ilent highway of the Londoners, its bosom
covered by a forest of masts and spanned by the great bridge,--even then
old,--with its gateways, towers, drawbridges, houses, mills, chapel and
wharfs; all these went to make a picture that thrilled every English
heart.

The girl looked first this way and then that as though she could never
drink her fill.

"My lord," she cried, "prithee tell me which of all those turrets is the
Tower?"

"To the east, child. The white tower that rises so majestically from the
surrounding turrets. Therein is written the whole history of England.
That is the lofty citadel which it is said the great Julius himself
raised. And yonder lies Saint Paul's. That sombre and dungeon like
stronghold is Baynard's castle. To our left is Westminster, and yon
beautiful palace is Whitehall. It is known of all men how it reverted to
the crown at the fall of Wolsey. The queen's father adorned it in its
present manner. There stands Somerset house, and yonder is Crosby. On the
bankside in Southwark are the theatres and Paris gardens where are the
bear pits. Look about thee, Francis. On every building, almost on every
stone is writ the history of our forbears. On all those walls are traces
of Roman, Briton, Anglo-Saxon and Norman. History in stone. What sermons
they might preach to us had they but tongues!"

"It is beautiful!" said Francis again.

"The bells have ceased their chiming," said Lord Shrope. "I would not
break into thy enjoyment, child, but we must hasten. Before the darkness
falls we must enter Greenwich where Elizabeth is."

With a deep drawn sigh, Francis gave one more look about her and then
they passed into the city.

Within the immediate vicinity of the walls there were many gardens and
open spaces. The houses with their fanciful gables and vanes, and tall
twisted chimneys invited and enchained the eye. The streets were narrow,
and alleys, courts and by-paths abounded in every direction. While they
were at a distance they had heard only the subdued noises of the city,
above which the bells sounded clearly. But now as they passed through the
streets their ears were assailed by the cries of the pent-house keepers,
or the noises of the apprentices as they set upon some offending
pedestrian. The din was almost indescribable. And yet in the midst of the
confusion there was music. From every barber shop came the twang of
cittern or guitar, while song burst from the lips of every tankard
bearer.