“Not until I see the last and hear the last word of the man I love. You have denied all I have prayed you for, you have refused to spare the life of him I love; and I have not cursed you for it—because I am your daughter. But I will call down heaven’s anathema upon you if you send me from his side while life is in him.” To this Alva says nothing but sinks down at the table, putting his head in his hands, muttering to the lieutenant: “On your life, beware he does not escape you; that is all.” Then the entrance of the chapel being guarded, Chester, bound and helpless, is led in there, and sinks down before the man of God. But even as he makes the confession of the dying sinner, there is the frou of silk about him and the white laces and orange flowers of bridal robe brush his face that has been bruised by arquebus stocks, and a beautiful being upon whose face is despair but also love divine, sinks down beside him and sighs out to the priest: “Not the sacrament for the dead, but the sacrament of marriage!—with this man I love and who loves me—and who has taken his life in his hands every time he looked upon my face. Now I know what you have risked to gain me—my Guido!—now I know—my Guy, my Englishman!” “But my lord of Alva!” mutters the monk, aghast. “You, didn’t fear him a minute ago. Be merciful as you are good. Look at the altar piece; see, the Madonna pleads for me!” And gazing round Father Anastasius starts, crosses himself, and gasps: “A miracle! Our Mother’s face is yours, my child; the very eyes; the very mouth—miraculous!” “You see Holy Mary has taken my face to intercede for me,” whispers the girl, an inspiration in her brain. “Quick; as short a ceremony as will make us one.” Thus adjured, the priest, thinking it the very command of the Virgin herself, mutters over Guy Chester and Hermoine de Alva, though hastily, the sacrament of the Catholic Church that makes this man and woman of one flesh, one body and one name. As he utters response a sudden exultation comes into Chester’s soul; God will not bring despair upon this noble woman, this tender angel, who whispers to him: “I am your wife; now let me see if my father dare kill my husband!—holy man of God, your blessing.” And the priest, putting hands over them, there come tears in Father Anastasius s eyes and he murmurs: “Benedicte! The Virgin will guard the man you love.” Then Chester feels upon him his bride’s kiss with lips that are cold as death itself; and she rising steps out to her father and says with hoarse, unnatural voice: “It is done!” For this place is like a torture chamber now, and the voices of all are low and discordant; even Hermoine s own tones have grown harsh and rasping. “He is absolved?” “No, he is married.” “What?” “YES, HE HAS MARRIED ME.” “Married you! Misericordia! You will forever look upon your father as your husband’s butcher. Bring me the accursed priest!” cries he of Alva, rage mingling with his anguish.