May leaned down lower and the silence of the night seemed oppressive when the Warden ceased speaking.
After a moment he said, "In the old days you would have heard some far-off clock strike the hour, probably a thin, cracked voice, and then it would have been followed by other voices. You would have heard them jangle together, and then into their discordance you would have heard the deep voice of 'Tom' breaking."
"But he is at his best," went on the Warden, "when he tolls the Clusius. It is his right to toll it, and his alone. He speaks one hundred and one times, slowly, solemnly and with authority, and then all the gates in Oxford are closed."
Drops of rain fell lightly in at them, and May drew in her head.
"Oxford has become a city of memories to me," said the Warden, and he put out his arm to draw in the window.
"That is only when you are sad," said May.
"Yes," said the Warden slowly, "it is only when I give way to gloom. After all, this is a great time, it can be made a great time. If only all men and women realised that it might be the beginning of the 'Second Coming.' As it is, the chance may slip."
He pulled the window further in and secured it.
May pushed aside the curtain and went back into the glow and warmth of the room.
She gathered up her knitting and thrust it into the bag.