"He stabled his 'osses 'ere! yes, 'ere,--in this wery chapel! ugh!" was
the wrathful exclamation of our guide; and as he pointed towards the
tablets without corners and the effigies lacking noses or feet, there
was a low muttering in his throat and a look at us intended to excite
sympathetic ire on our part.
One only of our party responded to the look.
"Let me see,--Cromwell was a terrible Catholic, wasn't he?" gravely
inquired our fellow-traveller, as if in this way, and this way only,
could the sacrilege be accounted for,--one blue eye, as he spoke, full
of sage earnestness, the other twinkling with fun.
The stolid face of our guide now became a study. He had no instructions
for such an emergency as this. The question had made war with his poor
wits. For a moment they staggered, felt themselves defeated, and were
about to surrender. But, resolute Briton that he was, the old man soon
rallied his forces. True servant both of Church and State, he saw that
there was no consistent course for him but to consign the enemy of
royalty and the contemner of sacred monuments to the abominable Scarlet
Lady. He gave one appealing look at his interrogator, but the side of
the face turned towards him was immovable. It gave no positive
discouragement to an affirmative reply; it even feigned ignorance.
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