The sudden flood of light and the startling sight of these preparations dazzled Philippa, who felt sick and dazed, lying back half exhausted in the great carved chair where she had fallen in her misery.
Zarka made a step towards her and held out his hand.
“Come!” he said gently.
But she shrank away from him with an exclamation of repugnance. He lifted his finger to the priest, who left his place and came towards them. The two men exchanged significant glances, then the priest approached the miserable girl and laid his hand lightly on her shoulder.
“Come, my dear,” he said blandly. “Everything is in order.”
But she clung to the arm of the great chair.
“Are you, a minister of God, going to abet this man in committing an awful villainy?” she cried, looking up at the unctuous, placid face, in strong contrast to her own features, working with the tumult of her feelings.
“You are mistaken,” he replied soothingly. “I am here to ally you in the sacred bond of wedlock with Count Zarka. Surely that——”
“Will be a monstrous crime,” she broke in. “It is you who are mistaken, deceived by this vilely dishonourable man, who has lured me here and now proposes to marry me against my will.”
“I cannot believe it,” the priest responded, while Zarka stood impassive a little way off with folded arms. “How can so illustrious an alliance be a crime? You are labouring under some delusion—perhaps imagining that, by this private ceremony, he means to act dishonourably. Let me give you my sacred word as a priest that this is not so. You will be his acknowledged wife, a title to which no other woman has the slightest pretension.”