Mollie wept happy tears through which smiles struggled. Vicky, dominated by a sense of delicacy, regretfully withdrew and left them to talk the murmurous disjointed language of lovers that has come down from Adam and Eve in the garden. Fifteen minutes later she poked her head back into the room and coughed discreetly. “Vicky, when can you have my girl ready?” Scot demanded. “Ready for what?” she asked. But she knew for what. Her face sparkled. The slim body wriggled with excitement, as a happy, expectant puppy does. “For the wedding, of course.” “In twenty minutes,” answered Vicky promptly. “Good. I met Father Marston at the Ormsby House when the stage came in. I’ll be back in time.” Mollie protested, blushing. She had no clothes. She did not think she wanted to be married in such a hurry. Proper arrangements must be made. Vicky and Scot brushed her excuses aside peremptorily. In his blue uniform McClintock strode down the street, the sword still swinging at his side. He knew where to find Father Marston, who was chaplain of the legislature, now in special session. Delavan Marston was a character. Rough and rugged, he struck straight from the shoulder. His tastes and habits were liberal. He liked a good cigar and a good glass of wine. Generally he was called Father Marston, though he was a Protestant. He rose, tall and gaunt, to open the assembly with prayer, just as Scot came into the hall. The soldier listened to a remarkable petition. A member of the legislature had been complaining because the chaplain’s prayers were too long. “And they don’t get practical results,” the member had added. “If they’d make the rock in my tunnel any softer or the water in my ditch more plentiful I’d favour ’em. But they look to me like a waste of time.” A kind friend had reported the grumbler’s words to Marston. This morning he made his petition short enough and direct enough. “O Lord,” he prayed sonorously, “we ask Thee to remember in particular one of our number. Make the rock in his tunnel as soft as his head and the water in his ditch as plentiful as the whisky he daily drinks. Amen.” McClintock stopped the parson on his way out of the building. Father Marston swept the handsome figure from head to foot with his grim eyes. He was very fond of Scot McClintock, but he disapproved of many of his actions. He was the only man alive except old Alexander McClintock who dared tell him so. “Colonel, that uniform is an honour to any living man. They tell me you’ve not disgraced it in the army. That’s right. I’d expect you to be a good soldier. But there are soldiers of peace, sir. They have their battles to fight, too. Isn’t it about time you quit hellin’ around and set this country round here a good example? Folks like and admire you. The Lord knows why. They set a heap o’ store by you. They’ll be disappointed if you go back to dealing faro.”