“No; but I said that the chapel that he did build and dedicated to St. George stood right where this choir is now. This chapel was commenced a hundred years later, and the old one torn down.”
“Well,” said Donald, getting onto his feet, “one way and another I've learned a great deal to-day—just about as much as I can hold, seems to me.”
“Yes, I'm tired, too,” Marie-Celeste admitted; “but we're ever so much obliged, it's been very interesting; but look here, Donald, before we go, I want to show you something,” and she led the way to a stall of one of the knights.
“See,” said Marie-Celeste, pushing the seat of the stall from beneath, so that it folded up against the back, thereby bringing to view a queer little wooden projection about six inches wide.
“Now, Donald, will you believe that is all the seat the old knights used to have in these stalls? They've preserved them in this way just as a curiosity. Things are more comfortable for them now, you see, but in the old times they were afraid the knights would go to sleep during the service, and so made them uncomfortable to keep them awake.”
“Not a bad idea,” mused Donald, as though he had more than once in his life experienced a similar temptation.
“Well, I think it was, then,” said Marie-Celeste decidedly. “This church is enough in itself to keep a man awake if he has any thoughts to think, no matter how dull the sermon might happen to be; but then I know”—with an insinuating shrug of the shoulders—“some men, and boys too I suppose, never do have any thoughts to think. If they're not eating or being amused, sleep's the only thing for them.”
There was a whimsical little look in Donald's face, which an American street gamin would have interpreted as “what are you giving us?” He did not say anything, however; and just then Harold, who had strolled on by himself, came toward them, his face aglow with merriment. “I believe”—speaking to Donald—“you said you'd like to see a live Knight of the Garter; now come right along quickly and I'll show you one.”
What could he mean? Donald and Marie-Celeste elbowed each other in their haste to discover, and in the next moment sure enough there he was right before them. He was only a little knight, to be sure, not over four, and sound asleep at that, with one arm thrown around a big dog, who was also sound asleep. A knight he was, however, beyond all dispute, for there was the unmistakable blue garter plainly visible, and in exactly the right place, too, on the left leg just below the knee. He had not meant that any one should know it, such a modest little knight was he; but alas! the weakness of drowsiness had overtaken the valiant little fellow, and in the disorder thereon attendant the shapely little limb had thrust itself forth from the folds of the protecting kilt, and there was the garter plainly visible to the most casual passer-by.
“Yes, will you believe it?” said Marie-Celeste, stooping down for closer inspection, “'Honi soit qui mal y pense,' as large as life in gold letters running all round it—just as near the real thing as possible.”