ray, "at the extremity of the Banques."

"I do not know the place," said Gilliatt.

"It was on the very day that I arrived here."

"Let us lose no time," interrupted Gilliatt.

"And if I am not deceived, you are the man whom we met last night."

"Perhaps."

"What is your name?"

Gilliatt raised his voice:

"Boatman! wait there for us. We shall return soon. You asked me, Miss
Lethierry, how I came to be here. The answer is very simple. I walked
behind you. You are twenty-one. In this country, when persons are of
age, and depend only on themselves, they may be married immediately. Let
us take the path along the water-side. It is passable; the tide will not
rise here till noon. But lose no time. Come with me."

Deruchette and Caudray seemed to consult each other by a glance. They
were standing close together motionless. They were intoxicated with joy.
There are strange hesitations sometimes on the edge of the abyss of
happiness. They understood, as it were, without understanding.

"His name is Gilliatt," whispered Deruchette.

Gilliatt interrupted them with a sort of tone of authority.

"What do you linger for?" he asked. "I tell you to follow me."

"Whither?" asked Caudray.

"There!"

And Gilliatt pointed with his finger towards the spire of the church.

Gilliatt walked on before, and they followed him. His step was firm; but
they walked unsteadily.

As they approached the church, an expression dawned upon those two pure
and beautiful countenances, which was soon to become a smile. The
approach to the church lighted them up. In the hollow eyes of Gilliatt
there was the darkness of night. The beholder might have imagined that
he saw a spectre leading two souls to Paradise.

Caudray and Deruchette scarcely took count of what had happened. The
interposition of this man was like the branch clutched at by the
drowning. They followed their guide with the docility of despair,
leaning on the first comer. Those who feel themselves near death easily
accept the accident which seems to save. Deruchette, more ignorant of
life, was more confident. Caudray was thoughtful. Deruchette was of age,
it was true. The English formalities of marriage are simple, especially
in primitive parts, where the clergyman has almost a discretionary
power; but would the Dean consent to celebrate the marriage without even
inquiring whether the uncle consented? This was the question.
Nevertheless, they could learn. In any case there wo