No, there was no miracle. Philip's eyes fell before her eyes, and his head went down. He was only digging at the red baize with one of his feet. She felt tired, so very tired, and oh! so cold. The parson had gone on with his reading. When she caught up with him he was saying-- “--as ye shall, answer at the great day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it.” The parson paused. He had always paused at that point. The pause had no meaning for him, but for Kate how much! Impediment! There was indeed an impediment. Confess? How could she ever confess? The warning terrified her. It seemed to have been made for her alone. She had heard it before, and thought nothing of it. Now it seemed to scorch her very soul. She began to tremble violently. There was an indistinct murmur which she did not catch. The parson seemed to be speaking to Pete-- “--love her, comfort her, honour and keep her... so long as ye both shall live.” And then came Pete's voice, full and strong from his great chest, but far off, and going by her ear like a voice in a shell--“I will.” After that the parson's words seemed to be falling on her face. “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and forsaking all other, keep thee unto him, so long as ye both shall live?” Kate was far away. She was spelling out the Manx text, “Bannet T'eshyn Ta Cheet,” but the letters were dancing in and out of each other, and yellow lights were darting from her eyes. Suddenly she was aware that the parson's voice had stopped. There was blank silence, then an uneasy rustle, and then somebody was saying something in a soft tone. “Eh?” she said aloud. The parson's voice came now in a whisper at her breast--“Say, 'I will.'” “Ah I,” she murmured. “I-will! That's all, my dear. Say it with me, 'I--will.'” She framed her lips to speak, but the words were half uttered by the parson. The next thing she knew was that a stray hand was holding her hand. She felt more safe now that her poor cold fingers lay in that big warm palm. It was Pete, and he was speaking again. She did not so much hear him as feel his voice tingling through her veins. “I, Peter Quilliam, take thee, Katherine Cregeen----'” But it was all a vague murmur, fraying off into nothing, ending like a wave with a long upward plash of low sound. The parson was speaking to her again, softly, gently, caressingly, almost as if she were a frightened child. “Don't be afraid, my dear! try to speak after me. Take your time.” Then, aloud, “'I, Katherine Cregeen.'” Her throat gurgled; she faltered, but she spoke at length in the toneless voice of one who speaks in sleep. “'I, Katherine Cregeen---'” “'Take thee, Peter Quilliam----'”