All at once there was a sudden hush, everybody scuffled back into their
places. The best man put his nose out of the vestry door, and the
"Wedding March" struck up. Then came a procession of chorister boys down
the church, each bearing a small bouquet of fern and white flowers. They
ranged themselves on either side of the porch, and the bride and
bridegroom came down the aisle alone.

Then it was that Monsieur D'Arblet, leaning forward with the rest to see
them pass, caught sight of the face of the girl who stood by his side.

She was pale as death; a look as of the horror of despair was in her
eyes, her teeth were set, her hands were clenched together as one who has
to impose a terrible and dreadful task upon herself. Nobody in all that
gaily-dressed chattering crowd noticed her, for were not all eyes fixed
upon the bride, the queen of the day? Nobody save the man who stood by
her side. Only he saw that fixed white look of despair, only he heard the
long shuddering sigh that burst from her pale lips as the bridegroom
went by. Monsieur D'Arblet said, to himself:

"This woman loves Monsieur le Capitaine! _Bon!_ Two are better than one;
we will avenge ourselves together, my beautiful incognita."

And then he looked sharply at her companion, and found that her face was
familiar to him. Surely he had dined at that woman's house once. Oh, yes!
to be sure, it was that insufferable little chatterbox, Mrs. Hazeldine.
He remembered all about her now.

There was a good deal of pushing and cramming at the doorway. By the time
Vera could get out of the stifling heat of the crowded church most of the