It only had one significance to his mind, and that that it had been this day the scene of a martyrdom.

His mind that had so long lived in the inner world, moving among supernatural things, was struggling desperately to adjust itself.
Once or twice his lips moved, and his hands clenched themselves under his scapular; but he saw and heard nothing; and did not even turn his head when a barge swept past them, and a richly dressed man leaned from the stem and shouted something mockingly.

The other monk looked nervously and deprecatingly up, for he heard the taunting threat across the water that the Carthusians were a good riddance, and that there would be more to follow.
They landed at the Blackfriars stairs, paid the man, who was still whistling as he took the money, and passed up by the little stream that flowed into the river, striking off to the left presently, and leaving the city behind them.

They were soon out again on the long straight road that led to Tyburn, for Chris walked desperately fast, paying little heed to his companion except at the corners when he had to wait to know the way; and presently Tyburn-gate began to raise its head high against the sky.
Once the strange monk, whose name Chris had not even troubled to ask, plucked him by his hanging sleeve.
"The hurdles came along here," he said; and Chris looked at him vacantly as if he did not understand.
Then they were under Tyburn-gate, and the clump of elms stood before them.
* * * * * It was a wide open space, dusty now and trampled.
What grass there had been in patches by the two little streams that flowed together here, was crushed and flat under foot.

The elms cast long shadows from the west, and birds were chirping in the branches; there was a group or two of people here and there looking curiously about them.