“Are you going to leave me like that?” said I.

“What would you have?” she answered, turning towards the cave.

“In my country lovers bind themselves by mutual vows.”

“What need of vows?  Have we not confessed our loves?”

“Will you not tell me when I shall see you again?  Will you not say when you will be mine—­when you will marry me?”

A blush mounted to her cheek as she answered with a divine glance,

“Meet me at sunset to-morrow, and I will be yours.”

As yet I had not mentioned my adventure with Alumion to any of my companions, but that night I said to Gazen, as we smoked our cigars together,

“Wish me joy, old fellow!  I am going to be married.”

He seemed quite dumbfounded, and I rather think he fancied that I must have come to an understanding with Miss Carmichael.

“Really!” said he with the air of a man plucking up heart after an unexpected blow.  “May I ask who is the lady?”

“The Priestess of the Lily.”

“The Priestess!” he exclaimed utterly astonished, but at the same time vastly relieved.  “The Priestess!  Come, now, you are joking.”

“Never was more serious in my life.”

Then I told him what had happened, how I had met her, and my engagement to marry her.

“If you will take my advice,” said he dryly, “you’ll do nothing of the kind.”

“Why?”

“Have you considered the matter?” he replied significantly.

“Considered the matter!  A love like mine does not ‘consider the matter’ as though it were a problem in Euclid.  With such a woman as Alumion a lover does not stop to ‘consider the matter,’ unless he is a fool.”

“A woman—­yes; but remember that she is a woman of another planet.  She might not make a suitable wife for you.”

“I love her.  I love her as I can never love a woman of our world.  She is a thousand times more beautiful and good than any woman I have ever known.  She is an ideal woman—­a perfect woman—­an angel in human form.”

“That may be; but what will her family say?”

“My dear Gazen, don’t you know they manage these things better here.  Thank goodness, the ‘family’ does not interfere with love affairs in this happy land!  We love each other, we have agreed to be married, and that is quite sufficient.  No need to get the ‘consent of the parents,’ or make a ‘settlement,’ or give out the banns, or buy a government license as though a wife were contraband goods, or hire a string of four-wheelers, or tip the pew-opener.  What has love to do with pew-openers?  Why should the finest thing in life become the prey of such vulgar parasites?  Why should our heavenliest moments be profaned and spoiled by needless worries—­hateful to the name of love?  Our wedding will be very simple.  We shall not even want you as groomsman or Miss Carmichael as bridesmaid.  I daresay we shall get along without cake and speeches, and as for the rice and old boots, upon my word, I don’t think we shall miss them.”