“Why didn't you stay where you were?” he cried, sharply, the sense of her peril setting his nerves on edge. As he realized that it was for his sake she had come between him and danger, his eyes grew moist. “Suppose you had been hurt?” he added, reproachfully. She did not reply, and they rode on at full speed. They had once more left their pursuers behind; but as the church was now only a few miles away, and they needed every spare moment there, they urged their horses to renewed effort. “There is the church now, and it's lighted up,” cried the Colonel, joyfully, as they dashed around a bend in the road, pointing to a little one-story building tucked away amid trees and under-brush beside the turnpike. In the doorway the minister stood waiting for them--a tall young man whose ruddy face, broad shoulders, and humorous blue eyes suggested the relationship the Colonel had mentioned. As they pulled up, the young minister came forward and was introduced by the Colonel as “My cousin, Jim Bradley.” While they were both assisting Miss Braxton to dismount and fastening the horses, the Colonel, in a few words, told of the pursuit and of the necessity of haste. Mr. Bradley led the way into the church, the lovers following arm in arm. It was a plain whitewashed little room, with wooden benches for the worshippers, and a narrow aisle leading up to the platform, where stood the preacher's pulpit. Half a dozen lamps with bright tin reflectors behind them, like halos, were fastened to brackets high up on the walls. The young couple stopped when they reached the platform, and at Mr. Bradley's request joined their hands. He had opened the prayer-book at the marriage service, and was beginning to read it, when he gave a start. Far away down the turnpike, faint but unmistakable--now dying away into a mere murmur, now rising clear and bold--came the sound of galloping horses. The Colonel felt the girl's hand cold in his, and he whispered a word of encouragement. Mr. Bradley hurried on with the ceremony. The centuries-old questions, so often asked beneath splendid domes before fashionable assemblages to the accompaniment of triumphant music, were never answered with more truth and fervor than in that little roadside church, with no one to hear them but the listening trees and the heart of the night wind. “Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?” How he pressed the trembling little hand in his, and how devotedly he answered, “I will.” “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband? Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?” The downcast eyes were covered with the drooping lids, and the voice was faint and low, but what a world of love was in the simple, “I will.”