king. Now the corduroyed porters stand where the knights stood, and
the engines whistle where the heralds trumpeted, but the old cross is
the same as ever in the same old place. It is a little thing of that
sort which makes one realise the unbroken history of our country.'

Maude insisted upon hearing about Queen Eleanor, and Frank imparted
the little that he knew as they walked out into the crowded Strand.

'She was Edward the First's wife, and a splendid woman. It was she,
you remember, who sucked the wound when he was stabbed with a
poisoned dagger. She died somewhere in the north, and he had the
body carried south to bury it in Westminster Abbey. Wherever it
rested for a night he built a cross, and so you have a line of
crosses all down England to show where that sad journey was broken.'

They had turned down Whitehall, and passed the big cuirassiers upon
their black chargers at the gate of the Horse Guards. Frank pointed
to one of the windows of the old banqueting-hall.

'You've seen a memorial of a queen of England,' said he. 'That
window is the memorial of a king.'

'Why so, Frank?'

'I believe that it was through that window that Charles the First
passed out to the scaffold when his head was cut off. It was the
first time that the people had ever shown that they claimed authority
over their king.'

'Poor fellow!' said Maude. 'He was so handsome, and such a good