'She looks as if she were tired, poor dear!' said Maude; 'I don't
think that she was sorry to be at rest.'

The guide was narrating the names of the owners of the tombs at the
further end of the chapel. 'Queen Anne is here, and Mary the wife of
William the Third is beside her. And here is William himself. The
king was very short and the queen very tall, so in the sculptures the
king is depicted standing upon a stool so as to bring their heads
level. In the vaults beyond there are thirty-eight Stuarts.'

Thirty-eight Stuarts! Princes, bishops, generals, once the salt of
the earth, the mightiest of men, and now lumped carelessly together
as thirty-eight Stuarts. So Death the Republican and Time the
Radical can drag down the highest from his throne.

They had followed the guide into another small chapel, which bore the
name of Henry VII. upon the door. Surely they were great builders
and great designers in those days! Had stone been as pliable as wax
it could not have been twisted and curved into more exquisite spirals
and curls, so light, so delicate, so beautiful, twining and turning
along the walls, and drooping from the ceiling. Never did the hand
of man construct anything more elaborately ornate, nor the brain of
man think out a design more absolutely harmonious and lovely. In the
centre, with all the pomp of mediaeval heraldry, starred and spangled
with the Tudor badges, the two bronze figures of Henry and his wife
lay side by side upon their tomb. The guide read out the quaint
directions in the king's will, by which they were to be buried 'with
some respect to their Royal dignity, but avoiding damnable pomp and
outrageous superfluities!' There was, as Frank remarked, a fine
touch of the hot Tudor blood in the adjectives. One could guess