"Indeed," echoes C., "their teeth!"
S., at this, waxed magnificent, and, as a novel writer would say,
swept from the apartment. I turned round, shaking with laughter, while
the priest went on.
"Dere is a rib of St. - - ."
"Ah, his rib; indeed!"
"And dere is de arrow as pierced the heart of St. Ursula."
"H.," says C., "here is the arrow that killed St. Ursula." (The wicked
scamp knew I was laughing!)
"Dere is the net that was on her hair."
"This is what she wore on her hair, then," says C., eyeing the rag
with severe and melancholy gravity.
"And here is some of the blood of the martyr Stephen," says the
priest, holding a glass case with some mud in it.
In the same way he showed two thorns from the crown of Christ, and a
piece of the Virgin's petticoat.
"And here is the waterpot of stone, in which our Lord made the wine at
the marriage in Cana."
"Indeed," said C., examining it with great interest; "where are the
rest of them?"
"The rest?" says the priest.
"Yes; I think there were six of them; where are they?"
The priest only went over the old story. "This came from Rome, and the
piece broken out of the side is at Rome yet."
It is to be confessed that I felt in my heart, through this disgusting
recital, some of S.'s indignation; and I could not help agreeing with
her that the odor of sanctity, as generally developed in the vicinity,
was any thing but agreeable.
