Chapter 15

ST. MICHAEL DOES BATTLE.

The wedding breakfast went off pleasantly, without a hitch of any
sort. Trevennack, always dignified and always a grand seigneur, rose
to the occasion with his happiest spirit. The silver-haired wife,
gazing up at him, felt proud of him as of old, and was for once quite
at her ease. For all was over now, thank heaven, and dear Cleer was
married!

That same afternoon the bride and bridegroom started off for their
honeymoon to the Tyrol and Italy. When Mrs. Trevennack was left alone
with her husband it was with a thankful heart. She turned to him,
flowing over in soul with joy. "Oh, Michael," she cried, melting, "I'm
so happy, so happy, so happy."

Trevennack stooped down and kissed her forehead tenderly. He had
always been a good husband, and he loved her with all his heart.
"That's well, Lucy," he answered. "Thank God, it's all over. For I
can't hold out much longer. The strain's too much for me." He paused a
moment, and looked at her. "Lucy," he said, once more, clasping his
forehead with one hand, "I've fought against it hard. I'm fighting
against it still. But at times it almost gets the better of me. Do you
know who I saw in the church this morning, skulking behind a pillar?--
that man Walter Tyrrel."

Mrs. Trevennack gazed at him all aghast. This was surely a delusion, a
fixed idea, an insane hallucination. "Oh, no, dear," she cried, prying
deep into his eyes. "It couldn't be he, it couldn't. You must be
mistaken, Michael. I'm sure he's not in London."

"No more mistaken than I am this minute," Trevennack answered, rushing
over to the window, and pointing with one hand eagerly. "See, see!
there he is, Lucy--the man that killed our poor, dear Michael!"

Mrs. Trevennack uttered a little cry, half sob, half wail, as she
looked out of the window and, under the gas-lamps opposite, recognized
through the mist the form of Walter Tyrrel.

But Trevennack didn't rush out at him as she feared and believed he
would. He only stood still in his place and glared at his enemy. "Not
now," he said, slowly; "not now, on Cleer's wedding day. But some
other time--more suitable. I hear it in my ears; I hear the voice
still ringing: 'Go, Michael, of celestial armies prince!' I can't
disobey. I shall go in due time. I shall fight the enemy."

And he sank back in his chair, with his eyes staring wildly.

For the next week or two, while Cleer wrote home happy letters from
Paris, Innsbruck, Milan, Venice, Florence, poor Mrs. Trevennack was
tortured inwardly with another terrible doubt; had Michael's state
become so dangerous at last that he must