Excerpt from The Fair Maid of Graystones
In the nave of St. Andrew"s church two men were mauling each other zealously, while near threescore of tatterdemalions cheered them on. The time was verging toward one o"clock of a breathless August day, and in the church the air was lifeless and heavy with heat. Although the windows, shattered by Roundhead bullets or fanatic stones, gave free passage to whatever breezes were abroad in the town of Colchester, no stir of wind came through. Instead, long shafts of sunlight, tinged blue or red from the glass fragments of angel"s robe or martyr"s flame that still clung to the ravaged casings, smote full and strong into the heavy dusk of what once had been a holy place.
Not eight and forty hours before St. Andrew"s had been a parish church, as it had been for near two centuries, with carven stalls and well-wrought altar screen, with worn old mural tablets, half seen in the gloom of the quiet chancel, and a glory of painted windows that caught and prisoned the colors of the sunlight. Now, sharing the fortunes of the fallen town, St. Andrew"s was become a prison. The stalls and the altar screen had been rudely hacked from their place, the windows had been shattered, and the mural tablets, defaced and dishonored, had looked on sordid basenesses alike of victor and of vanquished.
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