He cleared his throat. “Your name I didn’t catch,” he said doubtfully, and Pete did not supply the knowledge, “but I heard you introduce this young woman as your wife. I watched her very closely; I watched you, too, sir; I took the liberty of making some inquiries about you. I have had much and varied experience in the study of human nature.” Here he put out a broad, clean hand with square finger-tips and lifted Sylvie’s brown, unwilling left hand high from her side. “I am a minister of the gospel,” he repeated. “In a land where such a symbol is thought much of, this woman has no wedding-ring. There is no register of your marriage here in the one spot where such a registration might have been most conveniently made--” Sylvie jerked away her fingers; Pete laid down his load and slowly drew his right hand into a terrible fist. “No, no!” The square-tipped fingers were lifted deprecatingly. “You must not be angry with me, my children. I am not here to judge you. I have no knowledge of your temptation, of your difficulties; you have met and loved in a wild and difficult land. I was not even sure of my surmise. Now, however; your silence and your anger confirm my opinion. I want only to offer you my services. Will you continue in your life and love as I have seen them to be, or will you, if only for the sake of other lives not yet your responsibility--perhaps, will you take advantage of this opportunity which God has now given you and let me make you indeed man and wife?” Pete’s fist was still terrible, and his lips were gathering their words, when Sylvie unbelievably spoke. “Pete,” she asked tremulously, and he felt her drawing even closer to his side, “Pete, don’t you want--you _do_ want--I know--I mean, will you, would you--marry me?” He was dumb as a rock, and gray. His hand opened; he stared from her to the impossible intruder, the worker of the miracle, or rather for he felt like a beast trapped, the strange layer of the snare. For an instant the lake and the forest and the red sky turned in a great wheel before his eyes. Then he caught Sylvie’s wrist almost brutally in his hand. “Be quiet!” he said; it was the savage speaking to his woman. “You’ve gone mad. Come with me. As for you, sir, my marrying or not marrying is none of your business--” The minister looked sadly up into the young man’s white and rigid face. “God be with you!” He bowed, turned and walked back along the beach, hands locked behind his broad tweed back, his head bent. Pete tightened his grip on Sylvie’s arm. “Come,” he said to her as harshly as before. “We must hurry. It’s nearly night.”