"And is King Alfred really up there?—the one that burnt the cakes?— and if so, which?" Corona was asking, too eager to think of grammar.
Brother Copas shrugged his shoulders.
"What's left of him is up there somewhere."
'Here are sands, ignoble things
Dropped from the ruined sides of kings.'
'Here are sands, ignoble things
Dropped from the ruined sides of kings.'
"—But the Parliament troopers broke open the coffins and mixed the dust sadly. The Latin says so. 'In this and the neighbouring chests' (or caskets, as you say in America), 'confounded in a time of Civil Fury, reposes what dust is left of—' Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Simeon! This young lady has laid forcible hands on me to give her an object-lesson in English history. Do you, who know ten times more of the Cathedral than I, come to my aid."
"If you are looking for King Alfred," answered Mr. Simeon, beaming on Corona through his glasses, "there's a tradition that his dust lies in the second chest to the right… a tradition only. No one really knows."
Corona shifted her position some six paces to the right, and tilted her gaze up at the coffer as though she would crick her neck.
"Aye, missie"—Mr. Simeon still beamed—"they're up there, the royal ones—Dane and Norman and Angevin; and not one to match the great Anglo-Saxon that was father of us all."
Brother Copas grunted impatiently.