Rashleigh could make no use of his freedom; he sat pale,
benumbed, confounded, helpless.
"Rouse yourself, my dear sir," said his persecutor, giving him a gentle
shake; "don't drop into a cataleptic trance. Look up and speak to me."
The reverend gentleman did look up, and uttered a sort of scream at
sight of the ugly black mask frowning ghastily down upon him.
"Don't be alarmed," said the masked man, soothingly; "no harm is meant
you. My mask won't hurt you. I merely don't want you to recognize me
to-morrow, should we chance to meet. My bride will be masked, too, and
you will marry us by our Christian names alone. Hers is Mary; mine is
Ernest. Do you understand?"
"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.
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