THE CHARIOT OF THE SUN (continued 3)

He closed the instrument, and lying back in his chair, remained in thought. These three days had sprinkled his hair with silver, aged his strong face, added to the rough power of the man something of majesty, and there came into his eyes a light that had never shown until he knew the Queen. The vision of her arose before him now, her voice seemed to ring through the quiet room, and his heart went out to her in desire.

Who was he that he should dare to love this child of mail-clad Kings, this mighty Empress in whose august name the very skies were governed, and the sea, and realms and continents of men within the limits of the British Peace? He was a commoner, a tradesman, and yet no difference of rank or station, of wealth or power, eminence, faith, enlightenment, has ever set boundaries to human love. 'Tis the man and the woman who mate, not their condition. Had he not seen the evidence of love in Margaret's face? And to win her he must conquer the whole world.

But he was presently aroused from his enchantment. Already some one had knocked at the door unnoticed, and now, while with clasped hands he sat before the table, and with uplifted eyes gazed on his mental vision of the Queen, there was a visitor standing within the room. Dimly aware of some impending peril, Brand turned round to find a stranger bowing apologies, a gentleman in civilian dress, yet wearing a turban of banded green and gold, an Oriental, haughty, yet in some queer way, servile.

"You are Prince Ali?" he asked.

"At your service, yes."

"Escaped from the guard-room?"

Prince Ali put a bolder face on his intrusion, went to a chair by the wall, sat down and crossed his legs.

"Before you ring for my guards," he explained, "I have business with you."

Brand smiled at the man's audacity.

"Of course,"—his Highness lighted a cigarette—"you share our common sorrow at this grave crisis?"

"No, sir, we have nothing in common."

"I observe," the Prince laughed, "that the sea-eagle wastes few regrets over a panic of gulls."

"Am I to be one of your eagles, or one of your gulls, Prince Ali?"

"Of the gulls? No." He shrugged his shoulder. "You are King of the air, as I am of India!"

"I supposed," said Brand, gravely, "that her Majesty was Empress of India."

"Was Empress, yes. I see we understand one another."

"I think, my dear Prince, that I follow your meaning. So India finds her opportunity in this crisis? May I venture to ask if you speak on behalf of Russia?"

"I speak," said the other, haughtily, "for India. I speak for the India which has waited ever since 1857."

"For a repetition of the artillery salutes fired by the British in 1858?"

Ali's face darkened with sudden passion. "Your tact, Mr. Brand, is most English. Yes, I have the honour to speak for the India which has waited since the artillery salutes of 1858."

"And how am I to serve you?"

"I come, Mr. Brand, to the future Dictator of the world, not to ask favours, but to confer them."

"Indeed, you are too kind. Go on, sir."

"I must warn you first that Lyonesse has been captured."

"You don't say so."

"Also that all your ships are taken, save two which are homeward bound, and will be secured on their arrival. Your yacht has gone to the city to guard the ex-Queen. You are helpless in the hands of your enemies. I have come to save you."

"Indeed." Brand reached forward across the desk, and touched an electric bell. "How you escaped from the guard, I don't quite know," he said; "I have rung to inquire."

"Very good," Prince Ali laughed. "I was released and sent here by the Lord Protector's agent, the Duke of Gloucester."

"Really," said Brand, sarcastically; "any further revelations?"

"Yes. The price which Ulster pays for your body, the price he pays to Gloucester, is the throne—the throne of the Empire!"

"Anything more?"

"At all hazards I came to warn you of this trap, and you walk blindly into it. That bell condemns you to death! Quick,"—Prince Ali started to his feet—"there may be time. At the end of this corridor there's a door to the upper terrace—when your yacht comes back you can signal. I can save you yet!"

"Your price?"

"India."

"Sit down, Prince Ali, sit down, I say! Listen to me," said the master, "you first betrayed poor Ulster to the Russians. Then you betrayed the Queen by this intrigue. Now you would betray the Dictator to me—in order that you may betray your sovereign again, by seizing India. I may have lost my city, my lands and factories, my ships—all that I had, and be here, helpless, at Ulster's mercy."

He looked up at the windows with their loopholed barricades, swung round to face the door from which there was no escape, then turned on Ali of Haidar.

"By the living God, I swear," he cried, "that within a month I'll have you blown from your own guns at the gates of Delhi!"

Rising from his chair, he seized the aerograph and signalled to his yacht for instant succour.

"Die, then!" said the Prince; "here's the death of a dog for you!"

He clapped his hands as though in the Eastern manner calling a servant. Then the door swung open and Gloucester, Captain of the Guard, strode into the room.

He seemed astonished, this old, grizzled soldier—over-astonished.

"Trooper Ali!"

The trooper rose and saluted.

"Who let you out of the guard-room?"

The trooper turned his slow gaze on Brand, and Gloucester, following the direction of his eyes—

"Mr. Brand," he cried, "have you harboured this prisoner?"

Now, Brand was sitting with the aerograph upon his knee signalling rapidly for help. Gloucester's very presence was ignored by this commoner.

"Mr. Brand!" He spoke imperatively. "Mr. Brand!"

The master glanced up with one eye. "Well," he asked. "What's the matter with you?"

"You forget yourself!"

"Not at all. I observe that Prince Ali claps his hands to call a servant. The servant appears, and does well to stand awaiting my orders. You may go." Brand dearly loved a fight.

The Duke flushed scarlet. "Sir, you insult me!"

"If it is possible," said Brand. "Were you listening outside, or did you wear felt slippers? I should have heard you in that paved corridor."

The Duke struck Brand across the face. The American remained perfectly still in his seat, laughing slightly, but otherwise unmoved.

"Thank you," he said; "exactly what I wanted. Shall it be swords or revolvers?"

"This is ridiculous; I cannot stoop to fight a commoner."

"Your Royal Highness prefers to be publicly thrashed?"

"I am commandant of this fortress!"

"Of course," said the master, quietly; "so you struck the Queen's guest."

"You are my prisoner!"

"Well," Brand laughed, "that gets you off all right—don't have to fight when you're frightened."

The Duke was beside himself with rage. "Now you're trying to back out! You shall fight me, sir! You shall fight!"

Mr. Brand rose. "Then," he said, "name your weapons."

So Gloucester, instead of delivering Brand a prisoner to the Lord Protector, must give the delay and the courtesies of a duel.

But Prince Ali understood. "Allow me," he said graciously; "sir, as a witness to this quarrel, may I venture——"

"Well, what have you got to say?" Gloucester was on dangerous ground, and seeing the position, the American intervened. "Look here, gentlemen, this situation is too damned delicate for a plain man. What passes between her Majesty's Commandant and a prisoner charged with high treason—well, I'm not a party to the conversation—so I'm going to clear out."

Gloucester shrank back aghast, for he saw that he had been entrapped again by his antagonist.

"As Mr. Brand remarks," said Prince Ali, with a low bow, "we are both prisoners, and her Majesty's command is that we must be delivered to Lord Ulster."

Gloucester drew a deep breath of relief. "Sir,"—he faced Mr. Brand—"I shall be ready to meet you when you are free to fight. For the moment——"

He strode to the door, and gave a rapid command to his orderly, who was waiting in the corridor.

He turned back again into the room, leaving the door wide open.

"I have summoned the main guard," he said. "I shall deliver you prisoner to the Lord Protector."

At this moment a shadow darkened the room, the light no longer streamed through the loopholes of the barricades. One would have thought that a cloud had passed over the sun, but for a shrill whistle sounding without, and a heavy clang of steel.

"Call the main guard," said the American, derisively.

With a deafening crash the barricades which filled the window fell down in splintered masses to the floor. Outside lay the great steel hull of the Mary Rose, the doors in her side flung open, her gangway lowered upon the balcony. Upon the gangway were a company of sailors grounding a heavy beam, with which they had forced the window. An officer brought them to the salute with drawn cutlasses.

"Now, Duke," said Brand, "hand over your sword."

But even while he spoke there came a rush of men at the double, troopers of the guard, who presently formed up within the room.

"Surrender your yacht," cried Gloucester. "She is commanded with machine guns from every salient of the main front."

"At the first shot," said Brand, "I shall blow up every cartridge in the Palace, and explode every loaded gun. Call your Guardsmen to lay down their carbines, lest they be blown to pieces."

Gloucester laughed at the threat, but Trooper Lord Sydney stood forward at the salute.

"Sir, Mr. Brand speaks the truth. He released me from gaol by this mysterious power of the ship."

Through the silence which followed there came a burst of cheering, the noise of a multitude of people who were attending her Majesty from St. Paul's Cathedral.

"Your Royal Highness," said Brand; "you found me closeted with Prince Ali. You charge me with treason against our Lady?"

"Yes."

"To our Lady, and to her only, will I yield myself prisoner."

The Duke flushed at the generosity which saved him from exposure as Ulster's agent. He bowed in assent and remained silent.

"If a man moves without my consent," said the American, "I shall destroy the Palace. But you may send one messenger to the Queen."

A messenger was sent, who presently came to her Majesty, finding her hurt and angry that the main guard should not be in attendance to give her welcome.

But before she appeared, Mr. Brand walked to the gangway of the yacht and in a low voice bade her commander await further orders at Tower Hill. Turning, he came back to his place in the middle of the room.

Her Majesty stood in the doorway, and to her the Duke of Gloucester made his accusation against the Master of Lyonesse, telling how he had been found in privacy with Prince Ali of Haidar, and how he had resisted arrest until she came.

Mr. Brand walked with bowed head to the Queen, and kneeling upon one knee, looked up in her face.

"My Queen," he murmured, his voice inaudible to all but her. "I am plotting to outwit a deeper treachery. Let me be prisoner here with a trusted man to guard me until you can come to-night. Send overtures to Ulster, and promise to hand me over."

"How can I believe you?" said the Queen, but her speech lacked force. How could she even pretend to distrust Brand now!

"Oh, play the part," he whispered, "so much depends."

"You have deceived me, I cannot trust you." But her voice was only a murmur without force.

"Oh, be stronger, be stronger," he pleaded, seizing her hand.

"I will not hear another word," she cried.

"You shall, you shall." His voice rose high in supplication. "You must hear me before it is too late."

She drew back astonished, but could not find another word to say.

"Oh, be brave, little Queen," he whispered, passionately kissing her hand.

"Gloucester!" Margaret called across the room; "hold Mr. Brand a prisoner here in this room. Let nobody come near or speak to him. Put a trustworthy man here to guard him."

The Duke selected a man, his own orderly, but the Queen looked from face to face until she saw one that she fully trusted.

"Lancaster!"

Tom of Lancaster stood forward at the salute.

"I place you on guard," said the Queen.

Then Mr. Brand went over to Lord Sydney. "Gloucester is disloyal," he whispered, "guard the Queen."

Suddenly her Majesty gave a startled cry. "You said Prince Ali was here with Mr. Brand. Where is Prince Ali?"

Under cover of the general confusion Prince Ali had escaped from the Palace.

XIII THE QUEEN'S MESSENGER

Mr. Brand was seated at the office desk, his hands clasped before him as though in prayer. A sentry paced slowly up and down in the corridor, another trooper stood with carbine at support upon the balcony.

Presently Mr. Brand rose, and walked slowly across the room towards the window, whereupon his warder turned with a startled gesture. The prisoner saw that he was but a lad, shy and comely.

"Don't be uneasy," said Mr. Brand; "I give you my parole not to attempt escape."

"You'd better not," remarked the sentry; "I'd like the chance of a shot."

"Large game, eh?"

"Rather!"

"Don't you wish you were out there, fighting the rioters?"

"I don't fancy battues," drawled the trooper; "but you're game, and in season."

"The Palace seems quite unguarded now. All the troops are gone."

"Two squadrons of the Guard are quite enough," said the sentry, "even to hold John Brand."

"So you think I'm guilty."

"Yes, sir."

"Even before the trial?"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Brand. But if you are guilty I hope I'll be in the firing party."

"It is good," said the prisoner, gravely; "that the Queen has loyal men. If the Queen finds me guilty, I shall beg you may be one of the firing party."

"Thanks, awfully," said the sentry. "But if you don't mind, I shall get into trouble if I'm caught talking."

"One word more. May I know your name. In case——"

"Lancaster," said the sentry.

"Lancaster," muttered the prisoner, with a slight lift of one eyebrow as he turned back towards his chair.

"Would you like the window shut?"

"Thank you, sir," said Brand, and he fell to thinking.

Midnight was striking when he was suddenly aroused by the Queen's presence. The flutter of her draperies, the scent of roses, the sight of her swift grace caught at his senses. The piercing sweetness of her seized at his heart, arrested his breath—and then the touch of her hand upon his shoulder kept him from rising.

"Is it true?" she cried to him under her breath. "Is it true? Lord Sydney tells me that if you had stayed in your yacht, gathered your ships, fought the Fleet, hanged the Lord Protector——"

"And been a traitor, eh?" he continued, smiling.

"You could have conquered the world?"

"Yes, I suppose so." He rattled the handcuffs which bound his wrists, and laughed. "Of course I could—oh, any time these ten years past until I became the Queen's prisoner. Conquered the world? What was the good of that?"

"And you a prisoner!"

Hurriedly she unlocked the handcuffs and released him, then as he rose and stretched his cramped arms—

"You are my world," he laughed. "A woman's love is all the world to a man. Do you want the earth? I'll conquer that and lay it at your feet, if you'll only let me feel the touch of your hand again. And now you're angry! You were just as angry the first time we met, and the second time, and the third—you looked most glorious of all that third time! Warn Margaret of danger and she gets furious, the greater the peril the more royal her rage—the fighting blood all roused before I can speak of peril. What man ever had the courage of the Queen?"

"Oh!" she laughed, trying to rub away the sudden flush with her white fingers. "Everything's so different now. Tell me."

"The same rose, the same thorns—I daren't!"

"Oh, please tell me."

"There's treason inside the Palace."

"Oh, surely not!"

"The Lord Protector has bribed the Captain of the Guard."

"Gloucester? Impossible!"

"He has been offered the throne."

"Oh, think of what you are saying! My own dear cousin, my friend."

"He released Prince Ali, sent him to trap me into some avowal of treason. He was actually listening outside the door. He tried to hand me over to Ulster."

"And that's why I found the main guard here in this room. And Prince Ali's escape!" Margaret sank into a chair, her white lips drawn with pain. "Guilty," she murmured. "Guilty! Oh, thank God that you are not condemned to this throne. The lessons are so hard to learn—so hard! The Queen must never believe in anybody, she must never even have a friend, she must be all alone in the world. Yet,"—she looked with troubled eyes at his face—"I must believe in some one, or go mad. I cannot bear this solitude, this lonely state, this majesty of pain. I'm only a poor girl robbed of all I love."

His hand stole out and rested tenderly on hers. "Poor child," he whispered.

"Yes, I was wrong,"—her eyes were misty with tears. "Yes, I believe in you, dear friend. When you pray will you remember Margaret?"

Oh, Hands of God, deal with her tenderly! So we prayed for Margaret in those days, when Hands of white flame were burning the evil out of us all, guiding us towards the end. One must be brave to follow where God leads, patient to recognize Him in our agony, faithful to know that pain is the Gate of Heaven.

"I will remember Margaret," said Brand; "and if you need a friend, there is Sydney. You will trust Sydney?"

"Ulster's son!"

"Yes," he said, thinking aloud. "I doubt if there is another man now living who would come stainless through a trial like his. To save his country he sacrificed his own father, he threw away the reputation of his house, his personal self-respect, his wealth, his career, everything he valued, everything he hoped for. He struck the first blow to save the Empire—and I know how he counted the cost. The events of this time will never be forgotten while the earth lasts, and when our descendants want a new proverb of manhood, they'll swear by Sydney's honour."

"I'm glad to hear you speak like that," said Margaret.

"And when I am gone you'll depend on him for advice."

"When you have gone! You're not going to leave me!"

"Yes. Your only danger is that you shelter me. The people are on your side, and Ulster dare not attack you."

"He sent envoys to-day." The Queen looked down at her foot, which made little lines to and fro. "If I would only listen," she said, "to my loyal advisers, the slanders against him could be easily disproved. Public confidence would be restored. Parliament would cancel the Act of Deposition, and everything would be lovely, and please would I send Mr. Brand away."

"You promised to hand me over as I said?"

"Yes, as you said."

"You will be safe."

"But the Grand Duke Alexander has arrived. He's in the Palace now. Oh, I'm so frightened. Don't leave me to him!"

"Keep him in the Palace, Ulster will wait, hoping for the Russian Alliance. Russia will wait, hoping for the treaty. Keep them waiting, keep them expectant, but sign nothing, promise nothing, and fear nothing. I'm a prisoner for conspiracy with Prince Ali. I escape, but that's not the fault of the Queen. I make war with the Dictator, but he cannot blame the Queen."

"Oh, don't leave me! Don't desert me!"

"If I stay here much longer there's no hope left. Because I could not go out to fight him, he captured Lyonesse and all my ships. He'll have the yacht next."

"Take me away in the yacht."

"Then what becomes of the public confidence? The people would cry that you had deserted them; they would overwhelm the Government—then chaos! The Queen's place is here, setting an example of unflinching courage to all her people."

"But can't you capture the Dictator, and seize the Government now?"

"With one yacht?"

Margaret's eyes were dark with horror. "Too late!"

"Outside this room I am an outlaw and a fugitive, hunted like a wolf. I dare not even call my yacht lest the Queen should be compromised and attacked. I must go to Tower Hill and signal the Mary Rose."

"And you have lost everything in guarding me."

"What was there to fight for if the Queen were lost? I stayed until I could leave you secure. Now I must fight." He took the aerograph from the desk. "So far as I can see the Queen is safe, and yet—I will leave you this instrument. If ever you are in danger, release this key and touch it so—three sharp strokes repeated again and again. The signal shall be forwarded by my London agents, and the answer will be four double strokes."

"And you will come?"

"Instantly."

"Mr. Brand, I want to send Gloucester away. He's dangerous."

"Then have him closely watched. Enemies are invaluable, for their every movement is an index of danger to be overcome. Send Gloucester away, and at once the enemy is warned of your policy. That would be fatal."

"Forgive me, dear friend,"—Margaret hid her white face in her hands trying to stop the tears—"I have been such a coward while you are so brave! Yes, I will stay as a woman always must, while the men go out to fight."

"And after this," he said, wistfully; "knowing how weak I am for the Queen's defence, you will still depend on me, still trust me?"

She threw her head back, gazing upon him steadfastly for a minute, her eyes half closed.

"I must be a fool," she said, between tears and a terrible broken-hearted laughter. "You came to me and talked about things I don't understand, can't understand, don't want to understand. I only believe! I was an Empress, you were Mr. Brand—now you're the wind, and I'm a leaf in autumn. Trust you? Depend on you? Yes, I do!" Her face became radiant, her eyes full of light. "You serve me through disgrace and outlawry, you're ruined like I am, fallen, a broken man, and yet stronger, greater than ever, because nothing can frighten you. Don't look at me—your eyes fascinate me—I hardly know what I'm saying——" she reached out her arms to him. "I am become blind, led only by your eyes. Go and save England!"

The room was nearly dark, for only a small lamp burned dimly on the desk, but now a great red glare came in through the window space, and shone in flickering radiance on the wall. Out of the distance rose an awful murmur, the swelling volume of harsh-throated riot, the crackle of musketry, the shouts of men.

"Mr. Brand," said the Queen, "I dare not let you go. The streets are dangerous, you never could reach the Tower."

"I must go disguised."

"What disguise could save you? Ah, yes—I see—the officers of my Guard. They can go any where!"

"Give me a strong horse, Queen, and the uniform of an officer of the Guard."

"An officer can't ride, Mr. Brand, without an orderly."

"Give me that lad outside the window there. I like him."

"My cousin, the Duke of Lancaster," said the Queen. "You have chosen well. Bring him here, Mr. Brand."

The American crossed the room, opened the window, and summoned the sentry, who made his salute to the Queen.

"Tom," said our Lady, "do you love me?"

He knelt and kissed her hand. "Quick, Tom," said the Queen. "Order two horses, the best we have, and bring an officer's harness for Mr. Brand, use this,"—she gave him her signet ring. "Take brevet rank as subaltern, and if you live, I'll confirm it. Now run!"

His Royal Highness looked sideways at the American, then sideways at the Queen, then, with a malicious understanding chuckle, was gone like a flash.

The Queen sat thinking. "There is danger still," she said presently. "The destroyers are patrolling everywhere, and your yacht on her way to the Tower was chased by the Channel Fleet just come from Portsmouth. Instead of running, she rose up high, soaring miles into the air. The Fleet could not follow because no man could breathe up yonder. But they say the yacht must come down, so they have scattered out to watch. Must she come down?"

"Not till I want her."

"What are your plans?" she asked presently.

"To get the yacht," he answered, "bring the Fleet to terms, recapture Lyonesse, collect my squadron, find my Ministers of State, and weld them into a strong Cabinet. Then I hope to hang Ulster, seize the departments, set up the Queen's provisional Government, call a General Election, and declare war with the Allies. Meanwhile the Queen must keep our enemies amused."

"But if you die in the Queen's service?"

He laughed. "They'll throw my body into a ditch and cry, 'So perish all the Queen's enemies!'"

Turning to the table she wrote upon a slip of paper—

"The bearer is my Messenger. "Margaret R.I."

"Kneel," she said, gravely, and he bent his knee to the ground. "This is a token of our love and trust."

He glanced at the paper. "I can't take that, dear Queen. It might compromise you; it's too dangerous." He would have risen.

"No, don't get up yet."

The Duke of Lancaster had come in bearing a suit of armour and a cloak.

"Give me your sword, Tom."

The soldier bent his knee and presented the hilt.

"Now," she stood up waving the sword lightly above the master's head, "will you be my true knight?"

The master sank down on both knees, and lifted up his clasped hands.

"Rise," cried the Queen, striking the accolade on his shoulder. "You are too great for any poor titles or dignities of my chivalry, but be my friend, Mr. Brand, and put on the harness of my knights. Staunch champion," her voice broke, "true, loyal friend, there's nothing left for the Queen to do but pray. God save you this wild night, God save and keep you in this fearful war."

He kissed her outstretched hand. "Good-bye, my Queen."

"Good-bye, my champion. Good-bye until we meet in happier times."

And so she swept from the room, and the Guardsman in the corridor who followed at her signal saw that the Queen was crying.

Lancaster served Mr. Brand as squire, assisting him while he changed his civilian clothes for the gold harness and scarlet cloak of an officer of the Guard, the only dress which would give him even a moderate degree of safety in the streets of the town. Brand made not the least pretence to a military bearing, but he was an athlete in habit, and the harness fitted him well. He was thinking too intently to be awkward or self-conscious in disguise, and when at last the trooper brought a big, black stallion into the courtyard, he swung into the saddle with the ease of a horseman. The Prince was less suspicious at the sight of horsemanship.

"Now can you get me a strong lantern?"

Lord Lancaster ran into the Palace, and for a minute the master sat curbing the black stallion, who danced polka movements, uneasy at the delay.

Just before Lord Lancaster came back, a window opened far up in the courtyard wall. Then a white handkerchief fluttered softly down like a snowflake. The master rode forward and caught and fastened it to the front of his helmet.

"Are you ready, sir?" cried Lancaster.

"God save the Queen," said Brand, and they rode out under the archway.

The Queen's ring passed them through the gates, and breaking into a canter side by side, the horsemen swung round the east wing out into the Mall.

The clocks were striking two as they traversed the spacious avenue, now dark and silent.

"Do you still want to shoot me, sir?" asked Brand.

"Drop that 'sir'," answered the young Prince. "It sounds absurd from you. Call me Lancaster. Forget that nonsense I talked. She trusts you. That's good enough for me."

Abreast of Marlborough House the horses shied violently passing the body of a murdered woman. She lay in her white evening dress, her fair face streaked with blood, and the jewels had been wrenched from her hair and neck.

"That's Mrs. Osbourne," said the trooper, bending down; "I knew her, poor soul."

Just beyond stood her carriage, the chauffeur murdered in his seat, and close beside in the gutter lay some poor rioter who had ceased to starve.

They rode on in silence to the end of that moonlit solitude, and were passing the north edge of the Horse Guards Parade, still under the spell of horror, when a cloud passed across the moon.

"What's that?" cried Lancaster.

Brand looked up, relieved at any interruption to his thoughts. "Only a destroyer cruising—on patrol, I suppose, to keep order."

"Unless," said the trooper, "we're followed."

"An officer and a trooper of the Guard—nonsense!"

"Unless Prince Ali——"

"I see. He would warn the Government to expect my escape. So. This destroyer may think we're chasing Mr. Brand to Tower Hill."

"She's following, anyway."

"We'll have to call her presently to help us." The master laughed, drawing his cloak about him.

They were in Trafalgar Square now, skirting the edge of a crowd of starving trades unionists, who were easing their feelings with a Republican demonstration. London never dared to sleep in those first nights of the peril.

"I wonder," said the master, as they rode past, "will history blame me for that—thing—back there in the Mall?" His lips were quivering. "Will history make me the murderer?"

"That depends," answered Lancaster, "on what history has to tell of the war that's coming. I wouldn't like to be your ghost if the thing's a failure."

"And if it succeeds, Lancaster, will they make a picture of me among the conquerors, with Alexander, Semiramis, Tamerlane, the Mogul, Napoleon—riding through a lane of stark corpses, and millions and millions of the accusing dead?"

"Wouldn't you rather be there than in a procession to the gallows?"

"I'd rather have the gallows, Lancaster."

The Strand was in darkness, and every theatre was closed. Here and there stood cars, derelict because the drivers had struck. The public houses had been closed by order. Only the churches were open, for although they could not be lighted, great congregations gathered in these nights, for rest and consolation. Indeed, for that relief, even delicate women and children were willing to leave their lightless, desolate homes, and face the risk of being robbed or murdered in the by-ways.

The police patrolled in companies, while now and again came the tramp of marching men, volunteers or special constables, called out to confront some distant riot; but no man went abroad unarmed, and few women except under escort. There were not less than forty thousand criminals at large in London, furtive as yet, rather than violent, stealing enough food to prosper, while daily the desperation of the poor added to their numbers, and their leaders grew more powerful and more reckless.

In silence Brand and Lancaster rode on, turning now and again to watch the aerial destroyer, which, beating to and fro in short slants, was evidently keeping watch on their movements. The moon caught her gleaming aeroplanes at every ratch. At any moment she might call out with a request for instructions. Perhaps some doubt restrained her lest these men were not Guardsmen, but fugitives despite their horses and their harness. But, however carefully she might have watched for the master of Lyonesse, however certain it might be that he would head for a rendezvous with the yacht, a mistake would endanger the new compact between Queen and Government. Her Majesty's gentlemen of the Guard could not be insulted with impunity.

"Shall we gallop?" asked Lancaster.

"No, slower if anything or they'll think we're running away."

So reining to a trot, they went along the Fleet Viaduct, with a passing glance at some sudden riot running wild down in Farringdon Street. They skirted the south side of St. Paul's, and traversed Cannon Street. But then, instead of turning off towards London Bridge, they plunged down the hill by the Monument into the cobbled alley of Lower Thames Street. The destroyer must have seen that they were actually bound for the Tower, for now she whistled thrice.

"They think we're chasing Brand!" cried Lancaster, and waving his arm signalled the destroyer to follow.

Ahead by the Billingsgate Market lay a fish van overturned, entirely blocking the thoroughfares. So they plunged up hill among lanes and alleys, passing over the body of a murdered policeman, until they emerged by an old church where the congregation was singing the Litany, and came out upon the open space of Tower Hill.

"Give me the lantern," said Brand, as they swept down towards the Tower Gate at a gallop. "I'm going to signal my yacht."

"Then the destroyer will fire—she's close behind!"

"We must take the risk."

He drew rein, and flashed the strong light thrice across the sky.

The destroyer fired a warning shot, but again Mr. Brand flashed the signal, and presently yet again.

"By George!" muttered Lancaster. "We're done for now!"

"Lancaster," said the master, "is there any officer of the Guard at all like me in appearance?"

"There's Captain Talbot, his gear exactly fits you."

"Good. The destroyer will steer close down now. Ride up to her, say Captain Talbot sends you, that Brand's at the Palace, and we've used his secret signal to lure the yacht. The destroyer's to wait out of sight until Captain Talbot gives orders to attack."

The trooper dashed away up the slope.

"When I raise my hand," the master shouted after him, "ride straight for my yacht."

The warship was slanting down, she sheered barely clear of the housetops, and then hung poised above the trees by the Tower moat.

And now drawing rein after a furious gallop, the trooper faced the suspended warship, so close that his horse reared up in terror.

"Captain Talbot's compliments," he yelled. "Help us to capture Brand's yacht. Lie low and wait!"

"Where's Mr. Brand?" cried the destroyer circling round the terrified horse like an eagle round a mosquito, the faintest airs from the river just whispering under her aeroplanes, and barely strong enough to give her steerage way.

"Brand is in chains at the Palace!" the trooper yelled so that his voice broke in a wail. "Lie low and help us, we're luring the yacht down with Brand's private signal. Captain Talbot will give the order to fire!"

But now the destroyer was so low between the buildings that she lost the air and grounded. It would take her three minutes to rise clear again from the earth, and meanwhile she lay helpless on her keel springs.

"Can't you put out those lights?" yelled the trooper. He was jubilant, for he had put the destroyer out of action.

Nobody knows what the destroyer thought, back there behind the trees of the moat enclosure, but the Captain of the Mary Rose spoke afterwards as to the descent of the yacht. She had been at a height of five miles in the air when the electric lantern flashed the summons upwards. At the signal she simply dropped like a stone. The air roared round her like the deepening blast of a furnace; the friction of the wind was actually making her sides red hot when she slowed to a speed of ninety miles an hour.

She saw the lurking destroyer, she saw the whole starboard division of the British Fleet swoop down out of the north, and knew that not a ship would care to fire for fear of a resulting explosion which would wreck the Tower of London.

She saw the solitary horseman flashing the lantern signal again and again. She knew that she might be trapped to destruction, yet grudged the brakes which in the last two miles of air must be clapped on full to prevent her being dashed to pieces on Tower Hill. Down she fell like a meteor out of heaven, slowed, jarred her brake, jumped on the sharp recoil a hundred feet, then gently lowered her torpedo-shaped steel hull until with a feathery lightness she touched the pavement, and sent her drawbridge gangway clanging down.

Already the destroyer, alert for action, rose from behind the trees, flashed out her vivid searchlight upon the yacht, and in that glare confirmed her worst suspicions. His golden harness glowing, his black horse rearing and fighting the air, Brand lifted his arm as though to stay the destroyer's fire from blasting him.

Lancaster, obedient to the signal, spurred down the hill at full gallop. He reached the gangway, charged straight up the slope, and crouching down rode in through the open port.

Even before the master could follow, the destroyer lashed out with her machine guns.

For a moment the yacht was lost to sight in a cloud of fire and steel, but in the very midst of it, Lancaster ran down the slope of the gangway, wrenched Brand from under his dying horse, and dragged him back into shelter. As the yacht's gangway crashed home the destroyer passed overhead launching torpedoes.

The Mary Rose swung as she lifted, crashing right through the destroyer's fragile hull. The magazine exploded into the great hydrogen cylinder above; but Brand's yacht went on unscathed through a sphere of flame, on into space, with wreckage and mangled bodies streaming behind her.

XIV THE STORY OF THE SHIPS

It is time now to tell the story of the ships, the genealogy of the Mary Rose, the secret of Brand's aerial wars, and how the great outlaw gained command of the air.

Down through the ages sweeps that Pageant of the Ships, with oar, sail, steam, electric, etheric power, cleaving the centuries since the world was young.

First come the oared Long Ships, the slave-manned galleys, the argosies of the Phoenicians, the Greeks, of Carthage, Rome, Byzantium, of Barbary, Norway, Venice, Genoa, Spain. They are human-wielded, sea-compelling engines.

Then come the Great Ships, the device of Henry VIII. They shattered the galleons of Spain, they wrecked the Dutch Republic, destroyed the Empire of France, gave Britain the command of the sea. They explored the planet, they created the greater commerce. They come under sail, they need no slave-engines, these white-winged servants of the winds, winged conquerors of all seas.

Then come the iron ships which laid the cables, peopled the lands, and narrowed down the world into a house for man; the steel ships, smoke-maned conquerors of both wind and sea, not man-driven galleys, but steam-driven carriers, racing cities, and cruising fortresses.

They drove the white sails from the face of the sea, drove them to refuge in the skies. And so sweeps the majestic pageant of the ships into the golden age of seamanship. "There shall be no more sea," for man has taken wings to cleave the air. Poised on broad aeroplanes, alive with power flashed to them through space, the aerial battleships have claimed the very pathways of the eagles. Rolling down the cloud-seas come the snow-white, glittering giants of the electric age, England's dread Channel Fleet, surely the last supreme achievement of mankind.

And far aloft, attended by white cirrii, hangs one small star-like speck in the blue zenith, an unarmed private yacht offering to meet the entire navy of Britain and all the fleets of Europe in single combat.

There is a legend of John Brand I., that wandering on the moors by the Lands End, he came upon a dark and silent pool. Being in an idle mood he sat beside the bank throwing pebbles, and watched the little ripples spread away over still water. So the thought came to him of those small innumerable waves which constantly spread away from the earth's centre, the waves of gravitation.

Thinking profoundly he took a pebble in his hand. What mighty chord of the celestial music thrilled in that stone pulling it down to the earth? What was its chord of mass—how many millions of waves to the second? Perhaps a million vibrations.

Suppose then he made an engine which would sound that note exactly. The stone would fall off the planet, be whirled into space!

Could he build a ship to carry such an engine, strike the great chord, and hurl the vessel off among the stars? Could he arrest its flight, create the ship into a planet, free from the earth, and driven at his will within the limits of the atmosphere?

A pebble thrown into still waters, a thought thrown from Heaven into a clear mind, and ripples spreading down through history! We all know how Brand I. built the etheric ship, fighting his way through the long silent years of galling poverty and majestic thought. He was a lad when he threw the pebble, an old man when he set the engines in motion, sounded the chord of mass at last, lifted the ship from the earth—then failed to arrest its motion. In that strange sepulchre his body rests, wandering down the starways, lost in the depths of space, lighted by blazing suns, threading the constellations for ever and ever.

John Brand II., the builder of Lyonesse, was more daring than his father, and always more practical. His etheric ship, Mars, was brought under perfect control, and with Lock's propellor developed undreamed-of speed.

The Mars had a quality of attracting dust, drawing raindrops after her, and even small birds. Pebbles thrown from her port-holes would not fall, but followed in the wake as satellites. Her compass needle pointed fore and aft indifferent to the magnetism of the earth. About her hull strange wandering fires flickered and gleamed at night, and in the cloud-fields as she passed above them, dull thunders muttered, with tremulous lightnings.

It was an attempt upon his life by anarchists which drove Mr. Brand II. to the idea of defence. Like the stone spreading ripples on still waters, his engines of the Mars could send out waves into the ether. He surrounded the ship with a small sphere of electric ripples, and high explosives are so sensitive to these vibrations that no shell or torpedo could enter this field of tension without being instantly disturbed. So the Mars was clothed with an electric armour, and the steel planet became invulnerable. And she could attack, projecting her electric waves ten miles through space to explode the cartridges carried by hostile troops, the ammunition of attacking field guns, the magazines of fortresses and ships.

John Brand II. sent out his fleet as he sent out his gold to serve mankind in the quiet channels of commerce. The engineers and captains of Lyonesse grew old in his service, and never knew the secret of the ships, their fearful powers as applied to war. John Brand III. reigned in his father's stead, and still the planets served as merchantmen, and the lightnings slept in their engines. No man had ever seen etheric power in action, no man, save Brand, could wield the destroying flame. And now the Channel Fleet had ordered him to surrender.

His planet of forged steel lay resting. Ice glistened on her flanks from frosty sprays of cirrii streaming past her. Beneath were the labouring battleships, the white seas of cloud, and the newly risen sun blazed red in the east. Above her the stars in millions thronged the black deeps of Heaven.

A message flashed down to the flagship instruments. "Come up and fight me," said the Mary Rose.

The flagship answered angrily—"Come down!"

No man on an open deck could breathe the atmosphere up yonder where that steel fleck hung in the blue of Heaven, no aeroplanes could find supporting air, no gun could be discharged, no missile fired—and who could dare the awful cold of Space!

"I will come down," said the Mary Rose.

Like a meteor she fell until she touched the surf of the white cloud sea, and there lay gently rolling, half submerged, a spindle-shaped bolt of lustrous pearly grey, almost invisible. Every available weapon in the Fleet was trained upon her broadside. She sent another message by aerial telegraph to the flagship.

"I have led you out over the Channel so that no harm can be done by a rain of shells. To make myself a better target I shall come within point-blank range." The yacht took up a new position. "Fire!"

"I give you a minute to surrender," replied the flagship. "Is there any need for bloodshed? Yield, or I must sink you."

"Thanks. I am in perfect safety. Fire!"

A ten-inch projectile launched from the flagship exploded midway upon its course.

"Try a torpedo," said the yacht.

The weapon which would have destroyed a town flew out from the flagship's bows, and was scarcely clear of the fleet before it was blown to pieces.

Then the whole fleet attacked, and for some minutes the yacht was lost to sight in the red hurricane of bursting shells. When the air cleared, the echoes still thundered among the clouds, and the yacht rolled violently on huge waves of air.

No fortress on earth could have outlived that close bombardment, yet she existed still, and ruthfully the Admiral sent word asking if there were any survivors.

"I am coming," said the yacht, "to take position alongside the flagship. I intend no hostile action, but if a single shot is fired, in self-defence I shall destroy the Fleet."

In bitter humiliation the Admiral waited, standing in the icy wind on the deck of his flagship. Never before had a British Fleet been captured, never one of our admirals humbled to the point of surrender, and death would have been easier to meet.

This steel thunderbolt could outstrip the swiftest cruisers then afloat, could ram the fragile aerial battleships, and was herself impregnable. The Fleet was at her mercy, and the navies of the world were obsolete.

She advanced quite slowly, swung on her own length, lay alongside of the Devastation, and flung her gangway on the quarter-deck.

Then came Brand's messenger, a prince of the blood royal, the Duke of Lancaster, clothed in the Queen's armour, bearing her Majesty's signet, claiming no victory, enforcing no indignities, but with a salute to the white ensign, and a salute to the Admiral of the Fleet, paying the honours of war to a fallen power.

At the gangway Brand made the Admiral welcome.

* * * * *

A tremor went through the Mary Rose as on the Admiral's departure the starboard gangway clanged home against her side.

Brand entered the conning tower. "Stand by," he said. "Dead slow—five to starboard—ahead."

"All clear, sir," answered Captain Simpson, his hands on the levers.

"Steady! Rise."

The yacht rose gently, while the Channel Fleet fell away beneath her. Brand sat down in the chair beside the Captain, watching the indicator until the needle gauged thirty thousand feet.

"Way enough," he said. "Quarter speed ahead, west by north, half north."

"West by north, half north."

"Full speed ahead."

"Full speed it is." Captain Simpson leaned back with a sigh of relief, then glanced up sideways at the master's face.

"Light your pipe," said Brand.

"Thank you, sir—Great Death! you thrashed the Fleet!"

"I've done more," the master sighed. "I've broken a man's heart. Poor Rothschild!"

"Was that the Jew admiral?"

"A great gentleman," said Brand. "Are you sure, Simpson, that you can remember that formula for explosives?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell your ship's company that I don't ask them to face war risks on peace wages. The pay and pension rates are doubled from the first of this month." The captain started to his feet. "There, go away and take an hour's rest."

The captain grabbed Brand's shoulder from behind. "A warning, sir. The Dictator tried to bribe me, and he's bought nearly all your skippers. Don't let them know that new formula."

Brand turned round and shook hands with him.

"Get below," he said, "and, by the way, tell somebody to ask His Royal Highness to join me here."

The captain rolled away down the ladder. "Thrashed the Fleet," he muttered, "thrashed the whole Fleet! Great Death!"

Brand was alone now, and for some minutes paced restlessly the small domed room with its glass vault and walls. The sun was high in the black, star-strewn heavens, the cloud-sea vanished into the heat of the day. Beneath rolled the blue Channel, and on either side the land went up to meet an immense horizon. Broad on the port beam lay the coast of France, beyond on the port bow the wide Atlantic loomed. There on the starboard side was the English land from Beachy Head, faint glimmering in the east, even to the Start in far-off Devonshire. At his very feet lay the green Isle of Wight masking a skein of intricate blue waters. There was Portsmouth, yonder Southampton, and northward Salisbury and Winchester, a score of cities, a thousand villages and farmsteads, where as the green melted away to blue, range beyond range of gently rolling downs, mist upon mist of exquisite rounded hills, up to the very stars of eternal night. And all the land must perish if he failed!

Someone was coming up the ladder, and presently Brand, turning away from the glass, encountered Lancaster.

The Prince saluted him, but Brand came forward, laying both hands upon his shoulders.

"My boy," he said, "where would you like to land?"

"Where you land, sir."

"I'd like to be sure of your safety, Lancaster, and I want to put you ashore."

"I'll see you damned first!"

Brand looked into his keen, fresh, comely face.

"You're most wonderfully like her," he said, absently; "and there's no bending her. I suppose you'll stay whether I like it or not. I've got to recapture Lyonesse."

"I want to see the game."

"Lancaster, you know my three big passenger boats?"

"The Coronation, Grace à Dieu, and Gigantic? Yes, of course. I came from New York in the Gigantic once—did it in sixteen hours. Why, there's room for this yacht in her after-cabin."

"The Gigantic was in dock when Lyonesse was captured; but Admiral Rothschild tells me that she is afloat since yesterday, guarding the town against me. She is in charge of a naval officer, with orders to ram at sight."

"But you thrashed the Imperial Navy!"

"The Gigantic carries no explosives. So far as I see, I can't ram her, I can't blow her up, and she's so swift that I can't even run away. I've decided to set every man ashore who is not absolutely needed. Lancaster, you must go."

"Sir," answered Lancaster, hotly, "I'm here for the Queen, and I refuse to land."

"As you will."

A few minutes later the Mary Rose set all her idlers ashore in Devonshire. When she took flight again Brand and his captain returned to their seats in the conning-tower, and Lancaster stood behind them, with a life line to steady him during the coming fight. Together they watched the narrowing land beneath, as Cornwall tapered westward between the seas.

No clouds sailed in the clear sky to mask an attack.

"Wait for the night, sir," ventured Captain Simpson.

"Until the Gigantic is warned."

"You're right, sir. Could you move down with the sun behind you? The yacht would be difficult to see."

"This cupola would shine against the sun. I wish we could make ourselves invisible."

"I think," he added, "the Gigantic will be lying with her head towards London, and if we keep on this course her look-out can't fail to sight us. That would be awkward, so put her hard a-port, and set her course nor'-west."

The yacht swung rapidly and steadied.

"Nor'-west it is, sir."

"We'll come down from the north," said Brand; "we should sight her broadside at thirty or forty miles."

"Good," cried the captain, "she'll hardly see us at five miles."

Not a word more was spoken until the coast of Ireland loomed ahead.

"Hard a-starboard."

"Aye, aye, sir."

The yacht heeled over as she swung.

"South!"

The yacht came to an even keel, swung a point or two back, and steadied.

"South it is."

Far up against the sun a distant film of land blurred the horizon.

"Starboard a little; a little more; keep her at that."

Brand shipped a powerful telescope on slings and focussed the Lands End. There in a trembling mirage the granite city lay, the long glass roofs of her factories gleaming like silver scales.

"Half speed," he murmured; then, as the vessel steadied: "There's the Gigantic—broadside on—starboard a very little—too much—so. Keep her at that. She must be very low down—scarcely a mile above the roofs. She'll see us against the sky, so drop to ten thousand feet, Mr. Simpson."

The Mary Rose fell for a minute or so.

"Ten thousand, sir."

"Drop another mile—there—she's below the horizon now. Full speed ahead."

The sough of the dense air against the yacht's hull rose to a deafening roar. The heat in the cupola became intense, and had to be modified with a spray of liquid air. Brand returned to the telescope.

"There she is," he shouted. "I'll try to ram her propeller—watch my hand and steer as I beckon—she hasn't sighted us—couple on the auxiliary engines—all the speed you've got. Her hull makes such a blinding glare in the sun—I can scarcely see. Rise one hundred feet—ten more feet—stand by to ram—five down—she's moving! Starboard! Starboard! She's turning to ram—starboard more—more—more! Missed, by God!

Brand dashed across to the after windows. "Rise!" he yelled. "Rise, full speed—she's after us—she's charging! Back of all! Guns, Simpson! Guns! The lunatic has guns! Some Navy duffer has mounted heavy artillery. Back full speed, she's on us——"

Brand threw himself across the instrument table, set the formula for explosives, banged down the key, flashed out the electric waves for high explosives. Her red-hot bows cleaving the hurricane, the Gigantic came roaring down full on the broadside, flame streaming from her guns, shells bursting. Her ram was within a hundred yards, within fifty, the yacht, struck by the bow waves, fell reeling over on her beam ends, lost in a cloud of blazing scarlet light, crushed down by enormous jagged wreckage of steel.

Then she righted, rolling violently, alone in heaven, while far down through space fell incandescent fragments of the lost Gigantic, destroyed by her own magazines.

XV CAST OUT OF HEAVEN

Lyonesse had been in a state of trance, her factories silent, her house-fronts barricaded, her streets deserted, save for marching troops, and the grim shadows of patrolling warships.

Then at noon on the fourth day of the Terror, the white-hot wreck of the Gigantic whirled down upon the fields beyond Penzance; and Brand's orders flashed from the heavens commanding Lord Ulster's squadron to surrender, his troops to evacuate the city. The Mary Rose had defeated the Channel Fleet, had destroyed the Gigantic, was descending now in vengeance, while no man saw as yet that the little yacht ran blood upon her decks, and barely held the tenure of the air. The squadron fled in disorder, the regiments broke and scattered, the officials hid themselves, and the master came to his own. The Mary Rose piteously broken, her engines hardly alive, and half her crew slain or disabled, rolled slowly homeward, and fell at the doors of Brand's office, never to rise again. One may see the shattered hulk to-day resting with all her stains of blood and her wounds of battle in the splendid chamber of gold and marble which bears the legend of her victories.

Thousands of people gathered to welcome the master, but when he came down the gangway they forebore to cheer. He still wore the golden harness, but now it was stained and torn, his face was streaming with blood, his eyes were terrible. Simpson had a broken arm roughly bound, Lancaster an ugly wound across the shoulder. The master asked if there were any surgeons present, and two who came forward were sent on board the yacht. Then, through a lane of men standing uncovered in silence, Brand went on to the doors of his office, while Lancaster and Simpson returned to help with the wounded.

With the master's presence at once every nerve of the city thrilled to life, for as message after message went out to the chiefs of departments, electric yachts swarmed into the air, the streets were thronged, the tramcars started, and, Sunday as it was, banks, offices, and shops took down their shutters. The factories went to work with three eight-hour shifts at double wages, and never was there known such a fever of haste in the dockyards.

From St. Ives to Penzance earthworks were thrown up in defence, and all explosives were removed to mine the approaches of the city. Indeed, there was cause. The yards were a mass of ruins where no less than twenty etheric liners had been blown to pieces by the Government troops. Eighty-five ships of Brand's fleet were lying in various cities throughout the world, their crews in prison, and many of their engines disabled. There remained half a dozen old vessels worth patching up for service, and these rang night and day with preparation.

On the first day, late in the evening, the cargo ship Lion came in from Ballarat, and Captain Simpson took command of her in attendance upon the master. So came the evening of the 18th of June, 1980, the sixth day of the Terror.

In our National Portrait Gallery all the pictures have golden frames except one. Please come and see that painting framed in iron—"To the memory of Sarah Brand."

A woman, forty years of age, massively built, and of unusual stature, she stands in a deep shadow draped with heavy folds of violet cloth, her robe lashed at the breast with a chain of barbaric gold. She is crowned with an unruly mane of harsh red hair. Her eyes are pale blue, of startling brilliancy, her features of rugged, almost savage, strength. So was she in her life, and only her brother knew the deeds of mercy which she never avowed, the fierce love which found its expression in wrath, the burning passions only revealed in harshness, the mighty angel hid in the rough prison of her body.

She had built that granite cottage on the Tol Pedn cliffs, where the Atlantic storms thundered against her walls; and there she ruled with an iron discipline, keeping her chambers relentlessly bare and clean. There on the sixth night of the Terror she entertained her brother's guests at a dinner of Spartan severity, given in honour of Brand's new Government.

"Sir," she said to Lancaster, "you take the head of the table. You represent her Majesty to-night, so my Lord Bishop of London sits on your right as Chancellor of the Empire, and his Grace of Clydesdale on your left as Foreign Minister."

So she placed the guests in order of their dignity. General Lord Fortescue, V.C., as Minister for War, the Earl of Rothschild as First Lord of the Admiralty, the Lords Commissioners for Canada, Australasia, Africa, the Secretaries for India and the Treasury, and the President of the Board of Trade.

"Jack O'Brien," she said to the last, "you and I will share the foot of the table."

Mr. O'Brien, President of the United Trades Unions, whose presence was resented by the rest, sat down at the humblest place in obvious triumph.

"But surely, Mistress Brand," he said, "where's the master?"

"My lords and gentlemen," said Sarah Brand, "my brother asks for no place at the table of the Imperial Council. He will wait upon you afterwards. Bishop, will you say grace?"

A murmur of astonishment went round the table, and the Ministers, doubtful until then, lest they be lifting a Dictator to the throne, saw clearly that the master did them honour. So was the absence of the host—late for dinner—construed not as an insult to his guests, but as the greatest compliment he could pay them.

The Ministers had been in council all day long, now they talked anything but politics, nor, after our Lady's health was drunk, would they consent to the absence of Mistress Brand.

"We have, indeed, no business left to discuss," said the Bishop, cheerfully. "Everything is settled."

"There's only one thing you've all forgotten," answered the hostess, smoothing her turbulent red hair, as she glanced from face to face. "You left out Ulster."

"My dear Miss Brand," said Clydesdale, "we've laid that ghost."

"He's not dead yet,"—the woman's eyes were kindling. "John never supposed he would dare to defy Lyonesse, or make himself Dictator, or depose the poor little Queen. You don't know what a man you're dealing with. Do you suppose he'll sit down meekly now?"

"Sure," cried O'Brien, "he could stuff all his meekness into one back tooth."

"You mark my words," said Mistress Sarah, gravely. "His Meekness has fangs in him yet, and if I know him, he will strike to-night."

"Not if I'm dentist," said Brand of Lyonesse. He stood in the curtained doorway deadly pale, and, by reason of throbbing, insistent wounds a bandage about his head. To-night in token of service he wore again the splendid golden harness of the Guard.

"I ask your forgiveness, gentlemen," he murmured.

"Give him some wine!" cried Fortescue, "he's fainting!"

"Wine," said the master, as reeling to the table he splashed champagne into a glass. "Yes, drink with me to our Lady Margaret, the Queen!"

He swallowed the draught of wine, and gaining strength stood presently erect.

"Yes!" He flung the glass shattering to the floor. "So ends Ulster to-morrow, and so perish all her enemies!"

He fell into a seat beside the table.

"I'm not very well," he explained; "my doctor's at his wits' end. Poor Boyes believes he can't keep me going another hour. Let me see,"—he was looking down at the table, his eyes half closed, trying to piece the words together—"I have a report to make; yes, it's about the ships.

"The Lion first, she's on guard. Two more are ready in the yards—old crocks, but they'll do to defend our base. I have good news. The—what's her name—I can't remember her name—brand-new ship of 25,700 tons under arrest at Glasgow, crew in gaol, ah, yes, the Golden Hind. It seems her people have broken out of gaol, captured the ship—left Glasgow heading south—coming to help. She hasn't reported to me yet—but she ought to have before now. That makes two ships to defend the base, with the Lion and the Golden Hind to fight. With these we can recapture ships enough to overthrow our Lady's enemies. Am I talking sense? I must be a little delirious. Here's a list of the ships to be recaptured. I forgot to bring the list."

He held his forehead now with both hands, and his eyes strayed until they fastened on Lancaster.

"How's your shoulder, lad? It hurts, eh? Will you be able to command the Lion to-morrow? And you, my dear Lord Rothschild? And you, Lord Fortescue? Will you command the ships? The captains I trusted have been betraying me, all except Ross of the Golden Hind and Simpson, commanding the Lion, but he's wounded.

"Thank God there'll be no more Gigantic to fight. The glass of the cupola shattered about our heads, and the cold broke in, and the yacht was rolling over and over, eh, Lancaster? But tomorrow, the conquest of England!

"I know! I know!" The master spoke fretfully. "I'm hardly fit to serve her. My Lords,"—he looked round hazily towards his sister—"my Lords, you must take command—you must save Margaret, my Queen. Tell her, my Lords, that the Chariot—the Chariot of the Sun—has—has fallen. Tell her I tried—tried——"

He rolled out of his chair insensible.

The men were crowding about him to advise, to ask for assistance, to help.

"Back! Back!" cried the woman. "He's mine! He's mine, I tell you!" Her hands wrenched at the gorget of his mailed tunic, she released the pressure on his throat, she bathed his head, all the time crying angrily at the men—"Get away—off with you, out of my house, get to your yachts, bring the list of the ships from his office. Bring the Imperial Fleet to guard him until he can light. Stay, you! My Lord Lancaster, quick, cut away this chain-mail. Are they all gone?" Staggering to her feet, she called after Jack O'Brien. "Your yacht, sir, bring Dr. Boyes—965, George Street. You, Lord Clydesdale, telephone Boyes to be ready."

They laid the master on the bench in the window and when nothing more could be done, waited with what patience they might, Lancaster on his knees, fanning the still white face, Mistress Brand seated at the head of the table against a galaxy of electric lamps. Beyond the broad frame of the open window glowed sea and sky in one great sphere of moonlight glory, and at times the perfume of seaweed came in on the salt cool air.

From time to time she plied the bandages about her brother's head with ice-cold water; and always, clutched in the death-like rigour of Brand's left hand, the aerograph clicked message after message. Presently above the low murmur of the pulsing sea, the tireless instrument sounded insistent signals, so that the woman's quick brain began to take in the words flashed down by Captain Simpson from the Lion.

"Sorry to trouble you, sir. I'm getting anxious about the Golden Hind. She ought to be here ninety minutes ago. I asked the towns on her route, and she's not been seen either from Douglas, from Holyhead, or from Pembroke. Manchester reported a first-class etheric liner passing at 10 p.m. on the way to London. I asked the London office, and find she was lying directly over Whitehall at 11 o'clock, then headed for the west. I fear that Ulster's up to some new treachery. More news, sir—first-class etheric liner sighted from Salisbury heading for Lyonesse."

Wrenching the aerograph from her brother's hand, Mistress Sarah gave the signal "continue."

"Glad you read me, sir, my broken arm makes it hard to signal."

Mistress Sarah, little used to the instrument, spelled out an order slowly.

"Call up the Golden Hind."

There was a long pause before the aerograph stirred again.

"No reply, sir. Exeter reports the Golden Hind. She will be here in half an hour."

A servant announced Dr. Boyes.

"Doctor, come here,"—the woman spoke in low, even tones. "My brother is in danger—wake him for me."

The physician, a strong, swart man of fifty, without one word of answer, drew a chair to the master's side, and fell to instant study of the case.

Ten minutes passed while the sea crooned, beat upon slow beat of her everlasting music under the cliffs; and the clock against the wall throbbed out the seconds.

Lancaster answered the doctor's whispered questions, and the woman sat rigid by the table where glowing heaps of fruit, strewn lilies, and cut glass cast their reflections on black polished oak.

The ticking of the clock became so unbearable that at last Mistress Sarah, in feverish irritation, swept across the room, wrenched it down from the wall, and threw it out of the window. The thing fell and fell, but there was no answering from the sea, which still by beat and beat crooned the slow song of times past and present and to come, eternity unto eternity.

"Mistress Brand," said the doctor; "if this man sleeps he will live—if he wakes he dies."

"Would he wake if I moved him?"

"No—nothing would wake him short of an electric battery."

The aerograph began to speak again.

"What shall I do, sir?"

"Destroy the Golden Hind," clicked the slow signals.

"You must be ill, sir," flashed the swift reply. "Remember her power, her size, her speed. The Lion can neither fight nor run."

"Mr. Brand is unconscious. I am Miss Brand. Come down—rescue the master. He'll be captured—quick."

"Madam, it's too late. I should be caught aground. I must fight the Golden Hind. It will give you time to get the master away."

"How can you fight?"

"With the formula for explosives, and if she has none on board, I'll try the ram. Get the master away."

"Where are you?"

"Seven miles directly overhead. For Heaven's sake, be quick."

"He's right," said Mistress Sarah aloud. "Dr. Boyes, within ten minutes this house will be attacked and my brother captured unless I can get him away. There's only one place safe from treachery. Under this window the cliff falls straight to the sea, but fifty feet down there is a narrow ledge. From that ledge there are steps cut down to my brother's bathing place. He uses a knotted rope to reach the ledge. I'm going to lower him down."

"That I forbid," said Dr. Boyes. "It's almost certain death."

"To stay here is certain capture. He'd rather die."

Then looking up from his place by the master's head, "Our Lady is in love with him," said Lancaster. "He's got to be saved!"

"It's impossible."

"In the Queen's name," cried Lancaster, "I command!"

"Quick!" said Mistress Brand. "Run, lad, to the dressing-room—it's next to this; the coil of rope is in the window casing. There's no time to lose."

Once more the aerograph spoke. "My engineers have mutinied. If I'm rammed, your house is directly below—I can't move the ship—the engineers——"

Then silence.

"I've read the signals, madam," said Dr. Boyes. "I'll help."

Lancaster was at hand dragging the coil of rope, and Mistress Sarah seized the turk's head—a large knot finishing the end. Five feet from that she bent a half-hitch. "Dr. Boyes, lift him by the arms! There—" She passed the rope under her brother's back, slipped the turk's head through the ring of her knot, hauled taut, and had a sling under Brand's armpits ready. Breathing hard, she took up a coil of rope and passed it round the heavy iron guard-bar outside the window. She made the loose end of the rope well fast to the bar. "Lad," she said quickly to Lancaster, "lift his feet as I haul; lift him half out through the window."

Dr. Boyes laid on to the rope behind her, while Lancaster gently guided the master's body outwards until it swung clear, suspended by the armpits. Then the rope was lowered away until the weight was taken by the rock ledge fifty feet below.

"Dr. Boyes," cried the woman, "leave the house at once—get to safety outside. His life depends on yours—you'll send down food, and you will rescue him. Lad—down the rope with you!"

Dr. Boyes ran to get the servants out of the house.

"Lad, get down that rope."

"Madam, I help you first."

"My place is here—get down, and I'll lower some bedding. Get down, I say! He may die before you can reach him."

Lancaster swung himself out against the moonlight and the sea, and once again the waves below beat in their slow monotony, the little waves of time, beating against the eternities from everlasting to everlasting.

The woman breathed a great sigh of content, reaching out her arms to grasp the bar, and swing out upon the rope. Even then a new star shone in the heavens, a growing glory lighting her red hair, her violet robes, and finding majesty in her hard face.

The earth was calling the Lion—rammed in mid-air—the wind raged against her flanks, she was red hot, she blazed white, and as a falling star, cast her fierce splendour over land and sea, attended by rushing hurricanes of wind, winged with the souls of dying men, and freighted with the bodies of the dead.

Then in a crash of thunder the light went out, and again the moon was shining on a silver sea, grey cliffs, lonely, desolate and gaunt, crowned by a column of dust where a house had been.

And the little waves crept up one by one out of silence, to beat out their lives against the eternal walls.

XVI THE QUEEN'S DAYS

The 18th—19th—20th and 21st of June are known as the Queen's days, a time of quiet in the Palace, while Margaret was sheltered by the love of her servants from all the horrors of the blood-stained world. Outside the guarded walls reason had fled from the earth and our humane civilization seemed to be dying.

On the Wednesday we knew that Brand's council had assembled. On Thursday while we waited for news it rained, on Friday a merry breeze was laughing among the trees. On Saturday great clouds came sailing up from the west, and scattered their sparkling showers through the sunlight; but still we heard no tidings, saw no ships. On Sunday it rained again, and Margaret, with her knights and gentlemen, attended the service of the Eucharist. After luncheon Margaret left the Russian Prince as usual to his wine, and walked with her hounds beside the garden lake. Nobody knew what our Lady thought, nobody guessed how much our Lady hoped, but Sydney found her sitting in the rose arbour. At her feet the rippling lake pawed with tiny insistence on the pebbles, but the Queen was watching the clouds, a squadron of big white clouds which came from Avalon, from Lyonesse.

Trooper Browne, as usual, was with Sydney, but the recruit hung back a little so that my lord was alone when he bent on his knee before the Queen.

"What is it, Sydney?"

"We are sent, madam, to be in attendance on the Queen's Majesty."

"But I want to be alone."

Sydney looked up, and in his grave, grey eyes there was trouble.

"We all know," he said, "that our Lady wants to be alone."

"And yet you come?"

"I can't help it."

She saw the trouble deepen in his face. "God guard you, Sydney. What's the matter now?"

"Nothing serious, madam, but please sit quite still for a moment."

Even while he spoke a gunshot rang out close beside the Queen, a deep groan sounded from the bush behind her, and Trooper Browne rushed past with a smoking pistol.

"Let our Lady keep still," said Sydney, never moving; and presently Browne came back, with over elaborate calmness, to report.

"It's all right," he saluted; "only a duck."

"Ducks are out of season," remarked the Queen, gravely. "Trooper Browne, don't you know it's unlawful to poach ducks? This is not Canada."

"A wooden decoy duck," Browne explained, calmer than ever.

"Is it dead?"

"Quite dead, madam."

"Was it armed?"

"Yes—that is—no, madam."

"English?"

"Imported."

"Poor duck! I've heard the bushes rustling this last ten minutes. I even heard your wooden decoy duck breathe. Come, gentlemen, sit in the arbour with me, and look out for ducks."

They both protested.

"Nay, I command you, gentlemen." So they removed their helmets, and Browne, sheathing his pistol, sat down very gingerly all on edge, nursing his sword, red hot with embarrassment. Sydney crouched down on a stool at our Lady's feet.

"At ease, dear lads," said Margaret, pleading against their silence. "Only a minute ago you saved my life—now you must make glum faces. You're most depressing."

Still both men were silent.

"Come," urged the Queen. "We're two men and a maid under the roses, and it's your bounden duty to amuse the maid. Tell me the news. How is our guest, the Russian?"

Sydney turned away his face.

"Come," cried Margaret, insisting; "what does he see now—snakes?"

"They've grown, madam," Browne grinned. "He's having a fight with sea-serpents."

"I'd rather amuse the Queen," said my Lord. "My story is better than that."

"A story!" Now Margaret clapped her hands with a gay little laugh. "Once upon a time—go on, I like my fairies as naughty as can be, and mind, plenty of fairies."

"There's only one fairy left." Sydney looked away across the sunlit lake. "Romance is dead, and there's nothing to tell the fairy Queen but grim, sordid, horrible tragedy."

"He's awfully tired, madam," said Browne. "Why, we've had more fun these last three days than——"

"Let Browne begin." My Lord looked up with a smile. "I do believe he'll make it a fairy tale."

"Why, Trooper Browne!" our Lady laughed. "This after all your headlong adventures in Canada! Then London is not so tame and dull as you thought?"

"Dull! Mother will be standing on her head when she knows that I've made friends with the Marquess of Sydney, and actually spoken to the very Queen herself. Me!"

"You dear boy,"—Margaret unfastened her bracelet;—"when you see your mother, give her this with my love. There now, tell me the story."

Mr. Browne was a little hysterical, but presently, under threats from Sydney, began.

"I can't understand—do you know, madam, that there's another London underneath the ground, with thousands of miles of tunnels and passages, railroads and rivers—and—well, there is!

"Three nights ago, Sydney and I were off duty, and he was in my room telling me——"

"This man," my Lord interrupted sharply, "can smell things just like an animal, and as to his sight and hearing, they're very witchcraft."

"People here," said Browne, indignantly, "are blind, deaf, dumb, and their noses fit for nothing but catching a cold. Why, if Sydney turns round a corner he's lost. Anyway, that night I heard something underground, crowbars, I thought—anyway, men at work. We knew there must be something wrong, so we armed ourselves and bolted down to the cellars. There's acres and acres of palace down underground, and what with the darkness, the hundreds of different sounds, and all the mixed smells——"

"What smells?"

"Why sawdust, madam, and wine casks and stores, machinery—all sorts of smells. I couldn't tell where to look. We were off near the south-west court, when all of a sudden I smelt sumach leaves rotting after a frost—Sydney made out it was drains, and that was no dream either when we got a little nearer. It came through a door, and behind we could hear men at work trying to keep quiet—shouting in whispers, and splashing as if they were all having a bath. When we broke through the door we found it opened into a ventilator shaft which goes up three hundred feet through the south-west tower. Close under us it opened down into a big tunnel half full of water, sort of railway tunnel it looked, but Sydney says it's a sewer."

"It's the Tyburn," my Lord explained.

A thousand years ago the Tyburn was a brook, and one can trace its valley still through Tyburnia—the Mayfair district, the dip in Piccadilly, and the hollows of Green Park and St. James's Park, to where it ran into the Thames at Westminster.

"The Tyburn," said my Lord, "has become a sewer, and it flows right under the Palace."

"A river under my Palace!"

"Yes, madam," said Browne, "we found it full of punts and little barges, with flaring torches to light them, and a score of sewer men working away like beavers."

"But what were they doing?"

"They were busy unloading the boxes, small chests, several tons, madam."

"Chests of what?"

"Dynamite, madam."

"Good gracious!"

"Please don't be frightened, there's nothing to fear," my Lord laughed easily. "I inspected the work, and the electrician showed me some really excellent casing and insulation. The foreman, a Mr. Briggs, had no doubt whatever that the effect would be most volcanic, and they all took quite a pride when I praised their efforts."

"To blow up the Palace!"

"Yes, Lord Ulster is ever thoughtful for our Lady's comfort. I proposed to send down refreshments."

"Refreshments," Browne chuckled. "He threatened to empty the Palace tanks and drown them."

"I'm sorry to say," continued my Lord, "that Trooper Browne was rude to Mr. Briggs. If his carbine had actually gone off—the dynamite you know—the situation needed delicate handling."

"They sneaked behind Sydney and made him prisoner!" cried Browne, indignantly.

"A guest," said my Lord, correcting him. "I had ventured to suggest that the explosives should be moved further down the tunnel and stacked underneath the Departments of State in Whitehall, Ulster's seat of Government. They thought he might be annoyed, and Ulster, you see, provided food for their wives and families. They offered to take me to his Grace of Ulster."

"They lashed him down on the barge," said Trooper Browne.

"Yes," my Lord assented; "Browne jumped down into the barge on top of me, ran his sword through Mr. Briggs, settled with the electrician, and cut me loose. The rest of the men attacked us vigorously, but it was hardly fair play, as we could not provide them with swords. Several were hurt. After Browne's jump, I had little wind for talking, but in the end we resumed the conversation just where it left off."

"He'd talk a bird off a tree!" said Browne.

"Somehow," my dear Lord flushed, "I have a knack of making friends with the very roughest men, though I always fail with the smooth. This dear Browne, for instance, seems to get on with me. I told the sewer men that I had the honour to be Ulster's next-of-kin—that—that if—if the Lord Protector were to leave this world which he has so graced, certain estates would fall to me—which I could not accept. In fact, by a written deed I made them in some measure heirs of his Grace—and more suitable heirs than I for such a nobleman. I expressly by deed forbade them to assist at his death. If Whitehall is changed by earthquake, no man will fire the mine save my Lord Protector. He has laid mines, let him fire his mines with his own hand, and go to his God for judgment."

The Queen's hand stole out softly and rested upon my Lord's shoulder.

"And may I go on?" he asked.

"Surely."

"My friends of the sewers have been very good to me, and they had to save their families from hunger.

"They're a queer people, wearing great heavy boots up to their thighs, and rough suits of canvas. They lent us such clothes the night before last, and Browne and I went with them to see the mines of dynamite under Whitehall. In course of a long, rather unpleasant ramble we came directly underneath the Chancellery and got our friends to break a passage upward into the building. Last night—taking our swords as a precaution, we visited the Chancellor's room, and found there a gentleman engaged at the telegraph. We had to wait some time before this gentleman noticed our presence. When he was at leisure Browne offered him the use of a sword. I found him an accomplished swordsman."

"Who was this gentleman?" asked Margaret, and Lord Sydney rose upon his knees.

"Madam," he said, gravely, "I engaged my commanding officer."

"You fought the Duke of Gloucester!'

"I killed him."

Sydney drew his sword, and pointing the blade at his own breast presented the hilt to his sovereign.

"You have killed Rupert!" Margaret laid her hands upon the hilt. "Heaven be my witness that now, and afterwards, I am ready to share the blame, and if there's punishment now or afterwards let it fall on me. What am I, Sydney, that I should have a friend like you, so loyal, so fearless, and so great? There, my dear friend, put away your sword. I knew that my cousin Gloucester was disloyal, and you have cleansed the dishonour of the Guard."

"I am forgiven?"

"So far as a very unhappy woman can forgive the dearest friend she has in the world." She thought for a moment, then, speaking eagerly, "What time did this happen?"

"At eight this morning, madam."

"Do you know that was the time of the early service?"

"I was thinking of that."

"Sydney, when I knelt before the Table, I saw you at my side!"

"To-day I have been at peace," said my Lord.

"I, too, Sydney. You have news for me. Why keep it back?"

"Madam, I have news. I want to turn my back—for once, upon my Lady. May I?"

He crouched at her feet again, looking away across the lake, the garden trees, and the white cloud flecks, even to where the sun was, westward.

"I must speak," he said in a low voice, "of Ulster, who is reputed to be my father. I don't think I have any bitter thoughts left, but I would not claim this man for my father. My mother was a gentlewoman, and is with the angels. That she was his wife so tarnishes her sacred memory that I would rather believe her mistaken in supposing the Duke of Ulster to be my father."

Margaret was stroking the man's bowed head. "Sydney," she whispered, "I loved her. And Trooper Browne is here."

"Browne is deaf," said my Lord.

"Browne is deaf," echoed the man who loved him.

"But Margaret hears," said our Lady; "and Margaret understands."

"In Ulster's office,"—my Lord looked down at the rippled lake—"I overheard an exchange of messages between his Royal Highness and the Lord Protector. Of all spies and eavesdroppers I seem the most fortunate."

"Oh, Sydney, you have news of Lyonesse?"

"Madam, for three days past, Ulster has been in possession of the city."

Our Lady uttered a low cry of fear.

"He captured one of the great etheric liners—the Golden Hind. Brand had but one ship, the Lion, on guard above his cottage at the time his Ministers assembled. The Lion was rammed by the Golden Hind, and fell right on the crown of the Tol Pedn cliffs, and the very rocks on which the cottage stood were thrown down the wall into the sea."

"I cannot bear it, Sydney! I cannot bear it!"

My Lord looked up, his eyes glittering with tears. "You are a woman, and women are braver than men. You are the Queen, and dying England dies with majesty. The lightnings of God shall find no cowardice, and at the Last Judgment England shall not flinch."

"I forgot myself," said Margaret very humbly, "Go on—I will be quiet."

"I must go on,"—my Lord wiped the sweat from his forehead. "When Brand recaptured Lyonesse last Sunday, Ulster's troops took refuge near Marazion, and there starved. On Friday morning, under orders from the Golden Hind they entered the city again, and for these two days they have murdered, plundered, and burned while they searched for Brand. Lyonesse is a ruin, but the master has not been found. It is known that he is alive, signals from his aerograph have been intercepted; but the search for his hiding-place has failed, and Ulster is coming back to-day."

The Queen was praying.

"In the great purposes of God he lives." My Lord lifted his eyes towards the declining sun. "There is hope, and I know that God will not let England go from serving Him. The fire of our national life dies down to ashes until the one spark left is hidden courage, ready to flame again when the time comes."

Browne turned his face away, for our Lady sobbed.

"Ulster is coming," said my Lord presently. "He has stolen the powers of Lyonesse, and for the time he is master—for the time."

Browne was peering at the western sky, shading his eyes with both hands.

"I see something," he muttered, "right under the sun, a bright speck, like a planet. Is that the Golden Hind?"

"Ulster is coming," my Lord shivered. "He will come here demanding audience." Then, looking up from where he crouched at her feet, "My Lady," he said in a very soft low voice, his lips tremulous, his eyes full of yearning love; "perhaps this is the last favour I may ever ask—to see the Queen alone."

"Trooper Browne," said our Lady, huskily, "as I'm a woman I ought to be ready to receive the Duke when he comes. Please, will you go and gather some of the very dark roses that are nearly black—and bring them to me here."

"Margaret,"—my Lord's eyes watched his friend going away in search of dark roses. "I shall go with Ulster presently. For me this is the end."

"We shall not live, dear Sydney," answered the Queen. "We shall not have to bear the pain for ever, and Death is merciful."

"Then let the words come, Margaret, since nothing matters any more. Before I go out to meet this death, I love you. Oh, most royal woman that ever lived, I came to serve in the Palace knowing that because I dared to love the Queen, I must never know peace of mind again—except such peace—you say that I was with you this morning?"

"At the Communion Table, yes."

"Was I beside you, Margaret?"

"Yes."

"Did you see me lift my hands to take the Elements?"

"They were covered with blood."

"At that moment I knelt by Gloucester, and my hands were wet with blood trying to tie an artery. I lifted my hands and you were beside me, Margaret! Margaret, I have been at peace knowing well that to-day I must take my father's life."

"Oh, my dear brother! my brother Sydney! The only brother I have known."

Bending down she took his face within her hands and kissed him upon the forehead.

Then looking steadfastly into her eyes. "I see," he whispered, awestruck, "the Queen seated on the throne—the old throne in the Abbey, and Brand is standing on the steps of the throne. So be it." And laying his head upon her knees he cried, our Lady giving him ease with a touch of her fingers.

* * * * *

The Queen had granted audience to Ulster. In her face there was peace as of one dead, about her shoulders and in her hair she wore long, thorny, sprays of the dark roses whose petals were like a sacramental wine. She neither moved nor spoke, and silent on her right hand, and her left, stood the two Guardsmen, their hands resting on the hilts of their drawn swords in readiness.

The Dictator was greatly changed, grown very old, his flesh wasted, his eyes burning as though with fever. Behind him the sun was setting, the lake was red, and over his face the shadows of night were deepening.

"Princess Margaret," he said, laying bitter stress on the words of courtesy, "I have come to declare to the ex-Queen these written intentions of the Government." He presented a roll of parchment, which our Lady made no movement to accept. He laid the parchment at her feet. "Your Royal Highness is granted until sunrise," he announced, "to repudiate the treason of John Brand."

"Sydney," the Queen whispered, "speak to this man."

My Lord Sydney turned his eyes slowly to the Dictator. "George, Duke of Ulster," he said, very quietly, "Her Imperial Majesty commands your attendance at sunrise here. Meanwhile she is pleased to grant you my escort to the gates." Still with the drawn sword in his hand, my Lord saluted her Majesty, and backed from the presence. "Sir," he said to the Dictator, "we have her Majesty's permission to withdraw. Come." He led Ulster away, and as they passed out of sight among the trees, "Father," he said, "father!"

"What, you?"

"There's no one in hearing, sir."

The Dictator turned upon his son. "What do you mean?"

"All courtesy, sir."

"You abandon that woman's service?"

"Otherwise, my dear father, you would have been shot in her very presence."

"You take service with me?"

"His Grace of Ulster loses the old acumen. Was there ever a time, sir, when a son of our honourable house failed to go over to the winning side? Come. I must get you out of this garden. Your life is not safe. And keep your eyes about you when we enter the Palace."

"Jim, are you playing fair with your father?"

"Time will show that."

They gained the lower terrace, and Ulster, supporting himself upon the arm of his son, wondered why Sydney must turn to look back to the lake, the rose garden, and the bower where Margaret sat.

"Good-bye," Sydney was muttering. "For ever and for ever, Margaret. Come, sir, come on," he laughed. "I've news for you." They entered the silent corridors of the Palace. "Queen Margaret has a keen scent for explosives, and all your thoughtful arrangements have been changed. From the Broad Sanctuary to Trafalgar Square your Departments of State are mined with high explosives. In your own office Gloucester's lying dead. There's conspiracy afield to take your life to-day, or Margaret would never have named to-morrow for surrender. Even with my help you may be dead by then. Hush! It's not safe to talk till we gain your ship."

They crossed the throne room, traversed the State apartments, and gained the head of the alabaster stairs.

"Guard, turn out!" cried my Lord, and the main guard paraded before they reached the porch.

"By her Majesty's command,"—Sydney saluted the officer of the day. "The main guard is desired to attend my Lord Duke to his ship. Pass, sir," he said to Ulster, "I attend you."

And as the main guard formed as an escort of State, Sydney hung back until Sergeant Dymoke passed him.

"Dymoke," he whispered, "fall out."

The Queen's Champion fell out of the ranks, and my lord held him within the shadow of the columns.

"Dymoke, old man,"—his voice was scarcely audible—"I'm going with Ulster in the Golden Hind, and I leave you a message for the Guard. I know a little of these etheric ships. Long years ago Brand showed me the detail of their gear. When they rise they're free from the pull of the earth, and but for the brake would be whirled into outer space. One blow of my sword will shatter the brake past mending. I'm going for a long voyage, Dymoke."

"Sydney, we can't spare you! Oh, let me go myself, if it must be done."

"Am I not to guard my own honour?" My Lord dropped his sword on the wrist sling.

"I am the Queen's Champion."

"Live for her then," he said. He took off his helmet, and unfastened the Queen's favour, her glove, which was bound to the brow. "This to our Lady," he whispered. Then looking out to where the gigantic ship lay waiting him, and the Dictator impatiently cried for his son to come, "Tell her I go to plead for her and for England. Good-bye." My lord drew off his gauntlet, and, with his finger, touched his friend upon the forehead. "We shall not be long parted, you and I."

Then looking up to heaven, his face flushed by the dying sunlight, he set the glowing helmet on his head, took up his sword and passed slowly between the waiting ranks of the guard to where Lord Ulster received him upon the gangway. Even as the Dictator led him, he turned in the shadow of the port, and, lifting his sword hilt to his brow, gave the salute.