“What is that?” said the Judge, keenly.  “Did you say that man performed the marriage ceremony over you?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“When and where was that?”

She gave the time and place.

“I should like to see the register of that parish.”

“Let me save you the trouble,” said the prisoner.  “Your lordship’s time has been wasted enough with falsehoods; I will not waste it further by denying the truth.  The fact is, my lord, I was always a great churchgoer (a laugh), and I was disgusted with the way in which the clergy deliver the Liturgy, and with their hollow discourses, that don’t go home to men’s bosoms.  Vanity whispered, ‘You could do better.’  I applied for the curacy of St. Peter’s.  I obtained it.  I gave universal satisfaction; and no wonder; my heart was in the work; I trembled at the responsibility I had undertaken.  Yes, my lord, I united that young lady in holy matrimony to one Frederick Coventry.  I had no sooner done it, than I began to realize that a clergyman is something more than a reader and a preacher.  Remorse seized me.  My penitence, once awakened, was sincere.  I retired from the sacred office I had usurped—­with much levity, I own, but, as heaven is my witness, with no guilty intent.”

The Judge, to Grace.  “Did you ever see the prisoner on any other occasion?”

Grace.  “Only once.  He called on me after my marriage.  He left the town soon after.”

The Judge then turned to Grace, and said, with considerable feeling, “It would be unkind to disguise the truth from you.  You must petition Parliament to sanction this marriage by a distinct enactment; it is the invariable course, and Parliament has never refused to make these marriages binding.  Until then, pray understand that you are Miss Carden, and not Mrs. Coventry.”

The witness clasped her hands above her bead, uttered a loud scream of joy, and was removed all but insensible from the box.

The Judge looked amazed.  The Sheriff whispered, “Her husband is a greater scoundrel than this prisoner.”

Soon after this the Judge withdrew to luncheon, and took the Sheriff along with him.  “Mr. Sheriff,” said he, “you said something to me in court I hardly understood.”

Then Raby gave the Judge a brief outline of the whole story, and, in a voice full of emotion, asked his advice.

The Judge smiled at this bit of simplicity; but his heart had been touched, and he had taken a fancy to Raby.  “Mr. Sheriff,” said he, “etiquette forbids me to advise you—­”

“I am sorry for that, my lord.”

“But humanity suggests—­Tell me, now, does this Coventry hold to her?  Will he petition Parliament?”

“It is very possible, my lord.”

“Humph!  Get a special license, and marry Grace Carden to Henry Little, and have the marriage consummated.  Don’t lose a day, nor an hour.  I will not detain you, Mr. Sheriff.”

Raby took the hint, and soon found Henry, and told him the advice he had got.  He set him to work to get the license, and, being resolved to stand no nonsense, he drove to Grace, and invited her to Raby Hall.  “I am to be married this week,” said he, “and you must be at the wedding.”