He went on munching his water-chestnuts, and stared at the skyline. "You'll not forget the thousand, Sir Rowland—short accounts, you know. Where Saint Giles' church stands, once a lazar-house stood; And, chain'd to its gates, was a vessel of wood; A broad-bottom'd bowl, from which all the fine fellows, Who pass'd by that spot, on their way to the gallows, Might tipple strong beer, Their spirits to cheer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! II. ” He said to her with as much casualness as he could muster. I am quite sure though that they did not mean to be rude. The three young men exchanged expressive glances.
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