She knew then what was coming and what she had to do, and those who watched her saw the girl lift herself erect and listen to the priest asking those solemnly momentous questions which were to bind her forever to obey Richard Spencer, to love and honor him, and in sickness and health, forsaking all others, keep unto him as long as she lived. She had but to say two words and her promise would be broken, her lover lost and her life made wretched beyond hope. "But I will never say them!" and this passionate assurance to her soul gave her all the strength she needed. When the clergyman stopped speaking she looked straight into his face and in a voice low, but perfectly distinct, answered: "I will not." There was a moment's startled pause. Her father's voice broke it: "Go on, sir." But before this was possible Maria continued: "I am the promised wife of another man. I do not love this man. I will not marry him." Her eyes, full of pitiful entreaty, held the clergyman's eyes. He looked steadily at the company and said, "God's law and the laws of this realm forbid this marriage until such time as the truth of this allegation be tried." And with these words he walked to the altar, laid the Book of Common Prayer upon it, and then disappeared in the vestry. Before he did so, however, there was a shrill, sharp cry of mortal pain, and Mrs. Semple was barely saved by her husband's promptitude from falling prone on the marble aisle before the chancel. Immediately all was confusion. The sick woman was carried insensible to her coach. Mr. Spencer took his sobbing sister on his arm, and the guests broke up into couples. With hurrying feet, amazed, ashamed, all talking together, they sought the vehicles that were to carry them away from a scene so painful and so unexpected. Maria sat down in the nearest pew and waited to see what would happen. She heard carriage after carriage roll away, and then realized that every one had deserted her. In about twenty minutes the sexton began to close the church, and she asked him, "Has nobody waited for me?" "No, miss, you be here alone." Then she took a ring from her finger and offered it to him: "Get me a closed carriage and I will give you this ring," she said, but he answered: "Nay, I want no ring from a little lass in trouble. I'll get the carriage, and you may drop into the church some better day to pay me." She went back home in the midst of a thunderstorm. The day was darkened, the rain driven furiously by the wind, and yet when she reached her father's house the front entrance stood open and there was neither men nor women servants in sight. She ran swiftly to her room, locked the door and sank into a chair, spent with fear and sick with apprehension. What had happened? What would be done to her? "Oh, to be back in New York!" she cried. "Nobody there would force a poor girl into misery and make a prayer over it, and a feast about it."