“Yes, yes!” responded Mr. Rashleigh, quaking with unutterable terror.  Oh! was this a dreadful nightmare, induced by a too luxurious dinner, or was it a horrible reality?

“And you are ready to perform the ceremony? to ask no questions? to marry us, and be gone?”

“Yes, yes, yes!  Oh, good heavens!” groaned the Reverend Raymond:  “am I asleep or awake?”

“Very well, then,” said this dreadful man in the mask; “I will go for the bride.  She is Mary, remember; I am Ernest I will return in a moment.”

He quitted the room.  Mr. Rashleigh stared helplessly about him, in a pitiable state of terror and bewilderment.  The room was large, well, even elegantly, furnished, with nothing at all remarkable about, its elegance; such another as Mr. Rashleigh’s own drawing-room at home.  It was lighted by a cluster of gas-jets, and the piano, the arm-chairs, the sofas, the tables, the pictures, were all very handsome and very common, indeed.

Ten minutes elapsed.  The commonplace, everyday look of the mysterious room did more toward reassuring the trembling prelate than all the masked man’s words.

The door opened, and the masked man stalked in again, this time with a lady hanging on his arm.

The lady was small and slender, robed in flowing white silk; a rich veil of rare lace falling over her from head to foot like a cloud; a wreath of orange-blossoms on her fair head; jewels sparkling about her—­everything just as it should be, save that, the face was hidden.  A mask of white silk, giving her a corpse-like and ghastly look, covered it from forehead to chin.

The very respectable young woman who had inveigled him out of his study, and a slouchy-looking young man followed, and took their places behind the masked pair.

“Begin,” authoritatively commanded the bridegroom.

The Reverend Raymond Rashleigh stood up.  It was a wild and lawless proceeding, and all wrong; but life is sweet to portly prelates of sixty, and he stood up and began at once.

Mr. Rashleigh needed no book—­he knew the marriage service as pat as his prayers.  The ring was at hand; the questions were asked; the responses made.

In five minutes the two masks were man and wife.

“Make out a certificate of marriage,” said the bridegroom; “these two people will be witnesses.  Their names are Sarah Grant and John Jones.”

Pens, ink and paper were placed before him.  Mr. Rashleigh essayed to write, as well as his trembling fingers would allow him, and handed a smeared and blotted document to the bridegroom.

“You will enter this marriage on your register, Mr. Rashleigh,” said the man.  “I am very much obliged to you.  Pray accept this for your trouble.”

This was a glistening rouleau of gold.  Mr. Rashleigh liked gold, and in spite of his trepidation, managed to put it in his pocket.

“Now, my dear,” the happy man said, turning to the little white bride, “you and Sarah had better retire.  Our reverend friend will wish to return home.  I must see him there.”