Chris fumbled in his purse, threw a couple of groats on to the ground, and rode on down the hill.
His heart was beating fast as he went down Westgate Lane into the High Street, and it quickened yet further as the great bells in the Priory church began to jangle; for it was close on vesper time, and instinctively he shook his reins to hasten his beast, who was picking his way delicately through the filth and tumbled stones that lay everywhere, for the melodious roar seemed to be bidding him haste and be welcome.

Mr.Morris was close beside him, and remarked on this and that as they went, the spire of St.Ann's away to the right, with St.
Pancras's Bridge, a swinging sign over an inn with Queen Katharine's face erased, but plainly visible under Ann Boleyn's, the tall mound beyond the Priory crowned by a Calvary, and the roof of the famous dove-cote of the Priory, a great cruciform structure with over two thousand cells.

But Christopher knew it all better than the servant, and paid little attention, and besides, his excitement was running too high.

They came down at last through Antioch Street, Puddingbag Lane, and across the dry bed of the Winterbourne, and the gateway was before them.
The bells had ceased by now, after a final stroke.

Mr.Morris sprang off his horse, and drew on the chain that hung by the smaller of the two doors.