A sort
of cupboard door half opened showed the shelves all full of skulls,
adorned with little satin caps, coronets, and tinsel jewelry; which
skulls, we were informed, were the original head-pieces of the same
redoubtable females.
At the other end of the room was a raised stage, where the most holy
relics of all were being displayed, under the devout eye of a priest
in a long, black robe. C. and I went upon the stage to be instructed.
S., whom the aforesaid lack of cologne water in the establishment had
rendered peculiarly unpropitious, stood at a majestic distance; but
C., assuming an air of profound faith, stood up to be initiated.
"That," says the priest, in a plaintive voice, pitched to the exact
point between lamentation and veneration, "is the ring of St. Ursula."
"Indeed," says C., "her ring!"
"Yes," says the priest, "it was found in her tomb."
"It was found in her tomb - only think!" says C., turning gravely to
me. I had to look another way, while the priest proceeded to
introduce, by name, four remarkably yellow skulls, with tastefully
trimmed red caps on, as those of St. Ursula and sundry of her most
intimate friends.
