“Yes, yes, dear,” said Von Tressen reassuringly. “You need have no fear. You, father, do you confirm Count Zarka, or this lady?”
The priest had begun to fear he was on the brink of an ugly scandal. But he was astute enough to see in a moment on which side his bread was buttered, and that his line was stoutly to support his patron.
“The marriage is undoubtedly duly performed,” he answered, unctuously decisive. “The lady, although a little hysterical, was quite a willing party, until she heard you coming, when her manner altogether changed.”
“Do you, a professor of religion, standing at the altar, mean to tell me,” demanded Galabin sternly, “that this lady gave her consent to become Count Zarka’s wife?”
Hornthal was not troubled either by nerves or superstition, consequently his position, professional or local, made no difference to his answer.
“Certainly. That was my impression before you came upon the scene.”
But he looked scared as he had never been before, and all his suavity seemed to vanish in a guilty start as a voice, coming behind from the very depths of the altar, cried, “It is a lie!”
The priest turned involuntarily, and all looked wonderingly towards the spot whence the voice proceeded. The altar-cloth, stiff and heavy with its elaborate embroidery, was disturbed, then lifted, and from beneath it appeared a figure at sight of which Zarka uttered an oath, and Philippa, transfixed by the apparition, gave a cry of mingled astonishment and fear.
“Prince Roel!”
Pale and with hollow, sunken eyes, he looked a weird apparition to their startled imaginations. For a few moments no one could speak, as the figure of the Prince stood clutching one corner of the altar and glaring at them, half fearful, half defiant.