"Golly! I--I--never married anybody." "That don't matter. Anybody can do it." "But I'm too young. It takes a man." "No, it doesn't. Ruth can tell you what to say. It's all easy. Come along." They entered the church; but Zac, like many of his kind, was unpleasantly affected by music, so he remained outside. Up the main aisle they started, Luther in front, the bride and groom behind, holding hands. In the gallery above Horace Phillips was practising various tunes, and the voice of the great organ filled the church. To the bride and groom, both lovers of music, the notes of the organ seemed more impressive than ever in the now empty building. But the wedding procession had barely started up the aisle when the ceremonies were rudely interrupted. The Budding Outlaw, smarting perhaps at being ignored, followed close behind and yielded to a vengeful impulse. Ruth's hair, gathered by a ribbon behind her head, was flowing down her back like a golden mane. The Budding Outlaw reached forth and seized a handful, then gave it a violent jerk, as if driving a horse, and he said, "Hi there! Giddap; giddap!" Ruth cried aloud in pain, "Stop it! Oh, stop it! It hurts!" She could not turn her head, but raised her hands in vain efforts at protection. Cyrus wheeled about. "Let go that hair!" And he scowled in anger at the aggressor. But the aggressor merely renewed the twitchings with: "Giddap hossey. Giddap." "Let go that hair," once more said Cyrus. The Budding Outlaw, for answer, twitched the golden hair again, and harder than before. As Ruth in helpless agony was still raising her hands to her head, Cyrus aimed a blow at the Budding Outlaw and hit him in the face. But the Budding Outlaw was one year older and one year bigger than Cyrus, and twenty years cooler, more cynical and more blasé. So, without even loosening his hold on the bride's hair, he struck out with his free hand and landed full on Cyrus's mouth. The blow was so well directed that the recipient staggered back and stood for a second or two as if dazed. On the Budding Outlaw's face was a smile of easy victory--and contempt. Cyrus saw it. In Ruth's face he saw torture and helpless anger. Then he threw himself again at the enemy. And again the enemy without loosening his left-hand clutch on the golden hair, sent his fist against the approaching face, landing full on its nose and followed it by a sudden push. Cyrus staggered back across the aisle and leaned against the nearest pew. He blinked, and drew a hand across his bleeding mouth. His nose seemed--to him--about twice its usual size and rapidly growing bigger. Then Ruth, forgetting her own pain, cried out: "Oh, Luther, Luther! Help Cyrus!"