THE CHARIOT OF THE SUN

A FANTASY

BY

ROGER POCOCK

LONDON CHAPMAN & HALL, LTD. 1910

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

TALES OF WESTERN LIFE THE RULES OF THE GAME THE ARCTIC NIGHT, Chapman & Hall THE BLACKGUARD, Chapman & Hall ROTTENNESS A FRONTIERSMAN (AUTOBIOGRAPHY), Gay & Hancock CURLY, Gay & Hancock SWORD AND DRAGON, Hodder & Stoughton THE FRONTIERSMAN'S POCKET BOOK (EDITED), John Murray.

CONTENTS

Prologue I. Chancellor of the Empire II. The Master of Lyonesse III. Our Lady the Queen IV. The Coronation V. The Gathering Storm VI. The Penance Chamber VII. The Taming of Lyonesse VIII. The Mother of Parliaments IX. The Royal Prerogative X. The Dawn of the Terror XI. The World-Storm XII. The Third Day XIII. The Queen's Messenger XIV. The Story of the Ships XV. Cast Out of Heaven XVI. The Queen's Days XVII. Her Majesty in Council XVIII. The Queen's Madness XIX. The Tale of the Dun Horse XX. Victory XXI. The Queen's Retreat XXII. The Last Battle XXIII. Prisoner of Love Epilogue

PROLOGUE

LONDON, December 31st, 2000.

This is the story of the World-Storm. Leaders in every field of thought have described the events of the year 1980, but we who have come aged and shaken out of that chaos, know well that the half was not told.

The World-Storm was a human affair, and human events are ever based on love. For the love of woman a man gives all the labour of his life, or in the loss or lack of love will cast his life away. For the love of women men have built cities, or burned them, won thrones or lost them, have staked things present and the things to come. This is the story, then, of a man's love for a woman. And if the life of a man is a love tale, so is the life of a nation, which ends when the people cease to love their country. And so is the life of mankind, which will end when the love of God dies out from the human heart. Life is a plant which has its roots in love.

Reading over many histories of the World-Storm, by divines, by students, and admirals of the air, the whole of which have failed to reach down to the truth: I think that these eminent exact thinkers were mostly dry at the roots. Only a lover can write history.

We set sweet Margaret on the Imperial Throne, we prayed for her, and all the millions of our prayers like subtle spirits wrought upon her soul creating her a queen. We looked again, and behold she was august, inspired, beautiful, terrible—England! Who but a lover could write of such a queen? To me, a plain man who has loved, it is given that I should tell of that transfiguration, and how the lovely child, translated by our prayers moved through the darkness.

Looking back upon those days when frightened and starving, we saw the old order changed, and the Millennium born, I see the persons of the drama, vague, gigantic, fighting in a region of mist and flame to one great end of Peace. Yet I knew all the time that they were human, a woman, and certain men who loved and sinned, who fought and suffered. The evil was burned out of us, the good survives; the scorched and shaken earth is purified.

The Greeks, who were very wise, invented that old myth of Phaeton who dared to drive the chariot of the Sun, but lost his head, and failed, and burned the world.

There is to be no more war, so I doubt if there will be any more progress. Take this heresy if you will, as the maunderings of an old fighter; but have not the ages of suffering been ever the ages of growth? Strength is the child of pain, and in her agony the world gave birth to saints and heroes. The millennial peace will never know the like. Never again will there be such a woman as our Lady the Queen, such men as John Brand, or Lord Sydney. Their age is memorable, their race illustrious, and for my part, I do not greatly care to live on after them. My work is done, and sitting at my window as I write these last words of my prologue, I see with dim eyes the roofs of London reaching away into the night, the moonlight faint upon her hanging gardens, her palaces and towers, her spires and soaring domes. The bells have been tolling the hours of the dying twentieth century, but now they have broken into one great peal of triumph, they are ringing in the Millennium. "Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace; For mine eyes have seen Thy Salvation."

THE CHARIOT OF THE SUN

I CHANCELLOR OF THE EMPIRE

"Margaret, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and of the British Dominions beyond the Seas, Queen, Defender of the Faith, Empress of India."

In the Year of our Lord, 1980, and on the third day of June in that year was Margaret crowned.

Three weeks before the Coronation the sun was setting over St. Michael's woods, and changed the grey walls of Ulster House to luminous orange. A purple bloom of shadow lay on the terrace, but full in the glow from the windows sat the master of the house asleep. The cane chair creaked at times under his weight as he changed dreams. Dressed in the evening costume of the period—claret-coloured broadcloth, and silk stockings, low shoes with garnet buckles, and white ruffles—he was a picture of dignified innocence and stately rest: His Grace, the Duke of Ulster, Chancellor of the federated British Empire, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, full of years, honours, and a good dinner.

Close to him, in the ivy of the wall, a pair of ring-doves cooed and crooned between love and slumber. They were newly wed, and all the world was at rest.

Above the cedars to the eastward a ship rose like a planet, her aeroplanes in red glory against the deeps of heaven. She swept across the south, hovered for an instant, drooped her ethereal wings, and flashed in narrowing circles downward until she fell out of the afterglow and loomed vast in the lower shadows. With feathery lightness she poised on the lawn, her gauze propellers singing themselves to sleep with the whirr of humming-birds. Then from under the gloom of her shadow came a man—a gaunt old man in a grey military cloak—who climbed the steps of the terrace and crossed the gravel space until he came in front of the lighted windows. There the man stood looking down with austere disgust upon the sleeping Chancellor. His ship had risen into the afterglow before the visitor moved a chair and sat down, still intently studying Lord Ulster's face.

Under that prolonged stare, the Chancellor stirred in his sleep, and muttering to himself, awakened, lifting his heavy eyes. In the deepening shadows he saw that silent motionless figure, tried to dispel the impression with a wave of his hand, then found himself broad awake, face to face with Nicholas IV. Emperor of Russia.

At once the Chancellor rose to his feet, and made his royal guest welcome with many a courteous phrase. He offered apology that his servants were all at a church concert this Sunday evening, and that neither himself nor his son had been at hand to receive the Imperial yacht with proper honours. He offered hospitality, invited his Imperial Majesty to enter the house.

His words disappeared into the air, slow cold eyes followed his every movement, and the Emperor waited in freezing silence. Motionless, chilled, shocked, dismayed, the Chancellor stayed his speech.

"Your Grace will understand," said the Emperor, "that I do not come as a friend."

Germany and France had been gathering armaments, relations were strained to the breaking point, war might be declared at any moment, the allies were only held from attack by the ominous silence of Russia. Then Ulster had won the Emperor to his side, and an alliance was now in treaty between the Russian and the British Empires which would make the threatened war impossible. It was in the moment of the Chancellor's triumph that Nicholas IV. came to his house an enemy.

"For your own sake," said the Emperor, coldly, "you'd better see that we are not overheard."

Ulster seized this chance of covering his confusion, entered the house, surveyed the empty study and returned, saying again that his household were all at the church. The Emperor had taken one of the garden chairs, his back to the windows, and thoughtfully looked out upon the garden, his long lean fingers tapping a cigarette. By a gesture he told the Chancellor to sit down.

"There is," he began in his purring, sibilant English, "a young Indian prince now resident in England."

The Chancellor had been racking his brain to find the meaning of the Emperor's coldness. His head was lowered in thought, but now he glanced up sideways under his heavy brows.

"Lots of them," said he.

"I speak," said the Emperor, "of the Maharajah of Haidar."

"I remember, sir," answered Ulster, thoughtfully. "He is serving in Her Majesty's Bodyguard."

"Exactly," said the Emperor in a tone which forbade further comment. "This young prince is descended, your Grace, from the ancient royal line of the Moguls. On his elevation to the throne of Haidar, he was recognized by the Moslem as a sacred personage. He demanded of the Indian Government the restoration of the ancient Peacock Throne, which had been taken from his ancestors by the Persians, and later secured by the British from the Persian Treasury. He demanded also the right of a royal salute, claimed to be addressed as a Royal Highness, and asked for certain privileges of maintaining armed forces within his kingdom of Haidar. All these demands were granted."

"Sir," the Chancellor spoke satirically, "these statements are of the profoundest interest."

"They are," said the Emperor. "The concessions granted to this prince actually endangered the British supremacy in India. The restoration of the Peacock Throne met with violent protests both from the loyal princes and from the English press. When this throne was brought to Haidar, its arrival was attended by portents, so-called miracles, a ferment in the bazaars, riots in many cities, and at last a revolt in the North West Provinces. Of course revolt was crushed.

"The presence of Prince Ali, perfectly loyal as he was throughout, became so dangerous that he was hurried out of India, and gradually the country settled down. But the memory remained of gallant English officers who were slaughtered, mutilated, of innocent children dashed against stone walls, of women who were—we will pass that by. Whoever gave orders for the granting of Prince Ali's claims was guilty of all that, the massacres, and the vengeance. The man who had to face the rage of England then, might have envied Judas Iscariot. The Viceroy of India claimed to have received orders from the India Office in London. Then the Secretary of State for India proved that he had issued no such orders. So the Viceroy shot himself. Your Grace was at that time Secretary for India."

A bluish pallor had overspread Lord Ulster's face, and he answered nothing.

It was then that the Marquess of Sydney, the Chancellor's only son, returned from the church. Entering the house from the north, and making no sound upon the carpets, he passed through a curtained doorway into the study. In the afternoon he had been writing a letter at the desk set between the middle windows, and now, returning to finish it, he was glad to find the room unoccupied. He sat down, took the letter from his blotting-pad, and considered what he had written.

Then he heard the striking of a match outside on the terrace, and the sound of his father's voice. Lord Sydney was slightly annoyed, uncertain for the moment whether to take his writing elsewhere. Some neighbour, old Pollock probably, had dropped in to talk politics and would stay as usual lor supper. His father was still speaking in low, even tones, not likely to disturb him. Lord Sydney became absorbed in his letter. It is curious to note that pens and matches were still in those days used by old-fashioned people.

Outside, the Emperor, striking a match, and lighting his cigarette, heard the Chancellor patiently.

"Yes," he said, "I understand, of course. Your Grace was, comparatively speaking, a poor man, and could not as such aspire to the Chancellorship. A legitimate ambition thwarted by want of means, a career in jeopardy—yes, I understand. As to Prince Ali's demands they seemed quite innocent—a diamond throne, a royal salute, a few such trifles. He offered you two millions sterling if the Viceroy could be moved to grant his claims. The Viceroy was moved, had no writings to show in defence—and shot himself. The claims were granted, and babies were dashed against stone walls. His Grace of Ulster, with two millions of money, rose to the Chancellorship. It might be awkward for my Lord Duke if these facts became generally known."

The Chancellor gripped the arms of his chair, and leaning forward laughed in his throat.

"Your Majesty," he answered hoarsely, "has acted with rare prudence. I am grateful for the opportunity of dealing with this disgraceful slander, which might otherwise have endangered our relations with your Imperial Majesty's Government. The fabrications of some secret service agent——"

"Enough, my Lord; the agent in question was my agent, the money with which Prince Ali bought you was my money, and here," the Emperor produced from under his cloak the famous Russian papers, "I hold the written transactions."

"Am I a child, sir," cried Ulster, testily, "to be frightened with bogies?"

Nicholas opened the papers and bent forward that the Chancellor might see them.

"Is that enough," he asked, "or do you want to see more? Look," he turned the papers slowly page by page, "at this, and this, and this!"

"Forgeries," answered the other boldly, "forgeries all. How could your Majesty be so deceived?"

Nicholas with a smile turned to the last page, "and this?"

The Chancellor's eyes seemed starting from his head, his jaw dropped, a moan broke from his throat; then with a sharp effort he drew himself together, and pointed at the papers.

"That—that—" he gasped, "that accuses me, much more it accuses you. That you, an Emperor, set such a trap is a disgrace crying aloud to Europe, that—that your Majesty is unfitted for a throne. I dare you, I challenge you. Publish those papers, and not an ambassador would remain at the Russian capital!"

"That I set the trap?" Hot fury darkened the Russian's face, "This scullion work is not in the hands of kings. Would you make me your partner?"

"Sir," Ulster instantly shot out his arm, extended upwards over the papers. "Look! The yacht has signalled!"

The Emperor folded the papers, and jammed them back into the breast of his cloak.

"Let her signal," he answered; "I am not your partner, neither am I your dupe."

"Take the two millions," cried Ulster, "and give me these papers."

"I do not bargain with your Grace," answered Nicholas.

"What do you want me to do? I'll resign the Chancellorship, retire, anything!"

"And cheat me of what I bought?"

"If you expose me, you take my life."

"I have taken it, and paid for it such as it is."

"You can't force me to live! I repeat, to live!"

"As you please. If you die, these papers shall be published as a memorial volume. If you disobey me, they shall be published. If you attempt to cheat me, they shall be published. You have sold yourself to me, and I claim you."

Ulster shrank back into his chair, covering his face, and for some time remained in silence. At last in despair he muttered into his breast—

"What are the terms?"

"I will give you back these papers when you have earned them. You shall live on, Chancellor of the British Empire, honoured, reverenced. When you die a state funeral will attend you to the grave, and another truly British monument will disfigure that poor old Abbey."

Ulster cast about for a weapon, and the Emperor, divining this, chuckled.

"Under my cloak," he said, "I've got an automatic, over your house my yacht. You need have no fear. Indeed, I know the limitations of your power as Chancellor, and shall not press too hard. Now as to terms: I permit you, my Lord Duke, to save your country from the Franco-German invasion. But you will complete the Anglo-Russian Treaty on the terms proposed by my ambassador."

"My colleagues would never consent," cried Ulster, "I should be thrown out of office."

"Tell your colleagues that unless the treaty is signed, Russia will join the Franco-German alliance. My share is India. They will consent.

"Secondly, your Grace, I have to tell you that my brother the Grand Duke Alexander Alexandrovitch was lately slighted by the young Queen. She shall marry him."

"Sir, she would die first!"

"She shall marry him, and your Government shall make the offer of her hand.

"Thirdly, my Lord Duke, I will be secured from any future treachery. You will personally entrust me with the Formula of the Fleets."

When England's great enemy demanded the Formula of the Fleets, Ulster's brain refused to receive his meaning. The naval airship of the period carried no stored force, but the power driving her engines was flashed to her through space from the nearest fortified station of the Admiralty. Each station gave its ships a power-field extending two thousand miles in all directions. Thus the Home station was a fortified position in the coal measures of Staffordshire. Groups of stations covered Canada, the West Indies, and South America; South Africa was in the power-field of the Victoria Falls, Central Africa was controlled from the White Nile, West Africa from the Niger Valley. Another chain of power-fields centred in the Ocean Fortresses: Gibraltar, Malta, Alexandria, Aden, Colombo, Rangoon, Singapore, Hong Kong. From the Arctic regions to the Antarctic ice, no corner of the world was secured from the visitation of our fleets. To debar foreign navies from using our stores of power, each ship had her engines keyed to an exact adjustment known as the Formula of the Fleets. Given that formula, a foreign ship could traverse the whole planet. The British Empire and the United States used one formula, entrusted only to the Chancellor, the President, and the Adjusters-General, and one can readily understand that this key of space conferred most awful powers.

And were the formula changed without due warning, every ship afloat would be plunged through space to destruction.

"The Formula of the Fleets," Ulster repeated vaguely. "You!" Then he seemed to awake. "You devil!" he cried furiously. "No!"

He choked, he could find no utterance, but wrung his hands, and, starting to his feet, shook his arms upward at the heavens. Then he saw the Emperor's cold face between the lamplight and the moonlight smiling, and at the sight drew back. A strangled sob broke from him. "I am trapped, shamed, broken; I have sinned, but still I am an Englishman, and all my years are given to England's service!"

The Chancellor had back his dignity and a new courage.

"The claims of the Russian ambassador insult this nation; the proposals of that drunken and disgusting beast, your brother, insult my sovereign; the demand for the Formula of the Fleets is a deadly insult to myself. You have forfeited all claims to treatment as a sovereign; but such claims as you have presumed to make to me, I shall lay before my colleagues, before the Empire, and before the world. As to your charges against me, they come not from a friendly prince, but from an enemy too base even for the courtesies of war. Our people will not see the sin of the Chancellor in this crime of Russia."

The Emperor's cruel eyes glittered, the moonlight caught a gleam from his teeth.

"Most noble patriot," he answered softly, "most courteous statesman, no doubt the English can be gulled into a belief that the Russian Emperor came secretly and at night, and behaved in an unseemly and ridiculous manner. They would even believe that I danced on your terrace by moonlight. Proof would at once appear that I never left my house at Pera, and the mad Chancellor would become the laughing-stock of Europe. Consider the cartoons!"

Ulster sank back into his chair, and his face writhed, for the most heroic are unarmed against ridicule.

"Moreover," the Emperor smiled, "already a copy of the documents I have shown you has been placed by an Englishman in the hands of the editor of the Times—sealed, and awaiting my orders. In these papers there is no reference to Russia, only to certain transactions between Prince Ali and his Grace the Duke of Ulster. Russia does not appear in such affairs of bribery, fraud, and betrayal. After the Chancellor's disgrace, and shameful end, the Germans and the French will make declaration of war, will be joined by Russia, and this country swept from the map of Europe which it has marred too long. The British Empire will be divided among the allies. I have offered to give you back your life, and the immortal fame of saving your country. Refuse, and I give you to shame and death, the British Empire to destruction. Of course, if you want my mercy, you will apologize first for insulting me." The Emperor stood up and waved his hand. "I have called my yacht," he said not unkindly. "I give you this minute to surrender."

Far up in the heavens a white light flashed like a star, and from the great spaces of the night, a shadow swooped down, winged, swift, instantly growing gigantic against the moon, then gleaming in her rays. The Chancellor watched spellbound, and as he watched the terror seized his brain, the doom of a great Empire, condemned to this death, abandoned by God.

Then the agony of a broken man rang out in one great cry, "I have surrendered!" and the echoes of walls and trees heard him, and answered.

II THE MASTER OF LYONESSE

When on the terrace of Ulster House, Nicholas of Russia dealt heavily with the Chancellor to his ruin, one witness was so placed that he heard all. The witness was the Duke of Ulster's son, James, Marquess of Sydney. It is a very pleasant thing to hold this gentleman in memory, to think of him as he was in life, and at that time in the thirtieth year of his age. He was a tall man, nervous rather than strong, his face very fair and comely. In habit he was lean, bronzed with the sun; in bearing most knightly and courteous; in manner a little cynical with a grave humour. But that tells nothing of the quality in his eyes, and in his smile, which made one love and trust him. None of the pictures or statues to his memory do justice to that wonderful quality of the man, nor can a written word call back the charm.

It was on the 11th day of May, 1980, that he heard the passages between the Emperor and his father. It was on Friday, the 30th, four days before the Coronation, that he moved. There were railways in those old-fashioned times, lines of a single rail. Catching the 9 a.m. express from Paddington, Lord Sydney reached the Land's End district by noon, and alighted at Lyonesse.

This was his first visit to the etheric city, and as he left the terminus to enter Brand Street, he was astonished at the grandeur of the place. Thanks to the mildness of the Cornish climate, palms and acacias sheltered the pavement. Down the long vistas of sub-tropic trees there were fountains spraying white splendour into the sunlight, and statues of golden bronze lurked in the shadows. The street was lined with shops and theatres, traffic throbbed upon the causeway, the pavements were thronged with people. The town, even in 1980, was large, its population numbering half a million, a grey granite city walled about on three sides by the sea cliffs. The streets were filled with a tumult of affairs, but where they converged upon St. Buryan Square, there was a resting-place of lawns and trees shadowed by groups of buildings. Upon the western frontage of the square, stood a rough-hewn palace some acres in extent, the office of John Brand III.

Homely and plain was the master's room in that palace. The threadbare carpet, the shabby furniture, the queer old plans and pictures on the walls were relics passed down from another age. In that chair an American of the nineteenth century had dreamed, from the books of that case had learned, at that table planned—and the result was Lyonesse. The relics spoke of poverty, of research, of noble patience, and the founder's grandson kept these things as a reminder.

The American sat at his desk, and one might have known him for Lyonesse, so mighty his physical strength, so shabby and neglected his dress, so steady his labour. They say he was a hard man at that time, rugged, avaricious, rather feared than liked.

A sealed envelope was brought to him, with explanation that a man had called who would not be denied and had given trouble. Brand opened the cover and within found a visiting card.

"Trooper the Marquess of Sydney, Her Majesty's Bodyguard."

His face brightened as he read; gladly he sent a welcome to his visitor, gave orders that he was not to be disturbed, and in the interim of waiting set all his work aside.

He rose at Lord Sydney's entrance. "Well, old fellow," he spoke heartily, as they shook hands, "is it ten years?"

"Fourteen since our last fight at school. I'm awfully glad to see you, Brand."

"You've forgotten the black eyes I gave you?"

"I'd be sorry to fight again; you're much too strong. But your nose, Brand, you must remember my sign manual, and I was so proud of that nose."

Brand stroked his blunt nose thoughtfully, "Most tender memory!"

Lord Sydney smiled, and as the other led him to a seat—

"We promised to write to each other."

"We were very young," Brand chuckled. "So you went soldiering, I to my trade."

"Each to his tribe, and God for all," said Sydney. "I used to envy you."

"I wanted to be a soldier," answered Brand.

"But, Sydney, why all this secrecy; why put your card in a sealed envelope?"

The soldier's face turned grave. "I have good reason. These walls," he looked anxiously about him, "have they ears?"

"Sydney, this isn't London."

"May I look round?"

Brand laughed, but his visitor walked to the door and opened it suddenly, making a rapid survey of the ante-room. Other doors he examined which led to the safe, and to Brand's private chambers; then considering the walls and hangings, returned to his place.

"I should have been followed from London," he explained, "but I hired an actor to personate me, and he is leading a fine chase of spies to Stamboul."

"Who has you watched?"

"My father, and when he knows I've been here you'll catch the infection. I warn you, Brand."

"My dear fellow, your father——"

The Guardsman's eyes flashed ominously, his jaws hardened.

"What do you know of my father?"

"Chancellor of the Empire, his Grace the Duke of Ulster, K.G., and a lot more twaddle."

"By the Almanac, yes, and head of the Gold Party which sits up to hate you all night. Come, speak out!"

"My dear fellow, I never met your father. In politics I like fighting him, and I think he likes fighting me. He would never speak evil of me as a private man."

"Or you of Ulster? Well, I can't blame your courtesy, Brand, I don't understand your politics. They say that you finance the Labour Party. You've been accused of Socialism."

Brand chuckled. "Have you heard about my eating babies?"

"Even a cannibal might love his country. Brand, I'm in horrible trouble, and I've come to you for help."

"You've come to me for help. Go on, old chap."

"In politics you can accuse a man without any feeling of hatred?"

"I would not have him butchered."

"Not even if your opponent granted the Peacock Throne to Ali of Haidar?"

Brand's face flashed with anger. "My friend, spare me all mention of that," he said. "Is it a kind thing, Lord Sydney, to tear the old wound open?"

"Does it hurt me less? I'd go on if it killed both of us, and you shall listen."

"Perhaps you don't know," answered Brand, "that my young brother saw his wife crucified, before the rebels gouged out his eyes and burned him."

"Would you treat the man as a mere political opponent who granted the Peacock Throne to Ali of Haidar?"

"The Viceroy died by his own hand. He is beyond our vengeance."

"Vengeance?" cried Sydney, "my words bite deep. Is vengeance in your code of political courtesy? I tell you the man who granted Prince Ali's claims is still alive, within the reach of vengeance. He drove the Viceroy to suicide, and thought that under heaven there was no witness left to rise against him."

"That is beyond belief; there are limits even to treachery."

"Are there such limits? The man who granted Prince Ali's claims received not thirty pieces of silver, but two million pounds. He lives."

Brand turned away his face.

"Prince Ali was an agent, Brand, an agent of Russia, and the bribe of two million pounds was Russian money. The man who received that price of blood has not hanged himself, neither were his eyes gouged out, nor was he burned like your brother. He bought with it the Chancellorship of the British Empire. He is my father."

Brand's iron-hard face was sterner than ever now. "Have you gone mad?" he asked.

"Prove me insane or dreaming, or bewitched. Prove my father an honest man, and England safe. It would be all right then, Brand. Do you think it is a little thing to tell; that it is easily said? I, Ulster's son, that was a gentleman, am now a spy. His shame has tainted me, and so the leprosy will spread from generation to generation. I suppose," he added, "you think I'm hysterical."

Leaning forward, Brand laid his hand upon Lord Sydney's shoulder.

"There's some mistake," he said.

"I tell you that my father, Ulster, is sold to Russia. He has forced upon the Government a degrading treaty."

Brand was silent. "He has given our Lady, the Queen, to that drunken beast Alexander."

Brand was silent.

"He has divulged the Formula of the Fleets!"

"Sydney!" Brand rose overthrowing his chair, then withholding himself by main force, sat heavily upon the desk. "Go on," he said hoarsely, "these statements need to be proved."

"Time enough for that," Lord Sydney flung himself beside Brand's knees upon the desk, and buried his face in his arms. "I've lived in a dream world," he said in bitterness, "a world which I built for myself, where one's father could be respected, one's mother honoured. All things were as they should be; one could play the game——" He looked up, and his eyes were reddened. "I was a boy in that fool's paradise—but now, ah, well," he threw his head back, looking out at Brand with half-closed eyes, "I suppose I've got to be a man." Then he told Brand of the Emperor's visit to Lord Ulster, and how he had overheard what passed between them.

"Have you proof?" asked the American.

"I realized," said Sydney, "that I must have proof. I watched my father's face from day to day, and when he returned to town, I went with him. For once he was glad of my company, while with treason upon treason he bought the papers which Russia held against him. By his face I knew when the Government consented to the Treaty, when they agreed to the Russian marriage, when he betrayed the Formula. He had earned the papers then. I don't think he ever slept until last night, until he had paid the price. I was alone with him last night when the Emperor's messenger came. We had finished dinner, the long, dull dinner, the servants cleared out, and Ulster had his wine. The messenger was shown in, bearing a despatch box, and I did the honours, while Ulster unlocked the thing. I saw him take out a sealed package and a letter which he tried to conceal from me. The messenger drank our health, and Ulster escorted him to the door. I had time to slip a drug into Ulster's wine.

"Yes, he slept almost before he had read the Emperor's letter. It was a queer letter. Once a month hereafter His Grace would receive a messenger and to him display this package with unbroken seals—on pain of instant vengeance. A little of that treatment would tame any Chancellor. The sense of being watched, the horror lest the package miscarry, the fear ever with him, the curse that must be borne in silence year by year, then death and exposure. It would have driven him stark staring mad! I have relieved my father of that curse, his spies are chasing me to Constantinople. Here is the package—the proof of what I have said, and you shall break the seals."

Brand opened the Russian papers, the transactions between Ulster and Prince Ali, which page by page he examined. He filled a briar pipe, lighted, and smoked it through before he spoke.

"I think," he said at last, "that this is a strong chain of evidence, but only in converging evidence is there proof. There is ground here for a charge against the Duke, not for his conviction; and all his friends would rally to his defence, making him stronger than ever. The value of these papers is his evident fear. Now as to the secret treaty."

Lord Sydney produced the Draft, which the master read.

"There is ground here for an attack upon the Government. And as to the Formula?"

"Only my word," answered Sydney. "You doubt my word!"

"Not I. But imagine this case tried by the House of Lords, the judges being Ulster's friends with the fear of their own downfall if they failed him."

Lord Sydney rose distracted and paced the floor, unnerved, broken.

"And you are going to fail me?" he cried.

"Easy, boy, easy," said Brand, relighting his pipe, "that kind of play never scored at school. The games must be played more soberly to be won."

"Don't preach at me, Brand," said the other roughly. "Ah, forgive me! If you only knew—you've never seen her, have you? But if you saw the Queen, you would understand, for she is brave as a lion, stainless as the lilies, her voice makes us mad with love; yet she is our Lady, and we scarcely dare to look her in the face. And she is to be sold to infamy! Oh, God, what can I do, what can I do to save her?"

"Lord Sydney, you forget yourself."

My lord looked at him, his eyes narrowing, his mouth hardened, his whole face freezing with self-suppression.

"Yes, that is so, Mr. Brand. Back to the facts then," he laughed nervously, "we have to fight the Chancellor, we have to fight the Government. Then there is Russia to fight, and Europe."

Brand went to the window, and there stood looking out. Beyond the pavement and the trees rose all that city which his fathers and himself had built upon the storm-swept moors of a wild headland, his walls the cliffs, his moat the Atlantic; and this bastion of our island stronghold was not unworthy to guard the British Realm.

Until that day we knew of Lyonesse as a strong man, and an humble, so we thought; for in the twelve years since he came to power, the hard-hitting, rough-fighting master of industry had never lost his habit of grave self-command, or let any breath of passion sway his justice. A man must be true to win the confidence of friends, but great to win the trust of enemies.

Now the deeps were moved, and elemental forces stirred within him. Henceforward he was to suffer, to rejoice, to pity, to slay within no boundaries of self-discipline, to love with irresistible passion, to strike with overwhelming rage. One does not praise or blame the hurricane.

Brand came back to the desk, sat down in his chair, and laid his hand upon the Russian papers.

"One would think," he said, "that the man who owned these papers, owned this Chancellor. He obeyed Russia—will he fight me?"

"There is the whole party of the capitalists," answered the other ruefully, at which Brand was aroused.

"Will they fight me?" he said.

"But the allies will declare war!"

"Am I not Lyonesse!"

"You cannot fight three nations."

"My father warned me," said Brand, thoughtfully, "and somehow I always knew that sooner or later I must take the field to save Britain. No man has seen etheric power in action."

Sydney breathed hard. "You called it once the Chariot of the Sun."

"The Chariot of the Sun. Yes. Heaven send I may never have to use etheric power for war."

III OUR LADY THE QUEEN

In the wondrous romance of our Island history the reigns of three English Queens stand out with singular splendour. First came Elizabeth the Great, then Victoria the Good, and now in the fulness of time reigns Margaret the Fair.

At the end of his long reign the old King built on the site of Buckingham House, a great white palace for Margaret. Above the marble walls terrace upon terrace the hanging gardens bloomed, and tier on tier of gleaming colonnades; then pearl-white domes broke the long lines above, and gemmed pavilions flanked the central towers. Not that Margaret cared for palaces. Her mind ran upon lighting, and she showed the old King books about the Varangian Guard of Greek Byzantium, the Grand Musketeers of Muscovy, the Mousquetaires of France. For her sake he took liberties with the Ancient and Honourable Corps of Gentlemen-at-Arms, a nice piece of antique frippery which he changed into a standing regiment generally to be known as the Queen's Blackguards. This force he quartered in the palace and made it a very good nursery to train young officers for the Imperial Army.

To enlist, a lad must undergo the severest tests of mind and body, then pass the school of arms. Then the Queen granted to him chain mail and helmet of silver, a black cloak charged with the royal arms, the sword and the spurs. For officers the armour was of gold, the cloak scarlet; for undress, a suit of woven gold or silver. Quarters were given in the palace, but the trooper must provide his own sustenance, and for his servant a trained man who rode in the rear rank of his squadron. The discipline was rigid, and what with training for the Imperial army, there was little time for mischief. They were the last cavalry of the civilized world.

Such were the Queen's toys, palace and guard, beyond all jurisdiction save her will.

The Plutocracy ruled, the Imperial court only remained in the realm on sufferance as a venerable fiction, and nobody ever dreamed that Margaret's playthings, accepted by the nation as a joke, were destined to prove a most momentous fact. For the present it was pretty to see the fair maid, ruddy, sunburnt, wilful, playing with her glittering pageantry of state in the white palace. So the rose of England bloomed in a garden of swords, and on the eve of the Coronation no little cloud had risen as yet in warning. Looking back through a score of years it seems a wonder passing belief that June, 1980, dawned with a cloudless heaven, and the earth at peace.

One glance at the calendar brings it all to mind. Only last Friday Sharon won the Derby, Jim Carrington up, wearing Tom of Lancaster's colours—rose red, and how the people cheered the young prince afterwards! On Saturday Her Majesty was at the Colosseum to close the Pan-Anglican games, and with her own hands crowned the victors with wreaths. The Maharajah of Gwalior gave a Nautch at his palace in Kensington. On Sunday the great Dignitaries assembled in town for the Coronation, attended a special service at St. Paul's. On the 2nd of June, Monday morning, the Gigantic arrived—one of Mr. Brand's etheric liners—with a contingent from the army of the United States in honour of the Coronation.

Word came in the afternoon that Mr. Partridge with his yacht Meteor had won the America Cup at St. Louis. This evening was set for the Masquerade at Devonshire House, and there was to be a torch-light procession of the City Liveries. As to the palace, that was mostly concerned on Coronation eve with matters of apparel, the burnishing of jewels, nervous rehearsals, and feverish attempts at repose.

In the portico, three saddled horses, overcome with heat, mouthed their chained bits, and swished their lazy tails. In the guardroom, midway upon the alabaster stairs, three gentlemen of the guard, Queen's orderlies in waiting, tried not to fall asleep. They had taken off their casques with the lions, but still that ridiculous chain mail was suffocating. They yawned for want of better occupation, talked to keep themselves in a state of decent wakefulness.

"Ho-la," said MacNeill, rolling over in his chair, "I'll grill my other side now. By the bars of Hades I'd be cooler at home." MacNeill was half Spaniard, a banker's son from Venezuela. "Ali," he turned to the Indian prince who lounged by the wall, "you know all about this business to-morrow. What's it like?"

Lazily the Prince lifted his eyes—big, soft, gentle eyes they were.

"My dear MacNeill, what business?"

"Why the Coronation, of course; weren't you crowned when they made you King of Haidar?"

The Prince laughed easily. "It wasn't a crown, we have a green umbrella."

"The ancestral gamp," said MacNeill, irreverently. "Is Haidar so wet? What do they worship—ducks?"

"Allah, el Allah!"

The Prince scarcely breathed the awful name, and his eyes were hard now.

MacNeill apologized with much politeness, and asked if the State Umbrella was old.

"Very old." Prince Ali smiled.

"Holy?"

"As my Faith."

"Won't keep out the wet?"

Still smiling, the Prince drew off his gauntlet, and swept it softly across MacNeill's face.

So long Lord Sydney had watched Prince Ali in silence, now he came forward, and, with a little bow, laid claim to the gauntlet.

"Your Highness," he said respectfully, "as a reigning sovereign cannot fight this cad, or he would never have dared to insult you. You," he said, turning upon MacNeill, "will apologize to the Maharajah or I'll thrash you within an inch of your life."

"I didn't insult him," growled the offender, sulkily. "I don't understand what you're driving at."

"My dear Prince," Lord Sydney turned his back upon MacNeill. "He would not understand more if I thrashed him."

"You're quite right, Sydney," Prince Ali accepted the return of his gauntlet. "I have so few friends that one more," he clasped Lord Sydney's hand, "has the larger place in a full heart. I shall remember."

Just then an Equerry came down the stairway, and gave to MacNeill a letter from her Majesty to be despatched. The trooper, muttering wrathfully, set on his helmet, took up his gloves and sword, and swaggered away down the stairs. Without, they heard his horse dancing with excitement, break off at a canter into the distance. Sydney and the Prince laughed together.

"Maharajah," my Lord Sydney laid his hands very tenderly upon Ali's shoulders. "Do you believe that I am your friend?"

"Surely you have proved it more than once."

"Will you promise me not to be offended if I ask a still more personal question than even MacNeill dared?"

The beautiful dark eyes glowed. "Go on, my dear Sydney."

"What if I hurt, Maharajah? Your heart has changed to us since you came to England; you know now that we are not all brutes. You know that some of us, unbelievers, are not to be bought?"

"What do you mean?" An ominous flush burned in Prince Ali's face.

"When you bought my father with two million pounds, did you know where the money came from?"

Under the dark skin came pallor, and concentrated rage leaped to Prince Ali's eyes, as he recoiled.

"Understand this, my lord," said the Maharajah of Haidar. "One cannot hate an enemy from the very heart unless he has been a friend. Withdraw that question; I give you the chance to withdraw. To no other man living would I allow so much."

"I must repeat my question, Maharajah."

"I'll have your life for this!"

"And afterwards? How could you possibly remain in the household? Come, deny the charge, Prince, and let me beg your pardon."

"By Azrael——"

"Don't swear at me. I give you a week to leave Her Majesty's service."

A young man, a civilian, was coming up the stairway, a big boy with blue eyes and freckles, who carried a letter in his hand. Lord Sydney turned to him as he reached the stairhead.

"Can I serve you?" asked the guardsman, courteously.

The boy drew nearer. "If you please," he said nervously, "this letter is for the Adjutant."

"A rookie?"

"My name is Browne, sir, and I——"

"Fresh from the incubator?"

"I've passed," said the boy in shy triumph, "but the Adjutant?"

"I think the Adjutant is out on the tiles. Let me introduce you; Mr. Browne, Trooper Ali."

Prince Ali bowed stiffly and walked away.

"Won't you sit down?" Lord Sydney offered a chair.

The boy sat down, and Sydney joining him, he produced a cigarette case.

The trooper appeared to be shocked. "Put it away," he whispered. "We don't smoke—bad for a man in training."

From a syphon on the table beside him he filled a glass with sparkling water, a delicately flavoured draught, which the boy accepted wondering.

"Don't you drink wine or——"

"Never breathe the word! We must keep in condition, with the Tournament due next month, or the Tommies will carry off half our trophies. What games do you play, Mr. Browne? We want new blood badly, especially in the cricket field. I'm captain of the first eleven."

"I don't play, though."

"Are you a decent aerial yachtsman?"

"I'm a savage," cried the boy humbly, but Sydney had set him quite at ease.

"A savage?"

"I'm from the province of Yukon."

"Where on earth is that?"

"In arctic Canada. My old man has cattle."

"In the Arctic?"

"Yes, a six months' day, and a six months' night. I tell you it's an awful thing for a cowpuncher to face you fellows."

"A what?"

"Cowboy."

"But I thought that cowboys and dodos and mammoths and all those things were extinct—swept away in the nineteenth century. A real live cowboy?"

The lad blushed. "I was raised in the saddle, and it's a three-hundred-mile ride across the ranche."

"But cows!"

The boy laughed at Sydney now. "No, reindeer, and musk oxen. We have three hundred thousand head of stock, besides raising pelts."

"What are pelts?"

"Silver fox skins, sea otter, beaver, musquash."

The boy was straining every fibre of his being to win acceptance from this courtly man of the town.

"What a jolly outdoor life," said Sydney; "tell me more, do you——"

A faint sound of spurs arrested the trooper in mid speech. He instantly jammed on his casque and sprang sharp to "attention." In the curtained doorway opposite an officer appeared in golden armour; Sydney stood forward at the salute.

"A recruit, sir."

The boy went trembling and presented his letter.

"Hum—Mr. Browne?"

The boy blushed.

"We have your credentials, Trooper Browne, which are approved." He glanced over the letter. "I see that you passed with honours in horsemanship at the school of arms. Report at the Mess dinner to take the oath, after which you will be presented when her Majesty permits. Trooper Sydney, take charge of this gentleman."

As the Adjutant passed on towards the State apartments, a sergeant of the corps came running down the stairs, but stood aghast at the sight of his officer, and tried to conceal a large green cardboard box.

"Sergeant Dymoke," the Adjutant gave signs of impatience; "carrying parcels here?"

Dymoke grinned uneasily, dropping the box as he came to the salute.

"Forgive the Queen's champion, sir, for bearing the Queen's favours."

Now the Dymoke has from time immemorial in England a vested right of appearing at the Coronation mounted and clad in plate armour, to cast his gauntlet on the floor of Westminster Hall, and there challenge all comers to joust à l'entrance on behalf of his sovereign's right to the throne of this kingdom.

"I don't see," said the Adjutant, suavely, "what the Queen's champion has to do with that box of gloves."

"I intercepted these, sir," said Dymoke, "at the door of the private rooms; they are a gross of white gloves for her Majesty. I want to wear my Lady's favour to-morrow, and this is the first thing I've managed to steal for months."

"Pardon, sir," said Lord Sydney, saluting; "but though we can't all wear boiler plate like Dymoke, every trooper in the Guard wants to bear our Lady's favour."

"My Lord," the Adjutant smiled, "are we unfortunate officers to be left out? Sergeant, have one of her Majesty's gloves placed at every cover in the Regimental Mess, and pass the word for each man to fasten the Queen's favour on his helmet. If she is angry, she shall punish the lot of us—but see that no outsider gets a chance."

The boy was beyond surprise by this time, and, like a colt broken of shying, was introduced to the men on duty. He was shown the armoury, mess-room, club-rooms, baths, stables—all that splendid barrack which fronted the palace.

Then Sydney took him to the room allotted to his use, and the lad's heart beat high as he put on the undress uniform of the corps.

"Do you feel like a savage now?" asked Sydney, laughing.

"I don't know how I feel."

The lad was changed beyond knowledge, his bronzed skin glowing against the silver, and if his face was made in the rough, his limbs were a matter for boasting.

"We're all savages," said Sydney, "all savages, we English, under our skins. Ever seen any fighting, Mr. Browne?"

The boy's eyes glistened.

"How I wish——" he sighed, "but there's been no big war for thirty years."

"When you live on a volcano which hasn't been in eruption for thirty years—look out."

"But do you think——"

"Do you think," said Sydney, "that we wear this confounded livery for fun? Do you think we've given up smoking, drinking, late hours—and all the rest—from piety? Do you think we drill hours a day for want of other exercise? Wait until you've been a few days in town, and then you'll know."

The lad was thinking things which had no words; and when that evening he sat at dinner in the banqueting hall of white marble, surrounded by all the circumstance of Margaret's incomparable court, he could not trust himself to speak. He rose with the rest when the trumpets sounded, he put his lips to his glass when the vice-president cried—"Gentlemen—the Queen!"—but a little tear ran out of his left eye. He saw as through a mist the glittering splendour of the scene, and wanted to shout when the band played the National Anthem.

The Captain, Prince Rupert of Gloucester, had come forward to the front of the dais, with the other officers grouped about him. Then one of the trumpeters called a summons.

"Attend, Trooper Sydney."

"Come on," said Sydney roughly to the lad, and all eyes were upon them as they marched up the hall to the dais.

"Sir," said Lord Sydney, "I present Trooper Browne."

"Trooper Browne, kneel."

The lad bent his knee to the ground, and the Captain spoke again.

"I bid you lay your hands in mine."

Tremulous, the lad held out his hands until the Captain clasped them in his own, and began indifferently to deliver the great oath based upon Alfred Tennyson's code of Honour:

Then the air rang with music, while the Captain, Lord Sydney attending as a squire, put upon the lad a tunic of mail, and on his head the lion-crested casque, bound spurs upon his feet, hung a sword from his belt and bade him in his life and to his death be ever a Christian, a gentleman, a soldier, in the service of Almighty God, the British Empire, and our Sovereign Lady.

The stately ritual was scarcely over, the regiment had not begun to disperse, the men just relieved from guard were still clattering in for dinner, when the great doors swung open at the back of the dais, and instantly every man in the room sprang at attention.

For the usher had announced—"Her Majesty," and Margaret, attended by her ladies, entered the mess-room.

"Cousin," said our Lady to the Captain, "we have come to demand the head of Sergeant Dymoke."

The Captain passed the word, and the Queen's Champion came forward to make obeisance.

"Sergeant," said our Lady, whose voice rang through the silent place, "you are charged with stealing my gloves. Guilty or not guilty?"

"Guilty, Madame," said the Queen's Champion, prompt to the word.

"You seem to be mightily pleased. I demand the gloves."

"I have but one left, Madame, and that next my heart."

"And where are the rest, pray?"

"I don't know, Madame."

But every man in the room had produced a glove to wave in triumph, and the officers themselves were first in the offence.

"So this shameful theft has been committed by all my lords and gentlemen of the Guard. Do you all plead guilty?"

The hall rang with the triumphant answer.

"Then," the Queen's voice sounded more than severe, "we pronounce sentence. Your punishment shall be a full-dress mounted parade, with no excuses, at the stroke of the next hour."

There was a general gasp of consternation.

"We have been dull all day, a prisoner in the hands of our governess, but to-night we are mutinous, we shall take the air and ride with our Guard. Dismiss!"

The Guard could not be restrained upon this eve of the Coronation from giving three cheers for the Queen, but presently the Captain begged leave of his cousin to grant audience to a new trooper. The quiet hall was almost empty now, and a young lad, shaking with fright, sank on one knee to kiss a small gloved hand.

"Are you very much frightened?"

The sweet voice came down to him out of a mist.

"Very," sighed Browne, scarcely conscious that he spoke, for now he was looking up and saw the glorious beauty of the Queen.

Something hummed in his ears, and yet he could hear his own voice like the voice of somebody else.

"I love you. I love you."

"You mustn't," said our Lady gravely, "it's very wrong indeed. The Queen may have everything—everything on earth, save that. There's nothing worth while in all the world save love, and the Queen must have no love. Don't you pity me?"

The lad saw a little quiver in our Lady's face, half grief, half laughter; then like a dumb animal which dare not even speak, he kissed her hand again.

That night, far away from the illuminations, the clash of music, and the roaring crowds, long silent streets towards Windsor awoke from their sleep with thunder of hoofs, the clank of steel, the music of armour. Queen Margaret was out for a scamper with her Guard.

IV THE CORONATION

What was that old London like, the London of 1980, of twenty years ago, before ever the shadow of the storm darkened her suburbs? The town which awakened on the day of our Lady's Coronation was certainly a magnificent capital. Although not nearly so big as New York, its population numbered ten millions, its streets and gardens covering the valley of the Thames from Windsor to Gravesend. Railway travel had so increased in speed and comfort, that men living fifty miles from the city could reach their offices in half an hour. Aerial pleasure-ships enabled even the poorest to get out of town for fresh air; and there were now fields within easy reach for the games and exercises which our people have always loved. Very old folk could remember the curse of the coal smoke, but in 1980 the air of London was as clear as that of the country. The dirt from horse traffic had ceased to mar the streets, and the terrible, monotonous slums of the nineteenth century were replaced by districts of tenement buildings surrounded with public gardens. London had become what Paris used to be, the capital of civilization, the centre of science, art and letters, the metropolis of pleasure. Many millionaires from America and the Dominions had built their palaces in the West End, which had become a region of especial wealth and splendour, having its nucleus in the Imperial Court.

The day of the Coronation was heralded by pageants and festivals, the reception of Princes, the gathering of countless visitors. Troops were assembled from every part of the Empire, the Fleet was mobilized and soared like a glittering cloud above the Thames, the streets were being decorated, and buildings torn down to make room for spectators. All these things kept the public amused, and still no cloud had arisen.

On the 2nd of June the last edition of one evening paper announced that Mr. Brand had been waylaid by supposed tramps, robbed, and seriously injured. The morning papers of June the 3rd confirmed this news, stating that Mr. Brand had been robbed and nearly murdered in the night of the 30th of May, and the facts withheld until now. Chicago reported immense purchases of wheat, buyers not identified. Odessa and Melbourne both sent advice of a sudden and sharp rise in bread-stuffs, and meat, caused by unknown buyers. There was a sudden chartering of deep sea cargo ships by hundreds at home and abroad. Feverish activity was reported from the Chancellor's office, and Ulster had scarcely left his desk for the last thirty hours. An attaché at the Russian Embassy being interviewed, said everything was all right. These were the first faint zephyrs and little wandering breaths that ruffled the stillness of a world-wide calm.

The morning of the Coronation was sultry, and even before the fiery heat of the day there was no little suffering among the crowds gathered to witness the procession.

At sunrise the corps of gentlemen-at-arms, the Queen's Blackguards, were drawn up in front of the palace. Regiment after regiment of Imperial troops were passing into the Mall to take up their positions, the air was full of music from their bands, as far as the eye could see the parks and avenues were full of marching troops, the glow of scarlet, the fluttering of colours. Absorbed in the spectacle, Lord Sydney lounged at ease upon his charger, when a voice addressed him by name, and a letter was thrust into his hand. He thanked the bearer, then opened the note which had come from Lyonesse.

"Read and destroy. I have been waylaid, and pretty nearly killed, but hope to be out of bed to-morrow. The enemy has the papers. At all hazards get them back. If you fail I must strike." This in Brand's writing.

Scarcely had Sydney time to destroy the message before the parade was called to attention, and presently he found himself swinging with his regiment into position. Deep in his heart he cursed Brand's carelessness. Was Ulster such a fool as to let the Russian papers be stolen again? "If you fail I must strike!"

Alone among the thousands in the royal pageant, alone among the millions who kept that festival, the trooper foresaw and feared.

Well Sydney knew the antagonists at war, the Chancellor, his own father, and Brand, his life-long friend, the one commanding the forces of the British Empire, the other controlling powers awful beyond conception. Around him were his comrades in their shining harness, and ever he heard the roar of voices greeting Margaret, the Queen. Yet to him the pageant was a dream passing through white spaces of silence. And it was borne in upon him then that he would never see the light beyond the darkness, the peace after the storm. For him the way led on into the Shadow of Death, where a man must ride alone.

So swept the pageant onwards to the city, and thence through crowded streets to Westminster. In the van went detachments of the Imperial Army. There followed the dignitaries of the Commonwealths of Canada, Australasia, Africa, of the Dependencies and the Indies, attended by contingents from the several races of mankind, bodies of men-at-arms from all the forces of the Empire. Then came the estates of the British Realm, the Commons, the Lords, the Imperial Council, the Princes of India, the envoys, ambassadors, and foreign princes, the Household, and last the Queen's Blackguards in their dazzling silver, escorting the lumbering-golden carriage of Margaret the Fair.

And always above them floated the pageant of the Aerial Fleet soaring against the blue, and sheltering the streets from the fierce heat of the sun.

As in many a former time of national rejoicing, once more the immemorial Abbey sent up the Te Deum and the solemn service of the Eucharist. Queen Margaret sat upon the stone of destiny, the crown of white gems was placed upon her head, while the trumpets pealed, and the nobles of the old isles put on their coronets and rendered homage.

Once more, as in ancient times, the banquet was spread in the great hall of St. Stephen's Palace at Westminster.

Old white statues of the Kings looked down upon this new Queen, crowned by the Grace of God, Defender of the Faith, Defender of our time-honoured, well-tried Faith. That faith of disciplined freedom had made a little nation very great, and had given an awful and far-reaching power.

At the high table the great officers of the kingdom waited upon our Lady with every solemnity that has come down through the centuries of a nation's youth. The heat was stifling, the fierce light of the morning was quenched in a white haze, and the sun was hidden now, for the air was darkening. Many of those who sat at the banquet tables have since spoken of the prevailing depression and weariness. Once somebody laughed, and the sound seemed out of place, for people were seized with vague misgivings, a sense of restless uneasiness verging on fear. The hall became dim as though it were evening, darkness swept down out of the spaces of the timbered roof. The air was full of electric tension, and the silence that fell upon the assemblage was broken at times by the roll of distant thunder; while the semi-darkness was now and then illumined by the flicker of far-off lightning. One of the Queen's ladies fainted, causing some stir for a moment, while the darkness deepened until it seemed to be night. A moaning wind caught the doors and swept them wide apart. Then came a peal of trumpets while three horsemen clattered in from the palace yard. Here came the hereditary Champion of England, mounted and clad in plate armour, attended by the Earl Marshal and the Lord Great Chamberlain on horseback, and by a body of trumpeters and heralds.

Then a herald, lifting up his voice, made proclamation that the Champion of England challenged in single combat to the death, any who should dare dispute the right of Margaret to the British Throne. When the proclamation had been made, the Champion rode forward, and taking the steel gauntlet from his hand, he flung it ringing upon the pavement.

Even as he gave the challenge, the lightning blazed behind him, the roof was shaken with a crash of thunder, men sprang to their feet, and women screamed aloud, while with roar of wind, hissing rain, shaft upon shaft of lightning, and peal after peal of thunder, the dreadful elements took up the challenge. Amazed and appalled, the Queen and her nobles sat for the most part silent, but some few fled aimlessly from the tables, rushing here and there in panic.

Nobody noticed in that confusion that a trooper, in the armour of the Guard, picked up the Champion's gauntlet from the floor. By that act he challenged Margaret's accession, and accepted the gage of battle with the Queen's Champion.

Dymoke bent forward in the saddle, trying to see through the gloom.

"Who are you?" he cried. "Damn you! Let see me your face."

A blaze of lightning revealed to him the face of Prince Ali.

"You fool," he cried; "do you challenge our Lady's right?"

"Don't talk nonsense," said Ali, laughing. "Here," he presented the gauntlet with a gesture of mock humility, "you can't leave this lying about."

The Champion seized the gauntlet, and with it struck Prince Ali across the face.

The Indian drew back, his eyes gleaming out of the darkness.

"Afterwards," he said. "Afterwards. You have challenged Heaven, and your God has answered you."

V THE GATHERING STORM

It was evening, and the sweet cool dusk brought many tired Londoners to the Mall. From the Victoria Monument to Trafalgar Square extended that old avenue where garlands of lamps festooned the trees, fountains sprayed liquid air to cool the gardens, cafés set out their tables and seats upon the gravel, and a military band provided music. At one of the tables a journeyman carpenter was at ease with ale and a pipe; and looking about for a seat came a grey old soldier, an Anglo-Indian colonel, lately retired. When the artisan made room and found a chair, the old man gruffly thanked him and sat down.

"A warm night, sir?"

"Ugh!" grunted the Colonel. "Where's that confounded waiter? Warm! Would you like a frost?"

"Big crowd to-night, sir," ventured the carpenter.

"Disgusting babel. Ur-r-r! In my time one came here for peace and quiet. I hate mixed crowds."

"The modern democracy," observed the carpenter, his eyes twinkling amusement. "In the old days my father could not have sat here chattering sociably with your father, sir."

"I didn't come here to jabber, curse you, sir!" said the Colonel. "Surely," he leaned forward, "I ought to know that old frump with the cloak——

"Lord Fortescue?"

"The Chief of Staff! Of course. Dear me, how old he's grown. Polly Fortescue of course! Where's that damned waiter?"

The carpenter touched the Colonel's sleeve. "Look, sir, those two men in silver."

"Bah!" the old soldier snorted with rage. "Queen's Blackguards. Bah! In fancy dress, the bounders! This so-called Chivalrie Renaissance among the idle rich is a piece of damned disgusting snobbery. Ugh!"

"The young 'un is the Duke of Lancaster. The tall lean chap is the Chancellor's son, the Marquess of Sydney—rare good at the wicket, sir."

The Colonel scowled sideways at the passing Guardsmen.

"I hate this foppery—ought to be whipped."

"We may need them," the carpenter turned grave, "may need them badly, sir—may need every man we have in the Empire. Have you heard, sir, that Brand is provisioning the country for a siege?"

"Pooh! Old invasion scare again—young man, I was brought up to that."

"I'm afraid, sir, it's something worse than invasion. There's a rumour that unless the Government drops this Russian Alliance, Brand's going to read them a lesson."

"Don't talk to me about Brand, a beastly common tradesman—ought to be locked up. Bah!"

"Well, I'm a working man," said the carpenter, "and we're not much in love with this Capitalist Government. Hello, here's the Marquess of Sydney back again with—look," he pointed with his pipe stem. "That's John Brand!"

"Brand, you say?" The Colonel half choked with excitement, "point him out quick. Is that really Brand himself? Why, damme!"

Brand and Lord Sydney were talking in low tones, earnestly, as they passed through the lanes of trees.

"My dear Brand, it's too horrible," said the Guardsman, "you never could hold the reins through such a crisis. There must be some other way."

"There is only one other way. Get back the Russian papers. I must have those papers, I must publish them word for word, then leave the people to judge."

"I have tried. Can't you believe that I've tried to get them, Brand?"

"I couldn't blame you, Sydney, if you refused your help. I know what it means to you."

"To rob my father, to betray him to his enemies, to hand him over to justice, then to be Duke of Ulster afterwards in his place, and bribe thieves and prostitutes to shake hands with me—the leper. I know what it means, and I have not turned back."

"Give it up, Sydney, leave it to me, and let me get the papers."

"First spy, then coward, I must sneak, and then run away?"

Yet that old dread seized him which has shaken the nerve of many a gallant Englishman, before and since, who has heard his country call on him to serve. What is this England? She gives her children to the wolves, to the sharks, the desert, the ice field, plague, famine, war; waters the continents with our blood, paves the sea with our bones, and goes on her way forgetting, asking for more. And if she is not content that we die the lesser death, but requires the son to give his father's body, shall she find men cowards, afraid to sacrifice?

"No, I have not turned back!" cried my Lord. "How could I turn back!"

Brand wrung Lord Sydney's hand but made no answer.

Then my Lord told him what had been done already, and how the Duke of Ulster defended the Chancellory from attack with a force of detectives, a cordon of police, and in his private room reliefs of Queen's messengers on guard by night and day.

"I think," Sydney continued, "I can force the outer cordon. On the eve of the Coronation, yes, Monday—that's five days ago, a recruit took the oaths, a fellow called Browne, a cowboy from the Arctic. He has let me make friends with him, a good horseman, Brand, and we'll be through the lines before the police can fire. That's all arranged, but the trouble begins when we reach Ulster's room. The Queen's messenger for the first night watch is a newly appointed man, a retired Anglo-Indian officer, Colonel Anderson, V.C., otherwise known as Red Pepper. I saw him just now as we passed, at one of the tables. A friend of mine was talking with him, a carpenter."

"I noticed him," said Brand. "The carpenter was pointing me out. Your friend, you say?"

"When I was a youngster he built me a model ship; we've been chums ever since."

"Isn't such a friendship awkward for him?"

"I asked him once," answered my Lord, "and he went over to the open doors of the workshop. He was bearing a plank, and stood there in the sunlight pointing at the shadow which he cast upon the floor at my feet. It was the shadow of the Cross. 'Don't you envy me that?' says he. Then I looked up at his face and seemed to see the Carpenter of Bethlehem, offering a crown in exchange for only a coronet."

"You have sent your carpenter to Colonel Anderson?"

"Yes," said my Lord, cheerfully. "My carpenter has a rare gift of making friends. I told him everything, and he said that surely Colonel Anderson would serve the Queen if he knew."

"Colonel Anderson," answered Brand, "will obey the Queen's orders. Go to her and get a written command."

* * * * *

The Duke of Ulster was writing a letter to his son. "I am lonely," he wrote, and scratched out the words; "I am all alone," he wrote, and drew his pen hastily through the line. "I am left all alone. For thirty years I have laboured to leave to my son a great heritage of honour, to pass down to my heirs such——" He tore the paper to shreds and began again. How could written words carry his pain to another, or any confession, or any cry for help clear that estrangement!

For many days this poor traitor had been silent in the flames of his punishment, but now the fire burning within him kindled, and his mortally wounded spirit screamed for mercy. Only the night heard, only the pitiless walls rang back in answer. No human ear would ever hear that cry, no human heart would ever understand. In this night his soul died. Never again did he hope either for the help of men or the pity of God. Never again was he known to show mercy to either men or women, but fought with ruthless power in blind pain.

One whose name may not be given found fragments of scattered paper with the words upon them which the doomed man tried in vain to write to his son. The fragments have been by a strange chance preserved, surely the most pitiful scripture in all our national archives. Perhaps at the Day of Judgment this cry of a dying soul may yet be weighed and lie as heavy in the scales as Ulster's sin. So one prays who has himself need of mercy.

For a long time the Duke lay back motionless in his chair, his face bowed down upon his breast. Then an electric instrument stirred on the table beside him, clicking and throbbing out a printed message.

"MY LORD DUKE,

"I have the honour to warn you that the safe in your lordship's office will be broached to-night from the rear. We hope to take the assailant red-handed, but any papers of vital importance should be secured from a possible injury by explosives. I have the honour to be,

"Your Grace's Obedient Servant, "PATRICK O'ROOKE, Sergeant."

The Duke hurriedly crossed to the safe, set the cypher, opened the doors, and secured the package of the Russian papers. After some hesitation he opened a cupboard between the windows, and hid the package in the pocket of an old office coat. A spy concealed within the panelling of the walls saw everything, the matured result of a plot to get the papers taken out of the safe and placed within reach of capture.

The Duke came out from the closet, turned to close the door, then with a violent start swung round raising his arms as though to defend himself. The Secretary for War had entered unannounced, was crossing towards the desk, and him the Duke confronted, his head thrown back, white fluttering hands waving dismissal.

"Leave my room," he said haughtily, "request my secretary to announce you, sir."

"Bosh—keep that for your flunkies, Ulster, I've got no time for your trumpery etiquette. Come to the House if you want to save your Government."

The Duke sat down in his official chair, and under lowering brows, glared at the Minister.

"Sir Myles," he said, "do you think you are entirely safe insulting me?"

"Safe? Confound you, Ulster—do your worst. We'll both be ruined by midnight anyway. Brand's people have attacked us in the Commons—they've produced this damned Treaty of yours with Russia—clause by clause, and the House is furious. We've had to give them the lie that there's any such Treaty. Come down and defend yourself, man, if you want to stay in office."

"Sir Myles," answered the Chancellor, "go to the Opposition with all your tribe, if you dare! Go, take your panic back to your seat in the House, and when I follow, see that I find you there. Get out of my room."

The Chancellor was alone in the silence, gnawing his fingers, biting his nails to the quick.

He must go to the House of Lords, he must fight, he must get the Commons pacified, the Russian Treaty accepted by Parliament—that or war with the Leagued Nations, that or the destruction of the betrayed fleets, that or invasion, conquest, the fall of the Empire, his own destruction, and never-ending infamy. What could he do in the Parliament, what threats, sacrifices, appeals—to rally his scattered forces, to stay their panic? Yes! In one flash he saw his way cleared. He rose from his place triumphant, his eyes alight with victory! The Queen's move gives checkmate to this King Brand III.

A secretary crept in timidly, offering up words, then with a gasp of fear recoiled before Ulster's eyes.

"A letter? Bring it here. Go."

The Duke saw the superscription, and a trembling seized him, so that he sank back into his chair, for the writing was in the hand of Brand, his adversary, strong, hard, ominous. He wrenched the cover open, bent, and read, his livid face and burning eyes set on the script.

And in effect the ultimatum ran: "Resign, or fight Lyonesse."

He looked up, his lips quivering, his face convulsed.

"I must, I must," he muttered. To resign was to face the Russian vengeance, to fight, destruction. "I must, I must!" he whispered. "I shall go to the Queen."

Then throwing himself upon the desk, he buried his face in his arms.

VI THE PENANCE CHAMBER

There was one door in the palace which the frivolous passed on tiptoe, where the boldest paused before they ventured to knock. Miss Temple lived there, the Queen's governess, who was supposed to refresh herself daily from the Lamentations of Jeremiah, the Psalms of Imprecation, and the cheering pages of Job. If ever the Queen's ladies romped in the corridor, she would come forth denouncing the iniquities of the age, and once when a profane Guardsman blew cigarette smoke through the keyhole, Miss Temple curdled his young blood with lurid prophesy.

On Monday, the 9th of June, pretty Mrs. Osbourne called. Her Jack had told her that his cousin, Miss Temple, was "a gay old puss who would tell naughty stories by the hour."

Miss Temple had lately published fulminations against the wearing of boy dress by athletic women, so at Jack's mischievous suggestion, Mrs. Osbourne called in her riding costume to hear the naughty stories. What transpired between the two ladies is not exactly known, but there are rumours of a locked door and sobs. Anyway when Lord Sydney dropped in for tea he found Miss Temple complacent and Mrs. Osbourne damp. Sydney, having urgent business, was by no means gratified at finding the old governess engaged.

"Now, pet," she said cheerfully, as she rose to welcome the Guardsman, "this is the Marquess of Sydney."

"Rattles, but doesn't bite," he responded. He was on duty, and the armour was always a nuisance indoors. Moreover, he could not find a seat, for Miss Temple dated from the quaint times of the old King when furniture was devised solely for ornament.

"Glad to see you, Mrs. Osbourne," he said, plumping abstractedly down on a doubtful stool. "Miss Temple often lets me come for tea."

"Oh!" quoth Mrs. Osbourne in a state of collapse. "Oh, thank you!" Sydney presented her teacup, and sat down again with his own. Then he turned to Miss Temple.

"How is our Lady?"

Miss Temple sighed. "She must have done something more dreadful than usual, for she wears plain black, poor child, sits in her penance-room, and watches the vulgar sparrows on the terrace. Do you know, I waited a whole hour with her before she even spoke, yes, and then she sighed. 'Dearie,' she said—you know her funny way,—'these sparrows have fleas'—she will be vulgar sometimes: 'and the Queen has worries, and the Chancellor has his party, and the Party has constituents, and the constituents have taxes, poor things. But the worm'—now why should she think of a worm!—'the worm has his skin scratched all the time so he never feels the least irritation. I wish I was a worm!' There! Did you ever hear such notions? I never taught her about worms, I always tried to lead her up to think of higher things. But then, just when I was going to correct her, do you know a great big tear rolled down her cheek. So I told her to comfort herself with the thirty-ninth Psalm. I wonder now what she has done?"

"Pawned the crown jewels?" suggested the Guardsman.

Miss Temple rustled with disapproval. "I think it's a message from the Chancellor. I'm afraid your father must have demanded another audience." Then the old lady glanced towards Mrs. Osbourne, who might gossip. "Of course," she added stiffly, "it must be about the duel."

Mrs. Osbourne sitting bolt upright on the sofa, knees together, toes in, squeaked like a mouse.

"What—a duel, oh!"

"Yes," said Miss Temple. "Prince Ali is to fight the Queen's Champion." Then she bit her lips in great vexation, for to a mere civilian she had betrayed a secret of the Guard.

"That's all right," Lord Sydney laughed heartily. "We had the duel this morning. I was Dymoke's second, and young Browne for Trooper Ali. We seconds arranged the detail—swords at ten paces."

"But," said Miss Temple, primly, "swords won't reach!"

"No," Sydney shook his head, "they won't. You should have heard our warriors cursing! I'm afraid my revered father has graver business than that to worry our Lady."

"Oh," chirped Mrs. Osbourne, "and my Jack said there was a dreadful rumour on the Stock Exchange. They say that monster at Lyonesse is behaving disgracefully. Yes, he has made horrible threats about the thingum-jig, the what d'ye call 'em."

"The price of gold?" Sydney was exchanging glances with Miss Temple.

"That's it," said the governess; "that must be it. You know how strongly I disapprove of profane books. This morning my poor child was fretting herself to death about Mayne's 'Gold and Lyonesse.' I took it away from her. What a shameful thing that Margaret should be crying over a book like that! Why should a godless man like Mr. Brand be clothed with such frightful power? Let him put his mouth in the dust. Now why are such things permitted?"

"Miss Temple," said Sydney, "can you remember back to the Black Decade? But no, you must have been a mere child then."

"A child? My dear James, I was a grown woman. We were so poor that we had to give up crinolines, and come down to two-yard skimps. The country was desolate, the rampart and the wall languished together, and coals were so high that we had to use briquettes. Trade was going all to pieces, and to keep up the Fleet, they actually taxed excursion tickets. My father was ruined by the crash in Centralias, and I went out as a governess."

"But Lyonesse," said Sydney, "has made everything all right. We were never so prosperous."

"My dear James, I am still a governess. Lyonesse? It was a moor in those days, and the foxes walked upon it. Yes, there was a very frousty old man who smelt of tobacco, in a shed where Lyonesse stands now, and a rumour got about that he could take common water and make it into gold. That was John Brand I. Yes, the workshop was very smelly, I remember; but think of it, pet, he was making solid blocks of gold as if they were only bricks."

The old lady was very busy at her lace cushion. "Yes, my father took me to see him just when I got over the mumps—most unbecoming, dear, with red flannel wraps. His son, John Brand II., was a fat man with a wart on his nose, and oh, such manners! He was the one who brought hundreds of tons of gold to the Mint, so that the price went down, and all the mines had to close, and lots of people were ruined. Russia went bankrupt; that was in 1940, and all the really nice people there had their heads chopped off in the Red Terror. That was an unspeakable mercy, because, you see, they had to leave off invading India.

"People used to say that the gold making was all vanity and lying divination, but the Government asked Mr. Brand if he would mind being taxed. He said he mustn't be taxed too much or he would go over to the United States, but he didn't mind paying for the fleets, and armies, and things."

"Do you know what taxes Lyonesse pays now?" said my Lord. "Brand pays over a hundred million pounds a year in Imperial taxes alone. Besides that he has to give all Governments a big profit on their coinages—and that amounts to millions a year saved to the tax-payers of the world. Goodness only knows how rich the man is. I suppose——"

Miss Temple, who hated interruptions, turned briskly to Mrs. Osbourne.

"Now, my dear pet," she said, "I hope James doesn't bore you?"

"Oh no, dear Miss Temple, I'm quite used to it. My Jack, you know, is on the Stock Exchange."

"Now where was I?" asked Miss Temple. "Oh yes, the city of Lyonesse. Well, that was named after the place where King Arthur came from when he was washed up. Merlin the sorcerer, you know, was fishing, and caught Arthur; and afterwards when Arthur didn't die, you know, but went away to be healed of his grievous wound by the Three Queens in one barge—well, I forget exactly how it was, but anyway King Arthur went to Lyonesse, wherever that is. And some day he's to come back and save England. Lyonesse, the real place I mean, has grown, until now it has any amount of people (and they do say that the co-operative stores are ridiculously cheap and most fashionable), and it's been the saving of England. Now John Brand II. is buried there—cremated, I mean—and John Brand III. reigns in his stead. Is it true, Sydney, that he's a woman hater?"

"Jack says he's a beast," was Mrs. Osbourne's comment; "but then Jack has lost a lot himself on Lyonesse Branch Industrials."

"Lay not up for yourselves treasures on the earth," said the governess, fiercely. "I wonder if it is finance which has worried my poor Margaret."

"No, Miss Temple," Sydney launched his bombshell. "My father is going to force our Lady to marry the Grand Swine Alexander."

"That horrible story again! Oh, James!"

"Yes, again, Miss Temple. Can you wonder now why she wears black, and sits in her penance-room envying the sparrows?"

"I must go to her," cried Miss Temple, rising, in great disorder. "My child! My poor child! Let me pass, Lord Sydney."

But the Guardsman barred her passage. "Her Majesty," he said, "is engaged."

Sydney turned upon the little lady in boy dress.

"Mrs. Osbourne."

"Oh, you made me jump!"

"These matters, Mrs. Osbourne, are secret."

She rose, drawing on her gauntlets. "Of course," she twittered, "I would never dream—wild horses couldn't——"

"They wouldn't be so rude, dear lady. But is it true that there are rumours on 'Change?"

"Oh, dreadful rumours, my Jack——" she was arranging her hair—"says that the gold fiend is going to sell his gold at a penny an ounce. He says that if that's true a sovereign won't buy a loaf of bread next week, but then, dear Miss Temple, that would never matter to my Jack. He always has rusks, you know. Well, good-bye."

"Good-bye, pet," said Miss Temple, kissing her on the forehead.

"Good-bye, Mrs. Osbourne."

"Good-bye, Lord Sydney—Ta-ta!"

"Thank goodness she's gone," said Sydney, closing the door behind her.

"Oh, but Sydney," Miss Temple quivered, "she'll tell it all over the town."

"Better than a newspaper," said the trooper.

"Sit down, James," Miss Temple resumed her place, "you tell me that Margaret is being forced into marriage with that odious Russian prince. But what has this to do with Lyonesse?"

"Dear old Mummie," answered the Guardsman. "Don't you see? Lyonesse doesn't care who marries the Queen. But Lyonesse is a business concern, and has no use for a Russian Alliance."

"And quite right, too."

"So Brand says to Ulster, 'Break with Russia, or I lower the price of gold.'"

"His father, John Brand II., did that, and Russia went bankrupt!"

"Russia will go bankrupt again, France bankrupt, Germany bankrupt. Who'll dare to disobey the man who can bankrupt civilization?"

Miss Temple thought that dear Sydney was getting very pompous and uplifted.

"Dear me," she tossed her head. "Your Mr. Brand will be getting himself arrested. A sort of commercial person—who is he to give orders to the Chancellor of the Empire?"

"This commercial person," Sydney laughed, "happens to live in a respectable democracy where a shopkeeper can sell anything he pleases at his own price."

"But, James, if the old Russian Empire was swept away by his father——"

"The world may be swept away by the son, Mummie. At all costs the Queen has got to be saved, England has got to be saved. There's still time to prevent this horror. I can't explain—I daren't—but you've got to help, you've got to go to our Lady. Tell her that if she will only give me a private audience I may be able to put an end to the Russian marriage."

"But, James, she daren't give a private audience to you. We should be found out, and there'd be such a scandal."

"You must be present, Mummie, but even at the risk of scandal go to the Queen."

* * * * *

In her penance-room our Lady was giving audience to the Chancellor, and while he, in his clear, exact speech, set forth the perils of the State, Margaret was thinking about something else. She sat before the window upon a low, square stool, her elbows on her knees, her chin upon her hands, just crushed into a lovely dimple by the mouth. Her lips were slightly parted, her dreamy, big, blue eyes set on the gardens.

The Empire, said Ulster, had prospered in the trade of Lyonesse, in great revenues furnished by the ungrudging Brands; and the people were proud of the giant merchant firm, strong in its long-tried honour and good faith.

But Margaret looked upon the wind-swept elms, the big white cloud-fleets sailing in high heaven, and silver flaws of wind coursed down the lawns. The Chancellor's words throbbed on her ears unheard.

The standard of all value, gold, was secured, he said, in the keeping of John Brand. What else, save gold, could measure the workman's wage, the cost of shelter, and the price of food? Strike down that standard, and the bread-winner could have no wages, could pay no rent, could buy no bread.

But Margaret saw the lilac and the may, the trees weighed down with bloom, swayed to the rushing wind, and little white daisies laughed along the lawns. And still the Chancellor's voice drummed without meaning.

Stab a man to the heart, was the statesman's thesis, and his blood will drain away leaving death behind. But gold was the life-blood of nations, gold money the driving force of civilization. Brand's monopoly was the life-blood of human society, in his good faith the public welfare lay, and all mankind depended on his honour.

Now Margaret heard the dull pain quaver in Lord Ulster's voice, as he urged the extremity of the general peril that Brand had broken faith.

"I wish I could understand," said the poor girl dreamily. "I've tried so hard to understand."

When the flowers unfold their petals to the sun; when wild birds preen their first fine bridal plumes; when a maid first trembles to a lad's shy kiss, spring stirs young blood, and the rose-flush of heaven glows in a girl's pure face, as the dawn of childhood flames to the day of life—then God ordains the sacred truce of Love. Child-life is shadowed with fears of the Unknown, the days of a woman are dark with the sorrows of the world, but between the time of fear and the coming time of sorrow is set the holy Sabbath, and truce of Love. Bitter the lot of a woman who looking back from the sunset time of life, and that long twilight waning down to night, remembers no daybreak, no flush of sunrise, no Sabbath of Love which strengthened her for pain.

Queen Guinevere went maying in the spring, Elizabeth rode a-hawking, Marie Antoinette played milkmaid; and Queens, who bear the heavy burden of state, have need of love and laughter to cheer the way, before the crown of diamonds is changed to a crown of thorns. Hungry for freedom, for love, the delight of life, Queen Margaret turned with a little bitter smile, turned her back to the gardens, and tried to think of finance.

"Don't be cross with me, dear Lord Ulster, I can't understand yet. Tell me again what Mr. Brand has threatened."

"To sell gold at a penny an ounce."

"But the coin, the sovereign, is something more than gold. It's stamped with a dreadfully hideous portrait of me, and my name, for a proof that the head wasn't meant for a crocodile."

"Yes, madame, it pledges the national honour that melted down or ground to powder its precious gold remains of untarnished worth. Failing that, the coin, even with the Queen's image, is spurious."

"A promise to pay," said Margaret, "and the promise keeps if I'm beggared."

"To pay, madame, yes, in food or fuel, or clothes, but the question is how much? For in the great sea of commerce, the prices rise and fall; and like a post to measure the flood and the ebb, so is the changeless standard of gold recording the tides of trade. Without that index, no man could sell his labour, or buy food. If Brand strikes down the standard, the world will starve."

"I understand," said Margaret. "Have you told me all?"

"About this peril, madame? No, not half. The wreck of the world can hardly be put in a phrase."

"I mean about Mr. Brand's letter. He threatened these terrors unless—unless what?"

"Unless the Queen suspends all relations with Russia. That means war with Europe."

The Queen laughed nervously. "Is Mr. Brand so wicked as all that? Shall we have him beheaded? I've got a headache, and I'd like to have somebody beheaded."

"I wish it were possible," the Chancellor sighed. "Statecraft was so simple, so direct, so easy once. But now——"

"Would Mr. Brand be as fierce if he had to make his threat openly in public?"

"Excellent!" said Ulster. "I could call him to appear at the Bar of the Commons. But that is a last resort—a forlorn hope. There's a gentler way than that. Do you remember, madame, the old Greek myth of Una, who led a lion captive to her beauty. I cannot fight this lion——"