Across the bay came the sound of shouting from the men on board the Ida, ragged cheers. The steamer’s syren shrieked. Mr. Donovan stood on the bridge, the rope which controlled the syren in his hand. The Queen waved to him. Five revolver shots rang out in quick succession.
“Good old Wilson!” said Mr. Phillips. “I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him to fire a royal salute.”
He gave Captain Wilson credit which was not his due. It was Smith, the steward, who fired the revolver. Afterwards that loyal servant excused himself to Mr. Donovan.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “perhaps I oughtn’t to have fired without orders; but it seemed the proper thing to do, sir.”
“Do you always carry a gun in your pocket?” said Mr. Donovan.
“Only when I’m among Eastern peoples, sir. It’s wiser then. Not in England, sir.”
The Queen, standing radiant in the sunshine before her palace, gave her first royal command.
“Mr. Phillips,” she said, “take the keys and come along.”
They ran up the steps together, past the flagstaff, crossed a space of smooth white rock, and reached the great door which faced them. Mr. Phillips fitted the key and flung the door wide. A gloomy cool space lay before them. They were standing in bright sunshine and a glow of reflected light. Their eyes failed to penetrate the darkness before them. It was as if a thick black curtain hung inside the door. The Queen hesitated on the threshold. Mr. Phillips entered the room. He threw open the shutters and flung the great windows wide. Broad belts of light crossed the room. The sunshine flooded it. The morning breeze blew in, driving before it the heavy stagnant air.