'And here is the tomb of her husband, Edward the First. It was he
who brought the stone from Scone. At the time of his death the
conquest of Scotland was nearly done, and he gave orders that his
burial should be merely temporary until Scotland was thoroughly
subdued. He is still, as you perceive, in his temporary tomb.'

The big Scotchman laughed loudly and derisively. All the others
looked sadly at him with the pitying gaze which the English use
towards the more excitable races when their emotion gets the better
of them. A stream from a garden hose could not have damped him more.

'They opened the grave last century,' said the guide. 'Inside was an
inscription, which said, "Here lies the hammer of the Scots." He was
a fine man, six feet two inches from crown to sole.'

They wandered out of the old shrine where the great Plantagenet kings
lie like a bodyguard round the Saxon saint. Abbots lay on one side
of them as they passed, and dead crusaders with their legs crossed,
upon the other. And then, in an instant, they were back in
comparatively modern times again.

'This is the tomb of Wolfe, who died upon the Heights of Abraham,'
said the guide. 'It was due to him and to his soldiers that all
America belongs to the English-speaking races. There is a picture of
his Highlanders going up to the battle along the winding path which
leads from Wolfe's Cove. He died in the moment of victory.'

It was bewildering, the way in which they skipped from age to age.
The history of England appeared to be not merely continuous, but
simultaneous, as they turned in an instant from the Georgian to the