twilight had fallen, a twilight of blue mists and vague, mysterious distances. a young moon was in the sky, and in a thicket near denise’s cell nightingales were singing. she was to offer herself at the high altar that night, to strip her body before god, st. martin, and our lady, for dom silvius had so persuaded her, arguing that her chaste holiness would be the more miraculous when offered publicly to god. denise had had no heart to determine for herself, and to withstand dom silvius’s arguments. her womanhood stood mute and humbled, feeling that some subtle virtue had fled out of her, and left her without purpose. she had lost faith in her own genius; in the magic crystal of her heart she could no longer see visions. and like one very weary she was leaving her destiny in the hands of others, letting them think for her, and guide her as they pleased.

when the twilight had fallen denise went out into the little grass close before the cell, a close that was shut in by a high thorn hedge. she carried with her a jar of water that abbot reginald had blessed, a napkin, a vial of perfumed oil, and a pure white shift and tunic, given by the devout. no one could see her there, and denise stripped off her old clothes, washed her body from head to foot, dried it, and anointed it with oil.

now the warmth of her bosom made the perfume of the oil rise up into her nostrils, and the perfume seemed to steal straight into denise’s heart. the night was very still, save for the song of the nightingales. dew had fallen on the grass, yet a sweet warmth rose out of the earth, a warmth that is rare in the month of may. there was the moon yonder, and far hills faint under a mysterious sky. and denise who a moment ago had felt miserable and weary of soul, in one breath was blushing as red as a rose, her whole body quivering in the moonlight, her eyes full of some inward fire.

a call from the unknown had come to her, and her heart had answered it, and for the moment she stood transfigured. the night seemed magical, a-whisper with mystery. she felt that she must steal away into the sweet green gloom of the woods, taking all hazards, dreaming a great love. she stretched her arms above her head, so their white and anointed sheen caught the faint light of the moon. then as a white flame leaps and falls again into the darkness, so denise’s arms fell suddenly across her bosom. the warmth and the perfume had gone again, and she felt cold in body and in heart.

what could it avail her that she was a woman and could dream dreams? the torch was quenched, the wine spilt from the jar. there was no other path than this even though it was strewn with thorns. she must follow it to the end, forgetting that other life, and yet remembering it, hating the world, yet thinking of one heart that might have stood for the whole world. if she escaped bitterness and shame, surely she should be grateful, and contented with such mercies. there was no other life for her but this one of self-renunciation.

slowly, and very sadly she put on the white shift and tunic, emblems of what the world believed in. she bound up her hair and the touch of it brought back the memory of that night, a memory that stung like an asp at the breast. when she had dressed herself, she knelt on the threshold to pray until the midnight offering. but her misery fled forth into other ways, and she thought of man before she thought of god.

hours had passed, and there was a sense of stir somewhere over yonder where the abbey lay. a bell began to toll, slowly and sonorously, the first clang of its clapper sounding a note of dismal sanctity. torches were being lit, for a faint glare began to rise above the orchards and the thickets, and denise, kneeling on the bare stones, knew that the hour of her renunciation was near.

the sound of their coming was still a sound in the distance when denise heard the trampling of a horse along the road that ran not very far from her cell. it ceased suddenly, and a murmur of voices came up to her in the darkness. then all was still again save for the tolling of the bell, and the solemn chanting which told her that dom silvius and the brethren who had charge of her were coming with torches over the hill.

now denise had risen and gone out into the green close when the trampling of hoofs came along the thorn hedge with the creaking of harness, and the snorting of a horse. denise stood still, holding her breath as she listened. the moon had gone, and the only light was the glare of the torches that were topping the hill.

denise heard a voice calling.

“denise,” it said; “sancta denise.”

the trampling of hoofs had ceased, and there was silence save for the chanting of the monks upon the hill top. something moved beyond the hedge, and denise heard the latch of the gate lifted. the heart stood still in her a moment. someone was near her in the close, for she heard the sound of breathing, and the rustling of feet in the grass.

a man’s whisper came to her out of the dark.

“denise!”

in a moment, she knew not how, the warm silence of the night grew full of love and life. he was close to her with a white, passionate face looking into hers, questioning her very soul. perhaps their hands touched. it was like the tumult and yearning of waters in a dark and narrow place.

denise was trembling from head to foot. aymery had touched her hand, no more than that, yet nothing but a thin film of darkness seemed to hold the two apart. denise heard the outpouring of his words, a man’s words, poignant and tender, striking her very heart. what could she say to him, with this renunciation of hers so near.

“denise, why have you left us?”

she covered her face with her arms.

“lord, lord, was it not you who told me to seek a surer refuge?”

his hands were straining back, and straining forward, as though to touch her, and not to touch.

“yes, but that was a while ago. things happen in this world, when a man is tied to his bed. if all has been well with you——”

she let her arms fall from before her face, and there, above them, the dark hillside was seamed with a stream of light. and in the flare of the torches she could see many shadowy figures moving, and the outline of a great cross carried in the van.

aymery had seemed blind to all save the white figure before him. but the torch flare struck across his face, and he seemed suddenly to understand.

then denise spoke, as though compelling herself.

“they are coming for me,” she said. “to-night, i offer myself at the high altar. they must not find you here.”

he did not answer her for the moment, but stood looking at the torches, almost stupidly, like a man stunned. then he bowed his head before her, spoke her name, and went out into the night.

aymery remembered all that followed as a man remembers few things in the course of his life. he hid his horse in a thicket, and followed on foot when the cross and the torches turned back towards the abbey. the abbey town seemed full of strange curious faces, of shadowy figures that jostled him, of the light of torches, of folk whispering together. there were many people moving under the gate, and on towards the abbey church. aymery moved with them, silently, dully, like one carried along in the midst of a stream. they flowed in at the doors, these people, and on between pillars that towered up into darkness, and along aisles that were shadowy and dim. the high altar alone was lit with many waxen candles. the brethren were in their stalls, the sound of chanting came from somewhere out of the dusk.

then began in that great church the last episode of dom silvius’s pageant. aymery, leaning against a pillar in the darkness, saw denise kneeling before the altar, reginald of brecon near her, and two of the most aged of the monks. a bell rang; a strong and strident voice spoke some prayer; then the chanting soared and rolled into the far vaultings of the roof. heads were bowed everywhere; the monks in the choir had their faces hidden. but aymery’s eyes were turned towards the altar where the candles flickered and the smoke of incense seemed to curl and ascend.

he saw denise rise, drop her white tunic and shift, and kneel naked upon the altar steps. an old monk bent over her, and clipped away her hair so that it fell like light about her body. she bent before the altar with outstretched arms, and holy water was sprinkled upon her body and her clothes. a voice sounded. she rose slowly and re-arrayed herself. one long murmur seemed to pass like a wind through the darkened church.

the year of a novitiate had begun, a season of probation that should pass before more solemn and final vows should be put upon her. silvius, shrewd man, had advised denise guardedly for the sake of the honour of his “house.” there should be a ceremony, a kneeling before the altar. that would please the people, and bring her more solemnly before their eyes. then let denise prove herself as a child of miracles, and they could talk of the greater and more lasting vows.

then the aisles seemed alive with swirling water. the people were moving forth with lowered heads, while denise knelt again before the high altar with its candles. aymery went with the people, looking back but once when he had reached the western door. the night struck warm after the cold air of the great church. he found himself in the abbey town, walking aimlessly in the midst of many moving, whispering figures.

then a great hunger to be alone seized him. he almost ran through the straggling town, up past mountjoye to where he had hidden his horse. and when the first grey of the dawn came he was galloping northwards along the forest roads as though trying to distance the memories of the past night.