“Yes, yes,” said the priest hastily, and rose, that they might not see his face. “I will go to my room if you will excuse me. I am tired, and must rise early.” “Your friend may be trustworthy, but he’s damnably unpleasant,” said Erceldonne, as soon as the priest’s back was turned. “It won’t matter what he is to-morrow morning after the register is signed.” But even Erle was not easy about the task before him. “Call Mrs. Fuller, will you? I want to talk to her.” The low hum of their voices reached Father Maurice, where he paced up and down his room. Regardless of the damp outside, he opened his window and leaned out, and if there had been any one to see his face, something in it might have made them marvel. It was not the face of a fool, or of a friend of Raimond Erle’s. Then he did a strange thing for a priest and a guest. He took off his shoes, and left the room without a sound. He was gone perhaps ten minutes, and when he came back there were only two voices in that murmur from the room below. Mrs. Fuller’s was missing. He went to the window again and scanned the misty darkness, as if he expected some one, but nothing stirred. “At dawn,” he thought. “I pray I have not acted unwisely. There are many hours till dawn,” and he sat listening and watching, long after the house was silent. His task was abhorrent to him; he loathed this semblance of doing evil that good might come, yet he saw no way out of it. When the night changed to dawn, he went his way to a deserted chapel that stood in the grounds. It was open, and he lit candles on the desolate altar. He was strangely pale after his night’s vigil, and he watched the growing light with grudging eyes. “Ah!” he said suddenly. He turned away into the moldy vestry and knelt down to pray. When he came out into the empty chapel a beam of sunlight struggled through the dusty glory of the stained windows, and shone like an auriole round him as he stood in his vestments. But to Erceldonne, who entered at that moment, it looked as if the priest were bathed in blood. Without speaking, he motioned to some one behind him. Raimond Erle took a girl’s passive hand and laid it on his father’s arm; and passed on to the right hand of the altar. Step by step, Erceldonne advanced with a terror at his heart for which he had no reason, since the license was right, by what means his son best knew. The bride, all in white, with a thick lace veil over her dusky hair and pale face, never looked up as she leaned on his arm; made no sign of surprise or dissent as she saw the waiting priest. Father Maurice, book in hand, never moved as they approached him, but as they sank on their knees he raised his hand, and his voice thrilled through the cold chapel. But not in the familiar Latin Erceldonne, who had been a Catholic when he was anything, expected.