London Bridge stood out before them presently, like a palace in a fairy-tale, blue and romantic against the western glow, and above it and beyond rose up the tall spire of the Cathedral.

On the other side a fringe of houses began a little to the east of the bridge, and ran up to the spires of Southwark on the other side, and on them lay a glory of sunset with deep shadows barring them where the alleys ran down to the water's edge.

Here and there behind rose up the heavy masses of the June foliage.

A troop of swans, white patches on the splendour, were breasting up against the out-flowing tide.
The air was full of sound; the rattle and dash of oars, men's voices coming clear and minute across the water; and as they got out near mid-stream the bell of St.Paul's boomed far from away, indescribably solemn and melodious; another church took it up, and a chorus of mellow voices tolled out the Angelus.
Chris was half through saying it to himself, when across the soft murmur sounded the clash of brass far away beyond the bridge.
The boatman paused at his oars, turned round a moment, grasping them in one hand, and stared up-stream under the other.

Chris could see a movement among the boats higher up, and there seemed to break out a commotion at the foot of the houses on London Bridge, and then far away came the sound of cheering.
"What is it ?" asked the Prior sharply, lifting his head, as the boatman gave an exclamation and laid furiously to his oars again.
The man jerked his head backwards.
"The King's Grace," he said.
* * * * * For a minute or two nothing more was to be seen.