The stout old man thrust his head through the open window.
“God’s blight on thee!” he cried, “thou pair of fools who wish to wed so much that ye venture out in such a night as this. Well, have your way, and let me have my rest. In the name of the law of Scotland I pronounce ye man and wife. There, that will bind two fools together as strongly as if the Archbishop spoke the words. Place thou the money on the steps. I warrant none will venture to touch it when it belongs to me.” And with that he closed the window.
“Is he raving mad or drunk?” cried Trenchon.
The girl gave a wailing cry. “Alas! alas!” she said; “he is neither. He is so used to marrying folk who come from England across the Border that he thinks not it his daughter who came with thee, but two who wished to wed. They come at all hours of the night and day, and he has married us. I am thy wife.”
The astonished man dropped her wrist, and she put her hands before her eyes and wept.
“Married!” cried Trenchon. “We two married!”
He looked with interest at the girl, but in the darkness could see nothing of her. The unheeded rain pelted on them both.
“Hast thou”—he hesitated—“hast thou some other lover, since you weep?”
The girl shook her head. “No one,” she said, “comes near us. They fear my father.”
“Then, if this be true, why dost thou weep? I am not considered so bad a fellow.”