“True as the Gospel, upon my honor.”
“But the bride—where on earth did you find the bride?”
“Among the wigwams. Like your honored father, Sir John, I have a fancy for picturesque women. My wife is a half-breed—no, I am too deep—she is a white on her mother’s side, and half Indian in the paternal line, but bright as a hawk, sharp as steel, and moves like a panther.”
“And you have married an Indian girl—absolutely and lawfully married her?”
“Absolutely and lawfully married her,” answered Butler, taking a knife from the table, tapping the cloth with its silver handle, and nodding his head, as if he were beating time to music. “Handcuffed for life. No jumping the broomstick in this affair; none of that Indian hospitality which your father installed, but a downright, honest marriage, done to a turn, by an ordained minister of the church, and served up with this order, which you will please countersign or cash without delay.”
Sir John took the document extended to him, and read it with evident surprise.
“Catharine Montour; it is her signature and secret mark. In Heaven’s name, where did you get this document, Butler?”
“From the lady’s own fair hand. You recognize her writing, it seems, and I hope hold possession of the needful mentioned. Rather a good speculation for a clasp of the hands, locked by a dozen words of nonsense, ha!”
“I do not comprehend.”
“You understand the draft, and that is the most important thing just now, Sir John; as for the rest, it is a pill which I can swallow without the help of friends.”