And the man, in his wonder, forgot to take offence, and answered, ‘Why I, Sir, am the town crier!’

Talk of Yankee cheek indeed!

Then we went on down the lane, past the round marketplace, where women were selling sweets, and under the stone gateway with its time-worn tracery, to the south porch of the Cathedral, where a tricycle was standing. As the pilgrims had to pray before they could approach the sacred tomb, so we, after we had entered the nave, had to wait and listen to morning service. Then we were told that no one could go to the shrine unless led thither by the verger. There was nothing to do but to fall into the ranks of a detachment of tourists on their way to it. With them we were marshalled through the iron gate, separating the choir from the chapels, by a grey-bearded, grey-haired man, who kept his eye sternly upon us as we deposited our sixpences, our modest offerings in place of ‘silver broch and ryngis.’

‘Where is the shrine?’ we asked, as soon as we were on the other side of the gate.

‘The shrine which it lies but a few steps further on,’ the verger answered; ‘and you will come to it in good time.’

Then he showed us the ‘horgan and its pipes, which they lie in the triforium,’ and the ‘Norman Chapel of Saint Hanselm, which it is the holdest part of the building,’ and about all of which he had much to say. But we interrupted him quickly. ‘Take us to the shrine,’ we commanded. But just then another tourist, eager for information, began to ask questions not only about the Cathedral, but about the whole city. Before we knew where we were, she had carried us all out to Harbledown, and then, without stopping, whisked us off to Saint Martin’s-on-the-Hill. This was too much. We started to find the shrine for ourselves, but our friend the priest ran after us.

‘You must wait for the verger,’ he said. ‘I hope you don’t mind my telling you; but then, you know, you’re Americans, and I thought you mightn’t understand.’

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