They were marched to the altar. A hoarse muttering poured from the
priest. He made no pretence of solemnity or even of meaning. He was
concerned only to make an end and have done with them. Of all the service
they heard nothing clearly but what they said themselves, and while they
were deliberate over that the little priest grunted and puffed at them.
He ended with a leer and drove them before him back to the table. There
was more scratching in his register. The two uncouth witnesses scrawled
something for their names and shambled off.
"Let's breathe some free air," said Harry, and laid hold of his wife.
The parson chuckled. "Free? You'll never be free again, my lord. I can
see that in madame's eye. What, you ha' sold your birthright for a mess
of pottage, ain't you? And mighty savoury pottage, too, says you." He
rolled his eyes and smacked his lips. "Softly now, softly, madame wants
her certificate. Madame wants to warrant herself a lawful married wife,
if you don't ... There, my lady. And happy to marry you again any day at
the same price."
They were away from him at last and in clean air stretching their legs up
the hill again.
"Poor Harry!" Alison laughed. "Before you looked like a man fighting
for his life. Now you look like a man going to be hanged.
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