tion. "To St. Pauls."

The procession swept on, and seven minutes later the cars were rounded
up in front of the open space before the Cathedral.

A score of policemen had managed to muster on the upper step of the
flight. But the rush of the mob was irresistible. They took entire
possession of the steps and all the open space around even to the head
of Ludgate Hill.

Ralph had got separated from his companion, and found himself swept
close up to the great triumphal car. Above him seated smilingly on her
purple throne, in all her shameless nakedness, was the beautiful form
of the foul souled harlot. Her gilded crozier was upheld between her
naked knees, and now, in her right hand she held a goblet of champagne,
just passed up to her.

A bugle sounded for silence. The hush was instantaneous. Then as she
held the goblet high aloft, her clear, shrill voice rang out in the
toast she gave:

"To the World, the Flesh, and the Devil!"

She drained the sparkling draught, and tossed the goblet down into the
upraised hand of a handsome, but dissolute-looking man, who, attired in
the theatrical idea of Mephistopheles, appeared to be a kind of Master
of Ceremonies.

A mighty roar of applause, mingled with cries of "Dolly Durden! Dear
little Dolly Durden!" accompanied the drinking of the toast.

Again the bugle rang out for silence, and amid a hush as before,
Mephistopheles shouted:

"The Sunday of the Puritans is dead and _damned_! Their Bible is
burned and a dead letter!"

He pointed, as he uttered the last sentence, to the Satyrs who were
piling the last of their stock of Bibles into the fiery furnace of the
cauldron-altar.

His blasphemies were greeted with a roar of applause. Then, as he
obtained a comparative silence by the raising of his hand, he yelled:

"To Hyde Park."

The band struck up "Good St. Anthony," and the monster procession,
swept down Ludgate Hill, hundreds of throats belching out the words of
the song, to the music of the band:

"St. Anthony sat on a lowly stool,
A large black book he held in his hand,
Never his eyes from the page he took,
With steadfast soul the page he scanned.
The Devil was in his best humour that day,
That ever his Highness was known to be in,--
That's why he sent out his imps to play
With sulphur, and tar, and pitch, and resin:
They came to the saint in a motley crew,
Twisted and twirl'd themselves about,--
Imps of every shape