Pancras's Bridge, a swinging sign over an inn with Queen Katharine's
face erased, but plainly visible under Ann Boleyn's, the tall mound
beyond the Priory crowned by a Calvary, and the roof of the famous
dove-cote of the Priory, a great cruciform structure with over two
thousand cells. But Christopher knew it all better than the servant,
and paid little attention, and besides, his excitement was running too
high. They came down at last through Antioch Street, Puddingbag Lane,
and across the dry bed of the Winterbourne, and the gateway was before
them.

The bells had ceased by now, after a final stroke. Mr. Morris sprang off
his horse, and drew on the chain that hung by the smaller of the two
doors. There was a sound of footsteps and a face looked out from the
grating. The servant said a word or two; the face disappeared, and a
moment later there was the turning of a key, and one leaf of the
horse-entrance rolled back. Chris touched his beast with his heel,
passed through on to the paved floor, and sat smiling and flushed,
looking down at the old lay-brother, who beamed up at him pleasantly and
told him he was expected.

Chris dismounted at once, telling the servant to take the horses round
to the stables on the right, and himself went across the open court
towards the west end of the church, that rose above him fifty feet into
the clear evening air, faced with marble about the two doors, and
crowned by the western tower and the high central spire beyond where the
bells hung. On the right lay the long low wall of the Cellarer's
offices, with the kitchen jutting out at the lower end, and the
high-pitched refectory roof above and beyond it. The church was full of
golden light as he entered, darkening to dusk in the chapels on either
side, pricked with lights here and there that burned before the images,