For Tibble was no impulsive Italian, but a sober-minded Englishman
of sturdy good sense, and Ambrose was reasonable enough to listen
and only drop in a few groats which he knew to be his own.

At the same moment, a church bell was heard, the tone of which
Steelman evidently distinguished from all the others, and he led the
way out of the Pardon churchyard, over the space in front of St.
Paul's. Many persons were taking the same route; citizens in gowns
and gold or silver chains, their wives in tall pointed hats;
craftsmen, black-gowned scholarly men with fur caps, but there was a
much more scanty proportion of priests, monks or friars, than was
usual in any popular assemblage. Many of the better class of women
carried folding stools, or had them carried by their servants, as if
they expected to sit and wait.

"Is there a procession toward? or a relic to be displayed?" asked
Ambrose, trying to recollect whose feast-day it might be.

Tibble screwed up his mouth in an extraordinary smile as he said,
"Relic quotha? yea, the soothest relic there be of the Lord and
Master of us all."

"Methought the true Cross was always displayed on the High Altar,"
said Ambrose, as all turned to a side aisle of the noble nave.

"Rather say hidden," muttered Tibble. "Thou shalt have it
displayed, young sir, but neither in wood nor gilded shrine. See,
here he comes who setteth it forth."

From the choir came, attended by half a dozen clergy, a small, pale