It was a strange and picturesque wedding, romantic enough in appearance and reality to have satisfied the wildest imagination. Smoke-Jack and certain athletic able seamen marched in front; Slap-Jack and his foretopmen brought up the rear. In the centre walked the Marquise and her daughter, accompanied by the bridegroom. Four deep on each side were the special attendants of the bride, reckless in gait, free in manner, bronzed, bearded, broad-shouldered, and armed to the teeth, yet cherishing perhaps as deep a devotion for her whom they attended to the altar as could have been entertained by the fairest bevy of bridesmaids that ever belonged to her own sex. Cerise was very grave and very silent; happy indeed beyond expression, yet a little frightened at the extent as at the suddenness of her own happiness. It seemed so strange to be besieged, rescued, carried off by a lover, and married to him, all within twenty-four hours. The Marquise, on the contrary, was gay, talkative, brilliant, full of life and spirits; more beautiful too than usual, in the bright light of that noonday sun. Slap-Jack, who considered himself no mean judge of such matters, was much distracted by the conflict in his own mind as to whether, under similar circumstances, he would have chosen the mother or the child. Taking little notice of the crowd who followed at a respectful distance, having received from the free-handed sailors several very intelligible hints not to come too near, the bridal procession moved steadily through the outskirts of the town and ascended the hill on which the chapel stood. Halting at its door, the crew formed a strong guard to prevent interruption, and the principal performers, accompanied only by Smoke-Jack, Slap-Jack, and the Marquise, entered the building. There were flowers on the altar, with wax tapers already lighted, and everything seemed prepared for the ceremony. A priest, standing with his back to them, was apparently engaged in putting a finishing touch to the decorations when they advanced. Cerise, bewildered, frightened, agitated, clung to her mother’s arm. “Courage, my child,” said the Marquise, “it will soon be over, and you need never do this again!” There was something in the voice so hard, so measured, so different from its usual tone, that the girl glanced anxiously in her face. It betrayed no symptoms of emotion, not even the little flutter of maternal pride and anxiety natural to the occasion. It was flushed, imperious, defiant, and strangely beautiful. Slap-Jack entertained no longer the slightest doubt of its superiority to any face he had ever seen. And yet no knightly visor, or Eastern _yashmak_ ever concealed its real wearer more effectually than that lovely mask which she forced to do her bidding, though every muscle beneath was quivering in pain the while.