“‘Behold, I will repay, saith the Lord,’” the strong, clear words rang out over the kneeling wedding-party. “‘I have laid a snare for thee, O Babylon; and thou art also taken, for thou wast not aware.’” “The Presbyterian will come out!” thought Erle, mindful of the priest’s history, and never stirred a finger at the magnificent cry of denunciation. But Lord Erceldonne knew better. He had seen the priest’s finger that pointed to something behind him; had turned his head, sprung up, and stood turned to stone. The chapel was empty no longer. Between him and the sunlight outside the open door, between him and the desire of his eyes, stood two that were risen from the dead. Behind them, strange men in plain clothes. To Erceldonne the place seemed swarming. He could not draw his breath, and he shook from him the terrified woman’s hand that clutched his arm. The strange pause made the bridegroom turn. But even he could not speak. Andria--Andria stood there, with her eyes on his. And Heriot held her hand! Heriot, that was dead in Flores! Father Maurice stepped to Erle’s side, and touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Be glad,” he said, “that you have not had time to take another sin upon you! There stands your wife, whom you deserted and left to die. Go to her, ask her pardon on your knees. You told her I was no priest; that I had no right to marry you. I was a minister in the Church of Scotland, and you know it. You were married as hard and fast as I could marry you to-day, when I am an unworthy servant of the Catholic church.” But Erle never answered. He stood as if he did not feel that hard, light hand on his shoulder, and stared at the woman who was, after all, his wife. “It’s a lie!” cried Erceldonne fiercely. He caught his son’s nerveless hand. “Raimond, it’s a plot! The priest’s in some one’s pay!” “The priest,” said Father Maurice, “is in the service of God. Lord Erceldonne, I am the chaplain of St. Mary’s Convent. It was Mother Felicitas who sent me to find your son, and save an innocent girl.” “Mother Felicitas!” But his jarring laugh stopped unfinished. There was something in the priest’s face, something in the absolute silence of the strange man at the door, that killed his laughter in his throat. “Your Mother Felicitas is a--a--you fool, she was my mistress! She----”