“Let God deal with you, knave,” he said, “for I cannot.”

For a while there was silence.  There they stood and stared at the smitten man waiting the end, whatever it might be.  They all stared save Murgh, who fixed his stony eyes upon the sky.

Presently it came.  The sword, falling from Acour’s hand into the grave, rested there point upward.  With a last effort he drew his dagger.  Dashing the blood from his eyes, he hurled it with all his dying strength, not at Hugh, but at Red Eve.  Past her ear it hissed, severing a little tress of her long hair, which floated down on to the snow.

Then Acour threw his arms wide and fell backward—­fell backward and vanished in the grave.

Dick ran to look.  There he lay dead, pierced through back and bosom by the point of his own sword.

For one brief flash of time a black dove-shaped bird was seen hovering round the head of Murgh.

“Finished!” said Dick straightening himself.  “Well, I had hoped to see a better fight, but cowards die as cowards live.”

Leaning on Red Eve’s shoulder Sir Andrew limped to the side of the grave.  They both looked down on that which lay therein.

“Daughter,” said the old man, “through many dangers it has come about as I foretold.  The bond that in your drugged sleep bound you to this highborn knave is severed by God’s sword of death.  Christ have pity on his sinful soul.  Now, Sir Hugh de Cressi, come hither and be swift, for my time is short.”

Hugh obeyed, and at a sign took Eve by the hand.  Then, speaking very low and as quickly as he might for all his life was draining from him through the red wound in his side, the old priest spoke the hallowed words that bound these two together till death should part them.  Yes, there by the graveside, over the body of the dead Acour, there in the red light of the morning, amidst the lonely snows, was celebrated the strangest marriage the world has ever seen.  In nature’s church it was celebrated, with the grim, grey Archer for a clerk, and Death’s own fearful minister for congregation.

It was done and with uplifted, trembling hands Sir Andrew blessed them both—­them and the fruit of their bodies which was to be.  He blessed them in the name of the all-seeing God he served.  He bade them put aside their grief for those whom they had lost.  Soon, he said, their short day done, the lost would be found again, made glorious, and with them himself, who, loving them both on earth, would love them through eternity.

Then, while their eyes grew blind with tears, and even the fierce archer turned aside his face, Sir Andrew staggered to where he stood who in the Land of Sunrise had been called Gateway of the Gods.  Before him he bent his grey and ancient head.

“O thou who dwellest here below to do the will of heaven, to thee I come as once thou badest me,” he said, and was silent.

Murgh let his eyes rest on him.  Then stretching out his hand, he touched him very gently on the breast, and as he touched him smiled a sweet and wondrous smile.