“But not in France or here. ‘Tis mating wild, with end of doom.”
“It is a marriage our great Archbishop at Lambeth Palace will uphold against a hundred popes and kings,” said the chaplain with importance.
“You are no priest, but holy peddler!” cried Gabord roughly. “This is not mating as Christians, and fires of hell shall burn—aho! I will see you all go down, and hand of mine shall not be lifted for you!”
He puffed out his cheeks, and his great eyes rolled so like fire-wheels.
“You are a witness to this ceremony,” said the chaplain. “And you shall answer to your God, but you must speak the truth for this man and wife.”
“Man and wife?” laughed Gabord wildly. “May I die and be damned to—”
Like a flash Alixe was beside him, and put to his lips most swiftly the little wooden cross that Mathilde had given her.
“Gabord, Gabord,” she said in a sweet, sad voice, “when you may come to die, a girl’s prayers will be waiting at God’s feet for you.”
He stopped, and stared at her. Her hand lay on his arm, and she continued: “No night gives me sleep, Gabord, but I pray for the jailer who has been kind to an ill-treated gentleman.”
“A juggling gentleman, that cheats Gabord before his eyes, and smuggles in a mongrel priest!” he blustered.