He floundered for an opening. Bits of biblical and legal phrases raced through his tortured brain, but none seemed appropriate to this situation. The haunt of the dark eyes obscured his vision, the limpid "I do," filled his ears. "I do." The significance of the words brought him back to the point of interruption, and he turned to them, desperate, vague. "You do? You do, eh--you both do ... well, ... join hands! I do say and declare this twenty-third day of January that you are man and wife in accord with the law of this land, and now--" He glared at the grinning beneficiary of the service, and finished: "And now--and now what I--what God and I have joined let no man put asunder ... till death do us part ... so help me God, Amen!" In an agony of torment he ripped through the crowd and raced to the shack, where the Major joined him after taking Ahma into Ohto's house. It was now broad daylight, and the huts were emptying of the crowd waking to take up the burden of fiesta. Terry buckled up his pack, joining in the Major's mirth. "But you are married all right. I will send you up a certificate as soon as I reach Zamboanga, all signed and sealed and everything." They became serious in thought of imminent separation. Now that the time had come Terry dreaded leaving his friend alone in the Hills. "I will relieve you in three months, Major," he said. "You needn't hurry--don't forget I'm on a honeymoon, too!" Terry hesitated, then risked the question that had been bothering him: "After we come--what are you going to do? Will Ahma be ready to go below?" "No, she will not. I am figuring on leaving her here a few months--your wife can teach her to--to dress, and all that. And I can't take her away so long as Ohto lives. After that, I want to take her to the States. She learns fast, Terry,--and I want her to see Europe--she will learn a lot there, too!" The old woman brought them their breakfast. The Major hurried through the meal and left to secure a guide to take Terry down, explaining that he would join him in the woods. Terry ate under the sorrowing eyes of the faithful woman, and when he finished he presented her with the only gaud that remained to him, the gold medallion from his fob. She scurried out to display it, the proudest woman, save one, in all the Hills. Slinging the pack across his shoulders he turned for a last look at the little hut that had sheltered him. Within its cramped walls he had suffered, had known grave peril, and great joy. A hint of the old wistfulness flickered about the corner of his mouth, then he left the hut and strode through the clearing into the woods, halting to wave cheerfully at the Hillmen who somberly watched the departure of their future chief.