She was of the same enthusiastic sisterhood as the vergeress of St.Lawrence and the guardian of the old cemetery, and by a mighty effort she prevailed over the workmen so far as to lead her charges out through the corridor where the literal conscience of the brothers Kuhn has wrought in the roof to an exact image of a tournament as it was in Nuremberg four hundred years ago.

In this relief, thronged with men and horses, the gala-life of the past survives in unexampled fulness; and March blamed himself after enjoying it for having felt in it that toy-figure quality which seems the final effect of the German gothicism in sculpture.
XLVI.
On Sunday Mrs.March partially conformed to an earlier New England ideal of the day by ceasing from sight-seeing.

She could not have understood the sermon if she had gone to church, but she appeased the lingering conscience she had on this point by not going out till afternoon.

Then she found nothing of the gayety which Sunday afternoon wears in Catholic lands.

The people were resting from their week-day labors, but they were not playing; and the old churches, long since converted to Lutheran uses, were locked against tourist curiosity.
It was as it should be; it was as it would be at home; and yet in this ancient city, where the past was so much alive in the perpetual picturesqueness, the Marches felt an incongruity in it; and they were fain to escape from the Protestant silence and seriousness of the streets to the shade of the public garden they had involuntarily visited the evening of their arrival.
On a bench sat a quiet, rather dejected man, whom March asked some question of their way.