"A long, long war; separation, sadness. Will you wed me before I go to join with Cresap's men?"
"Ay," she said.
"There is a parson below, Silver Heels."
Her face went scarlet.
"Let it be now," I whispered, with my arm around her.
She looked up into my eyes. I leaned over the landing-rail and called out, "Send a man for the parson of Woburn!"
An Acton man stepped out on the tavern porch and shouted for the parson. Presently the good man came, in rusty black, shouldering a fowling-piece, his pockets bulging with a Bible and Book of Common Prayer, his wig all caked and wet from a tour through the dewy willows behind the inn.
"Is there sickness here—or wounds?" he asked, anxiously. Then he saw me above and came wheezing up the stairs.
"Heart-sickness, sir," I said; "we be dying, both of us, for the heart's ease you may bring us through your holy office."
At length he understood—Silver Heels striving to keep her sweet eyes lifted when he spoke to her, and I quiet and determined, asking that he lose no time, for no man knew how long we few here in the tavern had to live. In the same breath I summoned a soldier from the south loophole in the garret, and asked him to witness for me; and he took off his hat and stood sheepishly twirling it, rifle in hand.