I
THE clangour of bells grew insistent. In uncontrollable hilarity pealed S. Mary, contrasting clearly with the subdued carillon of S. Mark. From all sides, seldom in unison, resounded bells. S. Elizabeth and S. Sebastian, in Flower Street, seemed in loud dispute, while S. Ann “on the Hill,” all hollow, cracked, consumptive, fretful, did nothing but complain. Near by S. Nicaise, half-paralysed, and impotent, feebly shook. Then, triumphant, in a hurricane of sound, S. Irene hushed them all.
It was Sunday again.
Up and up, and still up, the winding ways of the city the straggling townsfolk toiled.
Now and again a pilgrim perhaps would pause in the narrow lane behind the Deanery to rest.
Opening a black lacquer fan and setting the window of her bedroom wide, Miss Sarah Sinquier peered out.
The lane, very frequently, would prove interesting of an afternoon.
Across it, the Cathedral rose up before her with wizardry against the evening sky.
Miss Sinquier raised her eyes towards the twin grey spires, threw up her arms, and yawned.
From a pinnacle a devil with limbs entwined about some struggling crowned-coiffed prey, grimaced.