She framed her lips to speak, but the words were half uttered by the parson. The next thing she knew was that a stray hand was holding her hand. She felt more safe now that her poor cold fingers lay in that big warm palm.
It was Pete, and he was speaking again. She did not so much hear him as feel his voice tingling through her veins.
“I, Peter Quilliam, take thee, Katherine Cregeen——'”
But it was all a vague murmur, fraying off into nothing, ending like a wave with a long upward plash of low sound.
The parson was speaking to her again, softly, gently, caressingly, almost as if she were a frightened child. “Don't be afraid, my dear! try to speak after me. Take your time.”
Then, aloud, “'I, Katherine Cregeen.'”
Her throat gurgled; she faltered, but she spoke at length in the toneless voice of one who speaks in sleep.
“'I, Katherine Cregeen—-'”
“'Take thee, Peter Quilliam——'”
The toneless voice broke—— “take thee, Peter Quilliam———'”