO YOLANDE.
THE NUN OFFERED THE WINE TO YOLANDE.

The nun's face was strikingly beautiful. Her features were very straight, with splendid eyebrows, and a sweet mouth, whose full lips were rendered almost more attractive by the little droop at each corner producing a soft dimple in the rounded cheek. The long lashes lay like a fringe over her magnificent dark hazel eyes, and as she stood, quite impassive and expressionless, only deadly pale, Yolande felt drawn towards her as she had never felt drawn to any woman before.

The Captain of the Wight kept his eyes fixed on the sweet face.

"Pious lady," he said, "we are greatly indebted to thee for thy hospitable courtesy. Hast thou been in these parts long?"

Obliged to answer, the nun, still keeping her eyes, however, steadily on the ground, said, in a low, deep melodious voice,--

"Noble sir, Sister Ursula and I came hither but three months since."

"Holy saints!" muttered the Captain, "'tis her very voice!"

Then, after a pause, he said,--

"Thou art happy and peaceful here? There is naught that frights or disturbs you?"

A little flicker passed over the statue-like features. A slight tremor of the mouth, and a quiver of the eyelids, showed the nun was suffering from some not quite controlled emotion. Bending her head a little down, and keeping her eyes more than ever on the ground, she said, in her bell-like voice,--

"Noble sir, there is naught that frights us."

"And this girl, who is she?" asked the Captain.

"'Tis a child which hath been brought hither for our Prioress to tend."

"Hath she no relatives here?"

"Nay, I know not; but she is well with us," said the nun, looking at the child with affection. It was the first expression of softer feeling that had yet come into her face.

The child returned her look with love and bright confidence.

"Thou art happy here?" said Yolande.

"Ay, truly am I," replied the girl; "now I know father will be safe."

"And who is thy father, sweet child?"

"He is a noble knight, but I may not tell his name," said the girl.

"Dost thou know, holy sister?" said Yolande, unable to repress her natural curiosity.

The nun looked a trifle surprised, as if not expecting such a breach of manners in so high-born a damsel, but she replied, as coldly as ever,--

"Nay, I know naught that passeth in the world. None who enter here have name, or kin on earth."

Yolande shivered. It seemed like talking to a ghost.

As her thirst was now assuaged, and none of the others would take any more--although Lord Woodville took an apple from the pretty child, and in doing so availed himself of the opportunity of slipping a gold coin on to the dish, the nun withdrew as silently as she came, and the girl accompanied her, giving another nod of friendly farewell to Ralph.

"'Tis getting late, Lord Woodville, and I must be riding home," said Yolande. "Where my father hath gotten to, I know not; and as for my poor Breton, good lack!" and she broke into a merry laugh.

They rode away from the peaceful vale, the long shadows of evening falling across the plain, and the chill mist of the marshland rising in white film around. They were a silent party. Lord Woodville was plunged in deep reverie. Yolande could not strike any sparks of wit out of Ralph, who worshipped her far too seriously to be quite at home and at his ease, and took in serious dudgeon the playful raillery with which his cousin treated him on the subject of the dark-eyed damsel.

"You silly boy, you think you are fond of me; but when you reach the age of manhood, and are of an age to marry, the lady of your choice will be one who is now a girl of just that little one's age. You mark my words."

"And what do you call the right age to marry?" asked the crestfallen Ralph.

"Oh, not before you are thirty or forty, or fifty or sixty. There! I'll marry you when I am sixty. So now go and be happy, and grow as fast as you can; in wisdom, at least, for your body is big enough, good lack!"

As they rode back into the more cultivated land they met parties of two or three of th............