"Indeed," echoes C., "their teeth!"
S., at this, waxed magnificent, and, as a novel writer would say, swept from the apartment. I turned round, shaking with laughter, while the priest went on.
"Dere is a rib of St. ——."
"Ah, his rib; indeed!"
"And dere is de arrow as pierced the heart of St. Ursula."
"H.," says C., "here is the arrow that killed St. Ursula." (The wicked scamp knew I was laughing!)
"Dere is the net that was on her hair."
"This is what she wore on her hair, then," says C., eyeing the rag with severe and melancholy gravity.
"And here is some of the blood of the martyr Stephen," says the priest, holding a glass case with some mud in it.
In the same way he showed two thorns from the crown of Christ, and a piece of the Virgin's petticoat.