“’Tis you who are to obey, not he,” said Cromwell harshly. “He has come for you. Will you marry him?”
The girl allowed her eyes to seek the floor, and did not answer him. Even in the candle-light her cheeks burned rosy red.
“Come, come,” cried Cromwell impatiently, “yes, or no, wench.”
“I will not have her so addressed by any,” spoke up Armstrong, stoutly stepping forward; but the girl flashed a glance from her dark eyes on the commander.
“Yes,” she said, with decision, then directed her look on her lover, and so to the floor again.
“Are there candles in the chapel?”
“Yes, Excellency,” replied the colonel.
“Bring some of the officers,—I think witnesses are needed,—and your regimental book, if there is signing to be done. ’Twill hold them as fast as the parish register, I warrant.” Then to the clergyman, “Follow me, sir, and the rest of you.”
With that Cromwell strode out and led the way to the chapel, so hastily converted from a storehouse to its former purpose. The old divine took his place with the young people before him, the group of officers in the dimness near the door. Cromwell, however, stood near the girl.
“Slip off one of your rings and give it to this pastor,” he whispered to her. “We are short of such gear here, and I doubt if your man ever thought of it.”