Sunrise on Angel Island.
In and out among the trees, wound a procession following the northern
trail. First came Lulu, white-clad, serious, pale, walking with Honey.
The others, crowned with flowers and carrying garlands, followed,
serious and silent, the women clinging with both hands to the men, who
supported their snail-like, tottering progress with one arm about their
waists. On the point of the northern reef, a cabin made of round
beach-stones fronted the ocean. It fronted the rising sun now and a
world, all ocean and sky, over which lay a rose dawnlight. Still silent,
the procession paused and grouped about the house. Frank Merrill stepped
forward and placed himself in front of Honey and Lulu.
“We are gathered here this morning,” Frank said in his deep academic
voice, “to marry this man to this woman and this woman to this man. If
there is any reason why you should not enter into the married state,
pause before it is too late.” His voice came to a full stop. He waited.
“If not, I pronounce you man and wife.”
Silently still, the others placed their garlands and wreaths at the feet
of the wedded pair. Turning, they walked slowly back over the trail.