“He is ever that,” replied Emlyn unconcernedly. “But so long as he doesn’t touch, what does it matter? Now hark you, sweetest, I’ve Spanish and gypsy blood in me with which go gifts, and so I’ll tell you something for your comfort. However oft he snatches, Death will not lay his bony hand on you for many a long year--not till you are well-nigh as thin with age as he is. Oh! you’ll have your troubles like all of us, worse than many, mayhap, but you are Luck’s own child, who lived when the rest were taken, and you’ll win through and take others on your back, as a whale does barnacles. So snap your fingers at death, as I do,” and she suited the action to the word, “and be happy while you may, and when you’re not happy, wait till your turn comes round again. Now follow me and, though your father is murdered, smile as you should in such an hour, for what man wants a sad-faced bride?” They walked down the broad oaken stairs into the hall where Christopher stood waiting for them. Glancing at him shyly, Cicely saw that he was clad in mail beneath his cloak, and that his sword was girded at his side, also that some men with him were armed. For a moment he stared at her glittering beauty confused, then said-- “Fear not this hint of war in love’s own hour,” and he touched his shining armour. “Cicely, these nuptials are strange as they are happy, and some might try to break in upon them. Come now, my sweet lady;” and bowing before her he took her by the hand and led her from the house, Emlyn walking behind them and the men with torches going before and following after. Outside it was freezing sharply, so that the snow crunched beneath their feet. In the west the last red glow of sunset still lingered on the steely sky, and over against it the great moon rose above the round edge of the world. In the bushes of the garden, and the tall poplars that bordered the moat, blackbirds and fieldfares chattered their winter evening song, while about the grey tower of the neighbouring church the daws still wheeled. The picture of that scene whereof at the time she seemed to take no note, always remained fixed in the mind of Cicely: the cold expanse of snow, the inky trees, the hard sky, the lambent beams of the moon, the dull glow of the torches caught and reflected by her jewels and her lover’s mail, the midwinter sound of birds, the barking of a distant hound, the black porch of the church that drew nearer, the little oblong mounds which hid the bones of hundreds who in their day had passed it as infants, as bridegrooms and as brides, and at last as cold, white things that had been men and women.