Overcoming Mrs. Garrison's objections, Dorothy had insisted on and obtained special permission to have a night wedding. She had dreamed of the lights, the splendor, the brilliancy of an after-sunset wedding and would not be satisfied until all barriers were put aside. Dorothy's uncle, Henry Van Dykman, her mother's brother, and a number of elated New York relatives came to the Belgian capital, shedding their American opulence as the sun throws out its light. The skill of a general was required to direct, manage and control the pageant of the sixteenth. Thousands of dollars were tossed into the cauldron of social ambition by the lavish mother, who, from behind an army of lieutenants, directed the preliminary maneuvers. The day came at last and St. Gudule's presented a scene so bewilderingly, so dazzlingly glorious that all Brussels blinked its eyes and was awed into silence. The church gleamed with the wealth of the universe, it seemed, and no words could describe the brilliancy of the occasion. The hour of this woman's triumph had come, the hour of the Italian conqueror had come, the hour of the victim had come. In front of the house in the Avenue Louise, an hour before the beginning of the ceremony, there stood the landau that was to take the bride to the cathedral. Carriage after carriage passed, bearing the visitors from the new world, to the church. All were gone save the bride, her mother and her uncle. Down the carpeted steps and across to the door of the carriage came Dorothy and her uncle, followed by the genius of the hour. At the last moment Dorothy shuddered, turned sick and faint for an instant, as she thought of a ship far out at sea. The footman swung up beside the driver, and they were off by quiet streets toward the church where waited all impatient, the vast assemblage and the triumphant prince. The silence inside the carriage was like that of the tomb. What were the thoughts of the occupants could not well be described. “Are we not almost there, Dorothy?” nervously asked her mother, after many minutes. “Good heavens! We are late! O, what shall we do?” cried she in despair. In an instant the somber silence of the cab's interior was lost. The girl forgot her prayer in the horror of the discovery that there was to be a hitch in the well-planned arrangements. Her mother frantically pulled aside the curtains and looked out, fondly expecting to see the lights of St. Gudule on the hill. Uncle Henry dropped his watch in his nervousness and was all confusion. “We are not near the church, my--why, where are we? I have never seen these houses before. Henry, Henry, call to the driver! He has lost his way. My heavens, be quick!” It was not necessary to hail the driver, for at that instant the carriage came to a sudden standstill. The door opened quickly, and before the eyes of the astonished occupants loomed the form of a masked man. In his hand he held a revolver. XX. WITH STRANGE COMPANIONS