Morning came. All gathered in the chapel, which in its robe of evergreens looked like a bower.
The three buglers and one drummer belonging to the troop played in magnificent strains the stirring notes of the "Wedding March."
The Curé of Santa Cruz presented an unexceptionable appearance in his ecclesiastical robes.
There, too, was the man who claimed to be the rightful King of Spain, surrounded by men who represented some of the noblest families of the nation—an illustrious company, the like of which none of the principals in this ceremony had ever dreamed of as likely to be present at his wedding.
The bridegrooms came, looking, it must be confessed, slightly seedy.
Then came the brides, resplendent in their best attire, procured from the luggage which had been brought here at the time of their capture by O'Toole.
There were no bride'smaids. But Mrs. Russell was present, leaning on the arm of her beloved husband, all in tears. And why? Was it from regrets for the lost crown of Spain? or was it merely from the tender sentiment which is usually called forth on such an occasion? or was it from the thought of that one whose fortunes she had followed for many eventful hours with a view to such a conclusion as this?
No matter.
Reader, let us draw a veil over the emotions of this afflicted lady.
The marriages went on. The knots were all tied.