Since there was neither in the deserts, nor in the place to which we were going, any marriage save that of hearts, I knelt down, and when she had knelt at my side, I said: “Before God, earth, and heaven, I declare to thee, Lillian Morris, that I take thee as wife. Amen.”
To this she answered: “Now I am thine forever and till death, thy wife, Ralph!”
From that moment we were married; she was not my sweetheart, she was my lawful wife. That thought was pleasant to both of us,—and pleasant to me, for in my heart there rose a new feeling of a certain sacred respect for Lillian, and for myself, a certain honorableness and great dignity through which love became ennobled and blessed. Hand in hand, with heads erect and confident look, we returned to the camp, where the people were greatly alarmed about us. A number of tens of men had gone out in every direction to look for us; and with astonishment I learned afterward that some had passed around the lake, but could not discover us; we on our part had not heard their shouts.
I summoned the people, and when they had assembled in a circle, I took Lillian by the hand, went into the centre of the circle, and said,—
“Gentlemen, be witnesses, that in your presence I call this woman, who stands with me, my wife; and bear witness of this before justice, before law, and before every one whosoever may ask you, either in the East or the West.”
“We will! and hurrah for you both!” answered the miners.
Old Smith asked Lillian then, according to custom, if she agreed to take me as husband, and when she said “Yes,” we were legally married before the people.
In the distant prairies of the West, and on all the frontiers where there are no towns, magistrates, or churches, marriages are not performed otherwise; and to this hour, if a man calls a woman with whom he lives under the same roof his wife, this declaration takes the place of all legal documents. No one of my men therefore wondered, or looked at my marriage otherwise than with the respect shown to custom; on the contrary, all were rejoiced, for, though I had held them more sternly than other leaders, they knew that I did so honestly, and with each day they showed me more good will, and my wife was always the eye in the head of the caravan. Hence there began a holiday and amusements. The fires were stirred up; the Scots took from their wagons the pipes, whose music we both liked, since it was for us a pleasant reminiscence; the Americans took out their favorite ox-bones, and amid songs, shouts, and shooting, the wedding evening passed for us.
Aunt Atkins embraced Lillian every little while, now laughing, now weeping, now lighting her pipe, which went out the next moment. But I was touched most by the following ceremony which is a custom in that movable portion of the American population which spends the greater part of its life in wagons. When the moon went down the men fastened on the ramrods of their guns branches of lighted osier, and a whole procession, under the lead of old Smith, conducted us from wagon to wagon, asking Lillian at each of them, “Is this your home?” My beautiful love answered, “No!” and we went on. At Aunt Atkins’ wagon a real tenderness took possession of us all, for in that one Lillian had ridden hitherto. When she said there also in a low voice, “No,” Aunt Atkins bellowed like a buffalo, and seizing Lillian in her embrace, began to repeat: “My little one! my sweet!” sobbing meanwhile, and carried away with weeping. Lillian sobbed too; and then all those hardened hearts grew tender for an instant, and there was no eye to which tears did not come.
When we approached it, I barely recognized my wagon, it was decked with branches and flowers. Here the men raised the burning torches aloft, and Smith inquired in a louder and more solemn voice,—