But it was not unlike it,—the question,—"Do you, Philip, take this woman?" and the answer taken from his mouth,—
"I'll be damned if I do!" shattering the silences to the very belfry rafters—not from the rouged lips of Carlotta, peering down from the gallery, the spot she had chosen as most effective, but from some seemingly preternatural being in that strange procession, as weird and motley as any in Spanish streets, and now advancing up the aisle.
A little man led it, grinning widely and looking as self-important as only a little man can feel. He was followed by a taller figure with curling brown beard, brass earrings, and a red and yellow handkerchief about his head. His heavy shoes sounded with almost a convict's thud, even on the carpeted aisle, and he in turn led a little yellow cur, and carried a cage wherein swung the reprobate who had so rudely interrupted the rites. He or she—it matters not which, for sex places no restrictions on depravity—continued the maledictions.
Meanwhile Milly's organ had stopped with a crash; the minister stood, his mouth agape, and on his face the most bewildered and outraged of expressions; the audience stared, transfixed in their seats; while, coming from the rear, the sexton tried to halt the strange procession, now halfway to the altar. But he didn't help matters at all, in his rashness merely stepping on the little dog's paw, and an agonized yelping added to the mad pandemonium.
As for the bride, she was still too benumbed to analyze anything—if anyone could analyze so fantastic a visitation. But automatically and vaguely she imputed, or connected it
