enthusiasm, and the people of Canterbury showed their
delight in every possible manner. There were imposing banquets, and
hangings of silk were put up in the cathedral for the great occasion;
but at the end of this December, on the gloomy afternoon of the 29th,
the four murderers arrived in the city. The day was a Tuesday, the day
on which all the great events of Becket's life had taken place; for
not only had he been born on a Tuesday, but on that day he had been
exiled, on that day he had been warned of his impending martyrdom, and
on that day he had returned from exile.

[Illustration: THE "ANGEL" OR "BELL HARRY" TOWER AND THE BAPTISTERY.
The massive Norman work is seen here in strong contrast with the
lightness and delicacy of the Perpendicular tower.]

While leaving the long story to be told with the amazingly ample
detail Dean Stanley was able to employ, one is tempted to quote his
account of the first interview between Becket and the four knights,
for too often the memory recalls nearly every fact of the murder
except the indictment, if it may be so called. The four knights had
discarded their weapons and concealed their armour under the cloak and
gown of ordinary life on entering the cathedral precincts, so that on
their first appearance in the Archbishop's private room their aspect
was sinister without being immediately threatening. Becket had just
finished dinner, and was seated on his couch talking to his friends
when the four knights were announced, and he pointedly continued, his
conversation with the monk who sat by him and on whose shoulder he was
leaning.

They on their part entered without a word, beyond a greeting
exchanged in a whisper to the attendants who stood near the
door, and then marched straight to where the Archbishop sate,
and placed themselves on the floor at his feet, among the
clergy who were reclining around. Radulf the archer sate
behind them, on the boards. Becket now turned round for the
first time, and gazed steadfastly on each in silence, which he
at last broke by saluting Tracy by name. The conspirators
continued to look mutely at each other, till Fitzurse, who
throughout took the lead, replied with a scornful expression,
"God help you!" Becket's face grew crimson, and he glanced
round at their countenances, which seemed to gather fire from
Fitzurse's speech. Fitzurse again broke forth: "We have a
message from the King ov