The battle must be won on the field, and what does the hero now?  It is an inspiration!  For who else would dream of such a reserve in the rear?  None see what he does; only that the black-satin bunch is remonstratingly agitated, stormily shaken, and subdued:  and as though the menacing cloud had opened, and dropped the dear token from the skies at his demand, he produces the symbol of their consent, and the service proceeds:  “With this ring I thee wed.”

They are prayed over and blest.  For good, or for ill, this deed is done.  The names are registered; fees fly right and left:  they thank, and salute, the curate, whose official coolness melts into a smile of monastic gallantry:  the beadle on the steps waves off a gaping world as they issue forth bridegroom and bridesman recklessly scatter gold on him:  carriage doors are banged to:  the coachmen drive off, and the scene closes, everybody happy.

CHAPTER XXX

And the next moment the bride is weeping as if she would dissolve to one of Dian’s Virgin Fountains from the clasp of the Sun-God.  She has nobly preserved the mask imposed by comedies, till the curtain has fallen, and now she weeps, streams with tears.  Have patience, O impetuous young man!  It is your profession to be a hero.  This poor heart is new to it, and her duties involve such wild acts, such brigandage, such terrors and tasks, she is quite unnerved.  She did you honour till now.  Bear with her now.  She does not cry the cry of ordinary maidens in like cases.  While the struggle went on her tender face was brave; but, alas!  Omens are against her:  she holds an ever-present dreadful one on that fatal fourth finger of hers, which has coiled itself round her dream of delight, and takes her in its clutch like a horrid serpent.  And yet she must love it.  She dares not part from it.  She must love and hug it, and feed on its strange honey, and all the bliss it gives her casts all the deeper shadow on what is to come.

Say:  Is it not enough to cause feminine apprehension, for a woman to be married in another woman’s ring?

You are amazons, ladies, at Saragossa, and a thousand citadels—­wherever there is strife, and Time is to be taken by the throat.  Then shall few men match your sublime fury.  But what if you see a vulture, visible only to yourselves, hovering over the house you are gaily led by the torch to inhabit?  Will you not crouch and be cowards?

As for the hero, in the hour of victory he pays no heed to omens.  He does his best to win his darling to confidence by caresses.  Is she not his?  Is he not hers?  And why, when the battle is won, does she weep?  Does she regret what she has done?

Oh, never! never! her soft blue eyes assure him, steadfast love seen swimming on clear depths of faith in them, through the shower.

He is silenced by her exceeding beauty, and sits perplexed waiting for the shower to pass.