None had noticed in the excitement of the congratulations that three more guests had arrived—three men who had bribed the servants to let them look on at the scene from behind the tall palms at the open door of the drawing-room.
Pale, grave, silent, these three men watched the scene with eager eyes, as Frank and Cora stood side by side breathing the words that bound their lives in one forever.
Suddenly one gasped and started wildly forward as the minister repeated mechanically the customary warning, for any one who knew any impediment to the marriage to speak now or forever after hold his peace.
This man, tall, pale, with a sinister scar on his brow, and a painful limp, crossed the room as swiftly as his infirmity would permit, and thundered:
“I forbid the marriage. She is my wife!”
The bishop dropped his prayer book in amazement, and with startled cries, all faced around upon the newcomer.
Cries of doubtful recognition shrilled over every lip:
“Ernest Noel!”
Cora clung with frantic hands to Frank’s arm, gazing with horrified eyes at the daring intruder.
There stood Ernest Noel in the flesh, though his good looks were marred by a scar on his cheek and a decided limp received in some accident. Over one of his shoulders peered the grave, noble face of the minister who had married them in the mock marriage that had turned out a real one, and over the other she saw, like a grinning fiend’s, Carey Doyle’s with an ugly sneer on the mustached lips.