“Two of the cups have been set in silver to commemorate the fact that the Prince of Wales and Crown Prince of Germany drank out of them. The other cups are not set; we keep these for the upper classes.” I had not then heard of the fate of the “Hampshire Grenadier,” and much cheered by the refreshment and the fragrance of royalty, marched into the courtyard, and admired the long row of chimneys--twenty feet high--made thus when they first succeeded holes in the roof. I wished I could see the thatch that the chapel had for two hundred years. Seeing an old gownsman standing about I accosted him, and asked if he would be so good as to show me over the hospital. “Hospital!” he replied, sharply. “There ain’t no hospital here. That’s where everybody makes a mistake. When any of the brethren are ill we have to send to Winchester for a doctor.” [Illustration: Beaufort Tower, Saint Cross.] “Well--the institution” I substituted. He seemed satisfied with the correction. I found that there were several persons waiting to be conducted, and that our guide was a “character.” He was deaf, his speech was indistinct from the loss of teeth, and he in every respect came up to the requisite qualification of being decayed. The original foundation was for the board and lodging of thirteen men, poor and infirm, and for receiving daily at dinner a hundred men[99]--the most indigent that could be found--who were to be allowed to carry away the remains of their food and beer. “Walk this way,” said our guide, hobbling on in front of us. “Oh! I won’t go too fast for you.” He led us into the church, where we gazed up at rows of Norman zig-zag until we felt quite giddy. Some think the painting here a little overdone, but it gives some idea of how the severity of the Norman style was softened by colours. A few traces of the old designs are still visible in some places on the walls, and in À Becket’s Chapel there are remains of a series depicting the scenes in his life. There is also a large fresco, even more faded, representing the Descent from the Cross. “We have heard,” said an inquiring lady, who seemed to take a great interest in everything, “that there is a beautiful triple arch here. Can we see it?” “No, ma’am, you cannot,” replied our scrupulous guide; “but you will be able to do so when we come to it. This is Major Lowth’s seat,” he added, pointing to one comfortably cushioned. “Who is he?” inquired the lady. “Where do you say he sits?” “Nowhere, ma’am. He does not sit anywhere now. He is gone to heaven, ma’am--at least, I hope so. He was one of the trustees.” We found the triple arch outside at the back of the church. It was very pretty--one arch bisecting another.