Passing along the south aisle of the choir, one gradually sees the
whole of the elaborately devised eastern parts of the Cathedral as
they were reconstructed by William of Sens and his English successor.
The arcades of alternately circular and octagonal pillars have richly
carved foliated capitals, and there is a lightness in form and a
profusion of carving that tells of the coming of the Gothic
style--indeed, so far in advance of the plain Norman work of Conrad is
the present choir that the change to pure Early English is slight in
comparison. In its great length this choir is unique, and in the
lowness of its vaulted roof is also unusual, but this is accounted for
by the undercroft beneath. From the centre of the choir the remarkable
inward bend of the walls, necessitated through the determination not
to alter the plan of the Trinity Chapel so hallowed by the memory of
the Blessed St. Thomas, is very noticeable: to some extent it helps to
give one an impression of the great length of the whole choir, with
the chapel beyond. The eastern transepts and chapels still have their
apsidal chapels almost as they were built by Conrad.

Ascending some more steps, the modern pilgrim reaches Trinity Chapel,
where his eyes, instead of falling upon a shrine encrusted with jewels
and precious metals, merely look between the pillars upon an empty
space. A vacant spot, however, can be eloquent enough, and to those
who have read Chaucer's "Canterbury Tales" or the late Mr. Snowden
Ward's "Canterbury Pilgrimages," if they have gone no farther in the
study of this fascinating cult, the site of the shrine whose fame was
European is able to give almost as deep a thrill as any experienced by
the wayworn folk of the Middle Ages.

By going closer and examining the pavement, a shallow groove appears