Then Cyrus turned and held out his hand to Ruth. In drawing the back of a fist across his mouth during the conflict his cheeks had become smeared with blood. As Ruth stared in a kind of terror at this gory visage with riotous hair, swelling nose and still bleeding lips, she saw in the erstwhile drowsy eyes a look that was unfamiliar; a look of determination, as if no arguments from God or man or devil would be considered. Weak and all atremble, her one desire was for hurrying home. But she obeyed the unspoken mandate and laid her hand in his. Then Luther, also in obedience to an unspoken command, this time a peremptory gesture toward the pulpit, again started up the aisle. And it so happened as the little assemblage resumed its interrupted progress the great organ in the gallery burst forth with Wagner's "Wedding March"; and it filled the church.
The marriage ceremony passed off well;—that is, of course,—making allowance for the officiating person who had no knowledge of what he ought to say, or of what he was saying. With constant promptings and corrections from the bride—who although somewhat hysterical at the moment, had a remarkable memory for the sound of words—Luther managed to get along. To misunderstand certain promptings was excusable, for the music was confusing. Horace Phillips, in the gallery, ignorant of what was happening below, had started off with the full force of the organ, and he continued with enthusiasm until the swelling notes resounded through the empty building.
Ruth supplied all the language.
Luther. Will you take this wedded girl for your wife?
Cyrus. I will.
Luther. Will you take this wedded boy for your husband?
Ruth. I will.
Luther. Do you promise to endure with all your worldly goods?
Cyrus. I do.
Luther. Will you hold on for better than worse?