The second carriage which had passed them rolled on round the curve in the track of the first and disappeared, Frank noticing that many of the promenaders turned their heads to look after it. Then his attention was taken up by his companion’s words.
“Look here,” he cried; “I want to show you Fleet Street.”
“Fleet Street,” said Frank,—“Fleet Street. Isn’t that where Temple Bar is?”
“Well done, countryman! Quite right.”
“Then I don’t want to see it.”
“Why?” said Andrew, turning to him in surprise at the change which had come over his companion, who spoke in a sharp, decided way.
“Because I read about the two traitors’ heads being stuck up there on Temple Bar, and it seems so horrible and barbarous.”
“So it is, Frank,” whispered Andrew, grasping his companion’s arm. “It’s horrible and cowardly. It’s brutal; and—and—I can’t find words bad enough for the act of insulting the dead bodies of brave men after they’ve executed them. But never mind; it will be different some day. There, I always knew I should like you, young one. You’ve got the right stuff in you for making a brave, true gentleman; and—and I hope I have.”
“I’m sure you have,” cried Frank warmly.
“Then we will not pass under the old city gate, with its horrible, grinning heads: but I must take you to Fleet Street; so we’ll go to Westminster Stairs and have a boat—it will be nice on the river.”