"Come," said Anthony in a sharp, low voice, "we must see the church."
"Who is it?" whispered Mistress Alice, with even her serene face a
little troubled.
For the first moment, as they walked towards the entrance of the church,
Anthony said nothing. Then as they reached it, he said, in a tone quite
low and yet full of suppressed passion of some kind, a name that
Marjorie could not catch.
She turned before they went in, and looked again.
The priest was talking to the stranger, and was making gestures, as if
asking for direction.
"Who is it, Mr. Babington?" she asked again as they went in. "I did
not--"
"Topcliffe," said Anthony.
III
The horror was still on the girl, as they went, an hour later, up the
ebbing tide towards Westminster, in a boat rowed by a waterman and one
of their own servants. About them was a scene, of which the very
thought, a month ago, would have absorbed and fascinated her. They had
scarcely passed through London Bridge finding themselves just in time
before the fall of the water would have hindered their passage, leaving
out of sight the grey sunlit heap of buildings from which they had come.
All about them the river was gay with shipping. Wherries, like clumsy
water-beetles, lurched along out of the current, or slipped out suddenly
to make their way across from one stairs to another; a great barge,
coming down-stream, grew larger every instant, its prow bright with
gilding, and the throb of the twelve oars in the row-locks coming to
them like the grunting of a beast.
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