"Quite right: the bishop is perfectly right. Processions are
unscriptural."

"It's the thin end of the wedge, you know, Dixon."

"Exactly. I have always resisted anything of the kind here."

"Right. _Principiis obsta_, you know. Martin is so _imprudent_.
There's a _way_ of doing things."

The "scriptural" procession led by Lord Beamys broke up when the stalls
were reached, and gathered round the nobleman as he declared the bazaar
open.

Lucian was sitting on a garden-seat, a little distance off, looking
dreamily before him. And all that he saw was a swarm of flies clustering
and buzzing about a lump of tainted meat that lay on the grass. The
spectacle in no way interrupted the harmony of his thoughts, and soon
after the opening of the bazaar he went quietly away, walking across the
fields in the direction of the ancient mounds he desired to inspect.

All these journeys of his to Caermaen and its neighborhood had a peculiar
object; he was gradually leveling to the dust the squalid kraals of
modern times, and rebuilding the splendid and golden city of Siluria. All
this mystic town was for the delight of his sweetheart and himself; for
her the wonderful villas, the shady courts, the magic of tessellated
pavements, and the hangings of rich stuffs with their intricate and
glowing patterns. Lucian wandered all day through the shining streets,
taking shelter sometimes in the gardens beneath the dense and gloomy ilex
trees, and listening to the plash and trickle of the fountains. Sometimes