“You fool, you contemptible fool!” said Ramiro when he had done. “Heavens! to think that such a creature should have sprung from me, a human jackass only fit to bear the blows and burdens of others, to fill the field with empty brayings, and wear himself out by kicking at the air. Oh! don’t twist up your face at me, for I am your master as well as your father, however much you may hate me. You are mine, body and soul, don’t you understand; a bond-slave, nothing more. You lost the only chance you ever had in the game when you got me down at Leyden. You daren’t draw a sword on me again for your soul’s sake, dear Adrian, for your soul’s sake; and if you dared, I would run you through. Now, are you coming?”
“No,” answered Adrian.
“Think a minute. If you don’t marry her I shall, and before she is half an hour older; also—” and he leant forward and whispered into his son’s ear.
“Oh! you devil, you devil!” Adrian gasped; then he moved towards the door.
“What? Changed your mind, have you, Mr. Weathercock? Well, it is the prerogative of all feminine natures—but, your doublet is awry, and allow me to suggest that you should brush your hair. There, that’s better; now, come on. No, you go first, if you please, I’d rather have you in front of me.”
When they reached the room below the bride was already there. Gripped on either side by Black Meg and the other woman, white as death and trembling, but still defiant, stood Elsa.
“Let’s get through with this,” growled the half-drunken, ruffian priest. “I take the willingness of the parties for granted.”
“I am not willing,” cried Elsa. “I have been brought here by force. I call everyone present to witness that whatever is done is against my will. I appeal to God to help me.”
The priest turned upon Ramiro.
“How am I to marry them in the face of this?” he asked. “If only she were silent it might be done——”