All these monsters and ghoulish phantoms grinned at Michael now, polluting the sacred edifice with their imaginary presence. They floated corpse-like on the shifting clouds of the ever-rising incense and taunted Michael with their grinning faces, daring him now to turn from the broad path of happiness whither the snow-white hand of an ignorant girl was so trustingly leading him.
"Follow the path of honour, follow truth and loyalty now, Michael, and to-morrow thou'lt be one of us again: one with the grinning and dishonest sceptics, one with the profligate crowd of mercenary soldiers, one with the flotsam and jetsam of criminal London, the drunkards, the roisterers, God's damned upon earth. Truth leads the way to perdition, follow truth now, Michael, an you can."
And as, up high on the altar steps, Monseigneur now held up for the adoration of the multitude the sacred mysteries which no brain of man can understand, Michael bowing his head and looking within himself with searching, conscience-stricken eyes, saw nothing but loyalty to the girl who was thus unwittingly snatching him from out the yawning abyss of misery and degradation, of humiliation for himself and starvation for his mother.
Anon Monseigneur whispered the Pater Noster, and after that he turned and with hand upheld, three fingers pointing upwards to the mystery-hidden vault, he pronounced the solemn benediction on Michael Kestyon and Rose Marie his wife. Not a sound stirred in the vast and ancient church, save the voice of the Archbishop as it rose high above the chancel, and the blessing spoken by him seemed to descend with unseen wings on the bowed heads of the two young people whom so strange a fate was linking together.
To her—the girl—it was a Sacrament—this confirmation of the vows spoken in her name when she was too young even to lisp them; for him it was the word of honour of a man who throughout a rough life had never succeeded in burying honour out of sight.
Both pronounced their vows without thought of ever rebelling against them. Both pronounced the solemn "I will" with fervour as well as gladness. The assistants almost held their breath. Instinctive awe had silenced every chattering tongue, stilled every careless laugh.
My lord's voice rang out clear and distinct in the midst of that hushed reverence, and more than one fair dame accustomed to the insipid gallantries of the Court of Versailles sighed for the latent and rugged passion which rang out through that firm "I will."
Rose Marie's young heart gave a great leap for joy.
"He loves me," she whispered exultantly to herself, despite the solemnity of the moment, the sacredness of her surroundings, "he loves me, he loves me. I can tell it by the sound of his voice."
And she had to press her bouquet of roses to her lips to suppress the little cry of joy which almost escaped her throat. Perhaps she did not altogether understand at this moment what she herself meant when she thought "he loves me!" Mayhap some of those ladies in the stiff brocades, who cast admiring glances at my lord knew and guessed much more of what went on in his mind than did the simple tradesman's daughter with the innocent mind and the pure heart of childhood still undefiled within her.