Parson Cowley, in his surplice, stood in front of it, with his well-thumbed prayer-book in his trembling hands. The two who were being married were kneeling at his feet—the sin-soiled man and the daughter of a line of old Manx Kings, bearing a name that had been written high in English history for five hundred years. The jailer and his wife were standing somewhere in the shadows. There was no sound except that of the parson's quavering voice within and the low rumble of the sea outside.
"I require and charge you, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of Judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know of any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it."
Stowell made a stifled sound as of protest. Fenella put down her hand and took his hand and held it.
"Victor Christian, wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded wife?"
There was a sensible pause, and Parson Cowley leaned down to Stowell and whispered,
"Say 'I will,' my son."
Then came a slow, half-smothered murmur,
"I .... will."
"Fenella Charlotte de la Tremouille, wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded husband?"
In a clear, unfaltering voice Fenella answered,