SECOND DAY.

“God Begot” House — The High Street — Old Guildhall — Butter Cross — King Alfred — The Penthouse — St. Maurice’s Church — The Bell and Crown — New Guildhall — Museum — Archives — St. Mary’s Nunnery — St. John’s Hospital — Soke Prison — St. Giles’ Hill — The Fair.

Next morning we started in the opposite direction—eastward down the High Street. On the left-hand side we soon came to a curiously narrow street or alley, running beside a large bookseller’s shop, and entering it saw above us an immense timber-crossed gable, leaning over so as almost to touch the opposite houses. Further down the alley—in which the “Royal Oak” public-house, once the “Cross Keys,” is situated—we still see above us a line of overhanging stories. We can walk round this block, and return into the High Street by St. Peter’s Street.

This building, on which is inscribed in large letters “God-begot House,” is at present occupied by the two establishments of Mr. Perkins, a draper, and Miss Pamplin, a stationer. From the house of the former the panelling has been removed, but behind the shop is a small room with a richly stuccoed ceiling.

Miss Pamplin showed us over her house with great courtesy. The upper part is wainscoted with oak. The drawing-room is handsome—low, of course—and it has many beams in the ceiling, radiating from the centre. The walls are covered with carved panelling, the most elaborate part, over the fireplace, exhibiting small round-headed arches with intricate mouldings, while the opposite wall is adorned with lines of large rosettes. The bedroom in the roof at the back shows some curious woodwork; from it there is a good view of the back of this old-world edifice, with its long-tiled roofs sloping inwards to a central court.

This house, which dates from 1667, is large, and let in apartments. It stands on the site of the Church of St. Peter’s, in Macellis—that is, in the shambles—and was surrounded by butchers’ stalls, St. Peter’s Street having been called Fleshmonger Street. There seems to have been a house of an ecclesiastical character, called “God-begot,” adjoining the church, and the privileges of the spot are said to have been originally granted by Queen Emma, the mother of Edward the Confessor, to the Priory of St. Swithun. It was a sanctuary—a place of refuge for the guilty—and many conflicts arose about it between the civil and ecclesiastical authorities, sometimes men being forcibly dragged out of it. Strange to say, it was also a manor. A record was kept here; courts were held, and judgments delivered.

On the opposite side of the street is the old Guildhall, in front of which a large clock is held out over the street by an arm of old carved wood.

“Why it looks as if it might fall on one’s head,” said Miss Hertford.

“If you have any fear of that,” I replied, “be assured there is nothing in it; the case is empty, the works being in the curfew tower above.”

“What is the meaning of the three swords over it?” inquired Miss Hertford. “They remind me of a conjuring trick.”

“They represent the arms of Paulet, Marquess of Winchester,” I replied; “to whom the small fee farm-rent of the city, once belonging to the Crown, is still paid. The most remarkable thing about this clock is that it is very troublesome, as like other old timepieces, it requires to be wound up every day.”

The old Guildhall was behind the figure of Queen Anne on the first floor, the ground floor belonging to St. John’s Hospital. This division preserved the fine oak staircase to the hall, which necessarily led up from a side street. We went up these stairs, and Miss Hertford observed they were in a very dirty condition, but, as our guide said they were used every day for winding and lighting the clock, and ringing the bell in the curfew tower,[33] we were not much surprised. The panelling in the old Guildhall has been removed to the new one. No mayor and aldermen now sit here in state, but there are plenty of gowns, robes, and collars, for the hall has been formed into the show-rooms of Mr. King’s drapery establishment.

The next object that claims our attention is the Butter Cross. It dates from the reign of Henry VI., when a fraternity employed themselves in erecting such structures. If we recall past times we shall picture to ourselves here a motley crowd of market people intermixed with brethren of the cord and gown, and shall hear much noisy bargaining going forward. Later on, about 1650, we find a more stately gathering. The guild of merchants were to meet the Mayor every Sunday here to accompany him to church. This would seem to have been a compulsory, rather than a voluntary, meeting, and about seventy years earlier we find people imprisoned for not attending “sermonds.”

“It is to be regretted that this disinclination continues,” said Miss Hertford, “but those who frequent the afternoon services at cathedrals, cannot fail to observe the desire there is to hear the anthem and avoid the discourse.”

In a sketch of this Cross, made in the year 1770,[34] we find the upper niches vacant. The only ancient figure is that of St. Laurence, who holds what appears to be a sword, but is in reality intended for a palm branch. This Cross was sold by the City Corporation to Mr. Dummer, in the middle of the last century, and was in danger of being removed (as the Bristol Cross actually was); but the good people of Winchester rose indignantly when they heard of the intended sacrilege, forcibly drove away the men engaged to do the objectionable work.

Under the passage which leads from the Cross to the “Square” is the door to St. Lawrence’s Church, a building curiously inserted among houses. It reminds us of the way in which Winchester was in olden times honey-combed with churches and chapels. This is considered to be the mother church of Winchester, the bishop is inducted here, and goes into the tower to ring the bell. Most of the present edifice is modern, but the tower and east window are of the fifteenth century. Opposite the entrance to this church is a piece of Norman stone-work with some ornamental carving upon it—the only specimen of the domestic architecture of that date in Winchester—perhaps a part of the palace built here by William the Conqueror, which extended up this side of the High Street,[35] and across to Minster Street and Lane. The foundations of an ancient tower of “prodigious strength” were found at the beginning of the present century by a workman digging in Market Street.

We are now close to the “Square” where the Saxon palace probably stood.

The Saxon period was in one respect the most remarkable in Winchester, for the city was then the capital of Wessex, and Wessex became the mother of England. We read in the old chroniclers that Egbert was crowned in Winchester Cathedral the first King of England, and that at a Witenagemot or parliament, held by him here in the year 800, it was determined that the name of England should supersede that of Britain. Egbert was the first who united the kingdoms of the heptarchy, and the probability that he changed the name is increased by the fact that “Anglia,” which is nowhere found in any document anterior to this time, begins to appear immediately afterwards.[36]

But the principal figure that the Saxon palace at Winchester brings before us, is that of Alfred. He deserved the title of Great better than many who obtained it, for he was not only victorious in battle, but was essentially a scholar—indeed his successes were mainly the result of his study and industry. A shade of melancholy seems always to have hung over his mind, perhaps due to his constant physical suffering, though he writes:—

In the following lines there is a touch of sadness worthy of the author of Ecclesiastes:—

Many are accustomed to speak despondingly of the degeneracy of the nineteenth century, but it sounds strange to hear Alfred condemning the luxury of his time, which we generally regard as semi-civilized. He looks back regretfully to the good old days:—

We may picture Alfred living in his palace here, surrounded by this rude magnificence, but with a mind far above its allurements. His life corroborated the saying that religion is best for both worlds. Perhaps his devotional tendencies came from his father, who had been a monk. He ever consorted with learned men, and made great improvements, among others rendering his fleet more efficient. There was great joy in Winchester in 899 when, after a sea fight between the Saxons and Danes, two of the marauders’ ships were captured, and the crews brought here to the King, and hanged on the gallows.

A copy of an ancient charter giving property to the church of Evesham is interesting, as it shows Rufus here in 1100, surrounded by the bishops of London, Lincoln, and Durham, the abbots of Westminster and St. Albans, the Chancellor, and many other barons of the whole of England, at the solemn feast of Easter.[37] It was from this that Rufus started on his unfortunate expedition into the New Forest.

It is supposed that somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Conqueror’s palace were the mint and treasury. It is said that the six mints established by Athelstan were under the site of the Penthouse.[38] As I had heard of some vaults remaining which I could not find, I went into one of the shops there to inquire.

“Well, sir,” replied the owner, “I have some doubts whether there ever was any mint here; but,” he added, with a comical expression, “I am quite certain there is none now.”

The site of the “Penthouse” was originally occupied by the “Draperie.” Trade guilds existed here from Henry I.’s time, and this became the Guildhall. Henry III. ordered that this Draperie Street should be the “Great Street,” as in the time of his father. In Henry VIII.’s reign we find the Penthouse mentioned as the “Pentisse.”

“Such shelters were very welcome a hundred years ago,” said Mr. Hertford, “before umbrellas were used. You know that some have thought that in ‘under the rose,’ the word should be ‘rows.’”

“Close to this,” I continued, “beside the wall of St. Lawrence’s Church, a murder took place, in the twenty-first year of Richard II., which brings before us the lawless state of the times. One James Dyngeley, a priest, struck a man named Walter Pynchon, through the back to the heart with a baslard. This weapon was a large dagger suspended to the girdle, and worn by laymen and by some priests, notwithstanding an ecclesiastical prohibition. Roger, the parson of St. Lawrence, claimed the prisoner (as an ecclesiastic) for the Bishop of Winchester, and he was incarcerated in Wolvesey Castle. From this he broke out with others on the 5th of December, in the fifth year of Henry IV., but was pardoned by the King for this and other felonies—a proof of the influence of the Church in those days.”[39]

The next church we come to is St. Maurice’s, which is modern, the fifteenth-century tower has a good Norman doorway looking towards the Cathedral. There are some old registers belonging to this church which record the burials of men killed in the Soke (across the bridge), fighting with the Roundheads in the days of Cromwell. There is a monument here in which the admirers of William Widmore have made him ridiculous for ever, by calling him “a friend without guile, and an apothecary without ostentation;” the less excusable, as they say he was “an honest Englishman.”

Opposite this church is a passage leading to the “Bell and Crown.” A hostel of that name has stood here ever since Henry V.’s reign. The building now on the spot is old, and has been evidently much altered. The wall of the staircase is spotted over with a small blue pattern.

“I thought there was a paper on the wall,” said the landlord, “and was going to have another put over it; but a gentleman said to me, ‘Do no such thing. Why, that is stencilled! there is not another house in Winchester can show such decoration.’”

Stencilling was much used in the last century.

“I have heard,” said Mr. Hertford, “that the celebrated Miss Mellon (Duchess of St. Albans) went about when young with her father and a company of actors who, as occasion offered, acted plays and stencilled rooms.”

The work is performed by placing against the wall a thin piece of metal on which a pattern has been cut, and then brushing paint over it. This ornamentation is interesting, as showing the transition from frescoes and panelling to paper-hangings.

The passage in front of the “Bell and Crown” was formerly a large archway, on the eastern side of which there was a hall for entertainments.

The new Guildhall is a handsome and conspicuous modern building, and stands on the site of the old Globe Hotel. Adjoining it is the Free Library—one of the first established in England. There are some old pictures in the Council Chamber, especially one of Charles II., by Sir P. Lely, given by that monarch to the Corporation. There is also one of the first Marquess of Winchester—a piece of painted board which may teach some worldly wisdom. William Paulet was made a peer by Henry VIII., a marquess by Edward VI., and was High Treasurer under Mary and Elizabeth. How did he accomplish all this? “By being a willow, not an oak.”[40]

I mounted the staircase to visit the Museum, which is at the top of the building. The greater part of the treasures it contains are “prehistoric,” and lent by Lord Northesk during his life. There is here one of the finest collections in existence of stone axes and arrow heads, and specimens from barbarous countries of our own day, showing how they were hafted and fastened with sinews or matting.

But I felt more interested in the local antiquities. Here is a Roman pavement, found at the corner of Minster Lane, about a hundred yards in front of the west gate of the Cathedral. It is only a segment, and the preservation of it cost £300, which may account for other remains of this kind being allowed to perish. The depth at which it was found was ten feet, so that we may conclude it was laid down soon after the Romans arrived, unless some accidental circumstances led to accumulations over it. The specimens of Roman pottery show us the extent of their town here, for some pieces were found in Water Lane, just over the eastern bridge, while others were dug up in Hyde Street, on the extreme north-west of the city.

Opposite these remains we find a brave row of weights and measures—standard measures for England were first introduced by Edgar at Winchester. Some good citizens maintain with pardonable vanity that one of Edgar’s measuring vessels is still here, but that is not the case. I hoped to be able to hang a story on one of the pegs that good king had put in the Saxon cups; but no material proof of his precautions to prevent tippling or cheating remains. The existing measures date from Henry VII. There is his bushel—a great bronze basin, bearing his name, with an emblematic Lancastrian rose. At the one extremity of a yard measure I found the letter H, at the other E, which I attributed to Henry and Elizabeth of York, who were certainly at opposite ends of the stick, but I was informed that E stood for the Tudor Elizabeth.

In glass frames are displayed some of the archives of the city. Here is a photo of Henry II.’s charter “civibus meis Wint.,” 1160; it has been said that there was an earlier one. The terms are general, and the contractions numerous and puzzling to the uninitiated—the whole being comprised in a piece of vellum not six inches square. The writing, which was clear in those days, contrasts here with some spidery cacography of later age.

This charter raised the Mayor of Winchester above all other civic officials in England. But at Richard I.’s coronation a dispute arose between the mayors of London and Winchester as to which should be Butler, and which Clerk of the Kitchen—the former being the higher office. The decision was in favour of London, but in compensation the King gave Winchester a very liberal charter.

In a list of ancient usages of Winchester, which existed earlier than the thirteenth century, when this document recording them was written, we find ordinances about various trades—the “bakere” and the “brewstere of myste” are specially mentioned.

“Also everych bakere of ye town that maketh bred to sale shal to the kynge of custome 11s. the year and to the clerk of the town a peny.” It goes on to say that he is to make good white bread, and if the weight is deficient, is to be at the King’s mercy.

“And also everych cart out of fraunchyse comyng in to town with samown, shal to the kynge of custome thre pens.

“Also everych cart out of the fraunchyse shal to the kynge by custome 11 pens and an hafpeny what ffyshe he here to sale. And everych horse berdene of fresh fysh that cometh in to the town to sale and be out of franchyse shal to the kynge thre hafpens of custome and of shalt fysh a hafpeny.”

The monopolies granted in Winchester to trades unions were considerable. In 1580 no cobbler was allowed to make “shoes, boots, buskins, skertoppes, slippers or pantaples;” he was not only to stick to his last, but to confine himself to repairs. Any infringement of this rule involved a penalty of 6s. 8d. a pair. Each trade was to carry on its own business—no intruders allowed. In 1673 a man paid money to be permitted to live in the city, and in 1728 a barber had to pay to be allowed to carry on his business. In 1656 it was resolved that the election of the mayor and aldermen should be by “bullets.” This sounds alarming; but the order is that one hundred red and white bullets, in equal proportions, shall be provided, and that the electors shall put them in privately.

A copy of the letter Cromwell sent to the Mayor summoning the town to surrender is preserved here. It runs thus:

It will be observed that by some oversight or waggish design the word “not” has been omitted before “in my power.”

A modern, but not uninteresting object here is a large model of the Cathedral, carved in wood with a jack-knife, by a shepherd’s boy, while tending sheep on the Hampshire Downs. It was presented to Dean Garnier in his 92nd year.

We were much pleased with the young lady in charge of this collection, who does her best to answer all the difficult questions put to her. She told us that her father was an antiquary, and half ruined himself in publishing archÆological works, but that she was not sorry for it. How refreshing to hear such disinterested sentiments in these grasping days! Her grandfather was a brewer, and she was glad she had none of the money he made in such an objectionable trade.

Just below the Guildhall, on the east, stands a modern brick building, with two towers, named the Abbey House—recalling memories of the celebrated nunnery which stood here. It was founded by Alfred’s queen, Ælwitha, who resided here as a widow. Edburga, his granddaughter, also lived here and carried her humility so far as to wash the nuns clothes secretly, much to the increase of their faith. The church of the Abbey had a lofty tower.

A little lower down we find two buildings facing each other on either side of the street. The southernmost and more picturesque of the two is the more modern, and only dates from 1833, previous to which a draper’s shop occupied the site. Both belong to one foundation—due, it is said, to St. Birinus—St. John’s Hospital. The northern establishment (on the left) has a little old chapel, built in the days of Henry III. As you enter by the gate you see in the east end of the chapel wall, very high up, an ancient carving of a head surrounded by a rim; but whether meant for a nimbus or a charger, and whether representing Our Lord or St. John, I leave for others to decide.

We find in the Black Book that there were, during Henry VI.’s reign, the following sculptures in alabaster in the hospital:—A head of John the Baptist, two images of the same saint and two of Our Lady. Milner writes: “In the dusthole near the apartments of the widows, amongst other curious antiques, is seen the figure of John the Baptist’s head in a dish, being the bust of the holy patron of the house, which formerly stood over the principal doorway.”

The court of the hospital is laid out in beautiful swards and beds of flowers and the houses seem to be pleasant residences. Before 1852 the land belonged to the Mildmay family, and then the hospital had only six poor cottages. Some arches are visible and stairs going down into a kind of kitchen from which an arch, still visible, communicated with another kitchen or refectory. If we pass through the chapel by the west door we find two Decorated windows (Henry III.), and enter the building containing this old chamber with a low arch and two large hearths. The hall is over the refectory and is a room of magnificent proportions, having its walls beautifully stuccoed with festoons of flowers. This would appear to date from the time of Charles II., whose picture, now in the Guildhall, was formerly here.

St. John’s became the property of the Knights Templar, and on their suppression John Devenish refounded it for lame soldiers, poor pilgrims, and necessitous wayfarers. He had a charitable feeling towards the footsore. After Henry VIII.’s confiscation it was used for meetings of the Corporation. We learn from the Black Book that in the 38th Henry VIII. the supper was to be kept at St. John’s as amply as heretofore. On the Sunday next following the Nativity of St. John the Baptist, the Mayor was to find a capon and so was the alderman of the High Street. In order to keep the “banket” up to the mark each of the benchers was to pay 12d., and each of the “Twenty four” 8d., whether they were present or not.

This establishment had been confiscated by Henry VIII., and the buildings made over to the Corporation for the formation of a new hall. Various references seem to show that this chamber was now being slowly completed. In 21st year of Henry VIII. John Brown was to have a certain tenement in the hold of St. John’s upon condition of his giving twenty shillings towards building a new chimney there; and in 1560 the Mayor of Winchester who had been guilty of riding to Southampton without a servant,[41] and of committing other enormities, was ordered to glaze the west window of St. John’s Hall. This was not the present hall, for it has no window looking west, and the chimney was differently placed. To mend windows seems to have been here a common and useful civic punishment.

I may here observe that the clerk who entered the civic transactions in the Black Book added a new saint to the calendar for he generally calls this hospital that of St. Jones.

The High Street here becomes very broad, apparently to accommodate a Russian gun, but really because the Bridewell and a “dye house” stood here till the beginning of this century, when it was removed to Hyde Street. Even the ponderous cannon has not had a quiet time since it came here, but has been on its travels. It was first placed where it now stands, but a few years ago the Corporation conceived the idea of moving it to a more commanding position on the summit of St. Giles’ hill. They accordingly carried it up, but immediately afterwards a tumultous assembly, aided, it is said, by some officers, and not dissimilar from that which saved the Butter Cross, dragged the gun down again by might and placed it on the site it now occupies.[42]

Close to the bridge on the left-hand side where are Mr. Dance’s house and grounds, stood anciently the Dominican friary, founded by De la Roche, with its “Elysian garden.” Just here was also the Eastgate, a high castellated building, which must have formed a handsome entrance to the town in this direction. It was removed at the end of the last century.

Beneath Bridge Street are the remains of a many-arched bridge said to have been built by St. Swithun.

Passing over Soke Bridge, and proceeding straight on, we came, in a few hundred yards, to a public-house built of wood and apparently sinking under the weight of years, but which bore the name of “The Rising Sun.” Through the open door I saw beams and passages of ancient irregularity, and as the landlady, a bright looking woman, was standing just inside I asked her whether she knew anything of the history of the house which bore such proofs of antiquity.

“You would say it was old,” she replied, “if you saw the vaults there are downstairs.”

I answered that we were strangers, and should like to see them. She speedily lighted a candle and led the way down into a chamber about twenty feet square and eight high. A wide flight of broken stairs led up to the street, while on the other side of the vault was an arch with a square window on either side leading to a chamber beyond. There had evidently been stone mullions and iron bars—the irons of the door hinges remain.

This was the prison of the Soke belonging to the Bishop of Winchester, and in ancient times the stocks stood just outside. I expressed the interest I took in these remains of the past.

“Yes, sir,” replied our guide, who was not quite so visionary, “and it is a nice place for keeping beer barrels—it is so cool.”

This part of the town was called the Soke, not, as I at first supposed, because of its low position near the river, but from the Saxon soc or liberty, which instead of signifying that the people here were unusually free, meant that the Bishop of Winchester had license to do whatever he liked to them. Nearly opposite this establishment are some new houses, and when their foundations were being laid, a Roman urn was found, sixteen feet beneath the ground.

Continuing our walk we made our way up the hill, now terraced and tastefully planted. Less than ten years ago it was covered with little garden allotments belonging to the citizens. On reaching the upper ground—a sort of down—a magnificent view opened over the whole of Winchester. We walked over to the south-east corner, and took up our position on a seat close to the iron fence. From there we could take a general survey. In a hollow about two miles to the east we saw the trees about Chilcombe; on the summit of the down due east was a clump of trees on St. Catherine’s hill; a square tower more to the north on the lower ground was that of St. Cross; from this approaching Winchester, first comes the college, then the old walls of Wolvesey, then the Cathedral, the best and most compact view of it. Nearly over the College on the top of the hill is the clump of firs on the site of Cromwell’s battery, looking lower than our position, but really being higher, and over the Cathedral is the long red brick front of Charles II.’s palace. Truly, we have here Winchester in a nutshell.

In a description of the prospect from this point, written a hundred and fifty years since, mention is made of the beautiful gardens, and in prints dated 1723 and 1736 we find that two-thirds of the space within the walls of Winchester were laid out for horticulture and adorned with large trees.

Passing over to the northern side of the down we came to a burial ground. The grave-digger told us that in the southern and older part of it, he was often obstructed by the foundations of the old chapel—that dedicated to St. Giles,[43] a hermit saint whose shrine is always outside mediÆval cities. Hard by, an old farm-house still exists called Palm Hall, a corruption of Pavilionis Aula—the tent used by the judges at the famous fair which was held here annually at the end of August. This fair extended round this point and southwards even down the slope and was the greatest but one in England. We find, in the Close Rolls, King John giving directions that wax, pepper, and cinnamon, should be here bought for him; and Henry III. (15) commands the sheriffs of Gloucestershire and Worcestershire to allow wares to be brought to this fair, and at another time orders that the barons (freemen?) should proceed to Winton with their merchandise, and not fear the hostility of the Earl of Salisbury.[44] Guards were placed as well as toll collectors upon the roads for seven leagues round, within which circuit and at Southampton no business was allowed. The right of holding the fair was granted by Rufus to Bishop Walkelin for three days in the year to assist him in building the Cathedral, and the time was gradually extended, till in Henry II.’s reign it lasted sixteen days. The Bishop had the jurisdiction, and the tolls went to the priory of St. Swithun, Hyde Abbey, and other places.

Now let us enter the fair. There is a palisading all round it and only two gates. It looks something between an industrial exhibition and a cattle show. Each kind of ware has a separate locality. Here is the “Draperie” and the “Pottery”—there is the “Spicery.” Here is the street of the “Flemings,” “Limoges,” and “Genoese,” and other nations. Even the Bishop has a stall. There are birds, apes, ferrets, and bears. Here are the dynamiters—dreadful name—very harmless people, vendors of brass pots. Moving among all these we picture to ourselves a number of foreign merchants in rich costumes, Jews in strange hats, the Bishop’s officials in gay liveries, and a crowd of hard-featured, bare-footed peasants.

At sunset the Marshal rides through the fair and orders all stalls to be closed. No one is to have any fire at night except a lamp or mortar. The justiciaries seem to have had some good privileges. They might enter at what day or hour they pleased into the city, and taste one by one all the casks of wine for sale there. They might also send their servants to take loaves from all the bakers and bring them to the pavilion. There they were weighed, and if short, woe betide the baker! his bread was forfeited, and he himself fined or put in the pillory. The tolls seemed heavy on fancy articles. A load of hay or corn was only ½d., and a cask of wine or a cart-load of fish or leather 4d., but an ape or falcon or bear was also 4d.

The fair continued down till about twenty years since. The neighbouring Magdalen or “Morn” fair lasted four years longer. Dean Kitchin writes: “As the city grew stronger and the fair weaker, it slid down St. Giles’ hill and entered the town where its noisy ghost still holds revel once a year.”

On the brow of St. Giles’ hill, Waltheof, Earl of Northumberland, was beheaded by order of the Conqueror. He had conspired with some other Saxons against the Norman invaders, and was betrayed by his wife—a niece of William’s.

At dawn he was conducted through the city from the Castle, “arrayed in all the badges of his earl’s rank.” After distributing memorial gifts to a few of his friends who accompanied him, he was engaged in prayer so long that the executioners became tired and told him to hasten. He then begged to be allowed to say the Lord’s prayer, but, being overcome and halting in the middle of it, the headsman would wait no longer and the axe fell. It was said that after his head was off it finished the sentence, “Deliver us from evil.” This probably was thought by those who were surprised to see the lips move, as they often do, after decapitation.[45]