“Perchance,” he answered. “I know not. I am amazed.”
At the door the company of Moslems left them, but they crowded round the entrance as though to watch what passed. Now down the long aisle walked a single whiterobed figure. It was the abbess.
“What shall we do, Mother?” said Rosamund to her.
“Follow me, both of you,” she said, and they followed her through the nave to the altar rails, and at a sign from her knelt down.
Now they saw that on either side of the altar stood a Christian priest. The priest to the right—it was the bishop Egbert—came forward and began to read over them the marriage service of their faith.
“They’d wed us ere we die,” whispered Rosamund to Wulf.
“So be it,” he answered; “I am glad.”
“And I also, beloved,” she whispered back.
The service went on—as in a dream, the service went on, while the white-robed sisters sat in their carven chairs and watched. The rings that were handed to them had been interchanged; Wulf had taken Rosamund to wife, Rosamund had taken Wulf to husband, till death did them part.
Then the old bishop withdrew to the altar, and another hooded monk came forward and uttered over them the benediction in a deep and sonorous voice, which stirred their hearts most strangely, as though some echo reached them from beyond the grave. He held his hands above them in blessing and looked upwards, so that his hood fell back, and the light of the altar lamp fell upon his face.