axe, and the convulsed face, that had
haunted him on the only previous time when he had tried to close his
eyes.

Long before day Cicely heard her father's voice bidding her awake and
dress herself, and handing in a light. The call was welcome, for it
had been a night of strange dreams and sadder wakenings to the sense
"it had come at last"--yet the one comfort, "Humfrey is near." She
dressed herself in those plain black garments she had assumed in
London, and in due time came down to where her father awaited her. She
was pale, silent, and passive, and obeyed mechanically as he made her
take a little food. She looked about as if for some one, and he said,
"Humfrey will meet us anon." Then he himself put on her cloak, hood,
and muffler. She was like one in a dream, never asking where they were
going, and thus they left the house. There was light from a waning
moon, and by it he led her to the church.

It was a strange wedding in that morning moonlight streaming in at the
east window of that grand old church, and casting the shadows of the
columns and arches on the floor, only aided by one wax light, which, as
Mr. Heatherthwayte took care to protest, was not placed on the holy
table out of superstition, but because he could not see without it.
Indeed the table stood lengthways in the centre aisle, and would have
been bare, even of a white cloth, had not Richard begged for a
Communion for the young pair to speed them on their perilous way, and
Mr. Heatherthwayte--almost under protest--consented, since a sea voyage
and warlike service in a foreign land lay before them. But, except
that he wore no surplice, he had resigned himself to Master Richard on
that most unnatural morning, and stifled his inmost sighs when he had
to pronounce the name Bride, given, not by himself, but by some Romish
priest--when the bridegroom, with the hand wounded for Queen Mary's
sake, gave a ruby ring, most unmistakably coming from that same
perilous quarter,--and above all when the pair and the father knelt in
deep reverence. Yet their devotion was evidently so earnest and so
heartfelt that he knew not how to blame it, and he could not but bless
them with his whole heart as he walked down with them to the wharf.
All were silent, except that Cicely once paused and said she wanted to
speak to "Father." He came to her side, and she took his arm instead
of Humfrey's.

"Sir," she said; "it has come to me that now my sweet mother is left
a