On a
high-backed rectangular settle rising against the wall, and
almost meeting in front of the comfortable range, sat a company
of rustics, stuffing themselves with cold meat, washed down with
mugs of ale, and cozily talking. They gained indefinitely in my
interest from being served by a lame woman, with a rhythmical
limp, and I hope it was not for my demerit that I was served
apart in the chillier parlor, when I should have liked so much to
stay and listen to the rustic tale or talk. The parlor was very
depressingly papered, but on its walls I had the exalted company
of his Majesty the King, their Royal Highnesses the Prince and
Princess of Wales, the late Premier, the Marquis of Salisbury,
and, for no assignable reason except a general fitness for high
society, the twelve Apostles in Da Vinci's _Last Supper_,
together with an appropriate view of York Minster.
III
I do not pretend this search for the battle-field of Marston Moor
was the most exciting episode of my stay in York. In fact, I
think it was much surpassed in a climax of dramatic poignancy
incident to our excursion to Bishopsthorpe, down the Ouse, on one
of the cosey little steamers which ply the stream without
unreasonably crowding it against its banks.
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