"But I want to hear the Promise—on the Book—before I go."
She drew back, her face flushing crimson, and looked at Miss Celandine in perplexity.
Kevork drew a step nearer and spoke. "Oriort Elmas, it is quite true. Though I would not have dared to say it now, had not he said it for me; for we stand together in the shadow of the grave. But if this dear lady, who is a mother to us all, will allow it, and you will give me your promise, there is nothing man may do"—(his voice quivered and thrilled with suppressed feeling)—"nothing man may do that I will not do for you, and find my joy in it, for I love you more than life."
Elmas Stepanian's character, strong by nature, had been annealed in the furnace of affliction. That furnace had burned away the bonds of those timid conventions that usually held the daughters of her race. In a low but firm voice she answered, "If Miss Celandine approves, I will give it."
Jack was standing beside Miss Celandine. He took out his father's Bible, which he always kept with him, and put it in her hand, with a significant look from her to Kevork. She understood the mute appeal. If she gave the Book to Kevork for the purpose they all knew, it would be her act of sanction to this strange betrothal.
She paused a moment: then she said, "The God of your fathers, and your God, bless you both," and laid the Book in the outstretched hand of Kevork.
Kevork gave it to Elmas. "So I plight my troth to thee, for good days and evil, for health and sickness, for life and death, and for that which is beyond," he said.
"And I also to thee," Elmas answered.
"Now it is all right," Gabriel said, with a look of infinite relief. "I will tell them."