Therefore they gave no sign, and, after one more glance at their brazen faces, the chaplain married those who stood before him to each other.
Then he gave them his blessing and his hopes that their union might be prosperous and fruitful, and also--this he did not forget--passed in a sober and righteous manner, after which he dismissed them and exclaimed--
"Now for the undecided ones. Come, you," and he advanced towards where three or four men were making proposals to as many women. "Come you, time runs apace; are you agreed?"
Two men and two women were agreed, the third man was unpropitious in his suit. The woman to whom he offered himself refused to listen to him, to even heed his words or to give any sign that she heard him.
"What is her number?" the priest asked, while the governor by his side bent down and twitched at her coarse prison cloak, which she had drawn close round her shoulders and the lower part of her face, thereby probably to conceal the latter. "What is her number? Let us see," and he looked at his notebook.
"54," the governor said, pointing to the figures sewn on her shoulder.
"54," muttered the chaplain, referring to the paper in his hand and, after that, to a small memorandum book he drew from beneath his cassock. "54. Humph! Ha!" Then, after reading from the book for a few moments, he turned to the rejected suitor and said: "Young man, you do not lose much. She is almost the worst, if not the worst, of all in the list--she is----"
"She may reform--and--and--you see? She is beautiful."
"I see," murmured the chaplain, "that is true. Yet a dower you are best without. What, my son, was your crime?"
"Oh as for that," the fellow stammered, "but little. My uncle was rich; he would give me nothing--a--miser----"