He paused, dazed. "Marry you—here—now?" he asked shakingly.
"Before ten minutes go round, this lady must be my wife," said I.
"Mademoiselle Duvarney, you—" he began.
"Be pleased, dear sir, to open the book at 'Wilt thou have,'" said I. "The lady is a Catholic; she has not the consent of her people; but when she is my wife, made so by you, whose consent need we ask? Can you not tie us fast enough, a man and woman of sense sufficient, but you must pause here? Is the knot you tie safe against picking and stealing?"
I had touched his vanity and his ecclesiasticism. "Married by me," he replied, "once chaplain to the Bishop of London, you have a knot that no sword can cut. I am in full orders. My parish is in Boston itself."
"You will hand a certificate to my wife to-morrow, and you will uphold this marriage against all gossip?" asked I.
"Against all France and all England," he answered, roused now.
"Then come," I urged.
"But I must have a witness," he interposed, opening the book.
"You shall have one in due time," said I. "Go on. When the marriage is performed, and at the point where you shall proclaim us man and wife, I will have a witness."