A grave little
man, with a pen behind his ear, ran out upon their knocking at one of
these doors, and led them straight through, smiling and talking, out
into this very gallery where they now stood; and then vanished again.
The gallery was such as those which Marjorie had noted on the way to the
Tower; a high-hung, airy place, running the length of the house,
contrived on the level of the second floor, with the first floor roof
beneath and overhanging attics above. It was supported on massive oak
beams, and protected from the street by a low balustrade of a height to
lean the elbows upon it. It was on this balustrade that Marjorie leaned,
looking down into the street.
To the left the narrow roadway curved off out of sight in the direction
of Palace Yard; on the right she could make out, a hundred yards away,
some kind of a gateway, that strode across the street, and gave access,
she supposed, to the Palace. Opposite, the windows were filled with
faces, and an enthusiastic loyalist was leaning, red-faced and
vociferous, calling to a friend in the crowd beneath, from a gallery
corresponding to that from which the girl was looking.
Of the procession nothing was at present to be seen. They had caught a
glimpse of colour somewhere to the east of the Abbey as they turned off
opposite Westminster Hall; and already the cry of the trumpets and the
increasing noise of a crowd out of sight, told the listeners that they
would not have long to wait.
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