"The Lion first, she's on guard. Two more are ready in the yards—old crocks, but they'll do to defend our base. I have good news. The—what's her name—I can't remember her name—brand-new ship of 25,700 tons under arrest at Glasgow, crew in gaol, ah, yes, the Golden Hind. It seems her people have broken out of gaol, captured the ship—left Glasgow heading south—coming to help. She hasn't reported to me yet—but she ought to have before now. That makes two ships to defend the base, with the Lion and the Golden Hind to fight. With these we can recapture ships enough to overthrow our Lady's enemies. Am I talking sense? I must be a little delirious. Here's a list of the ships to be recaptured. I forgot to bring the list."
He held his forehead now with both hands, and his eyes strayed until they fastened on Lancaster.
"How's your shoulder, lad? It hurts, eh? Will you be able to command the Lion to-morrow? And you, my dear Lord Rothschild? And you, Lord Fortescue? Will you command the ships? The captains I trusted have been betraying me, all except Ross of the Golden Hind and Simpson, commanding the Lion, but he's wounded.
"Thank God there'll be no more Gigantic to fight. The glass of the cupola shattered about our heads, and the cold broke in, and the yacht was rolling over and over, eh, Lancaster? But tomorrow, the conquest of England!
"I know! I know!" The master spoke fretfully. "I'm hardly fit to serve her. My Lords,"—he looked round hazily towards his sister—"my Lords, you must take command—you must save Margaret, my Queen. Tell her, my Lords, that the Chariot—the Chariot of the Sun—has—has fallen. Tell her I tried—tried——"
He rolled out of his chair insensible.
The men were crowding about him to advise, to ask for assistance, to help.
"Back! Back!" cried the woman. "He's mine! He's mine, I tell you!" Her hands wrenched at the gorget of his mailed tunic, she released the pressure on his throat, she bathed his head, all the time crying angrily at the men—"Get away—off with you, out of my house, get to your yachts, bring the list of the ships from his office. Bring the Imperial Fleet to guard him until he can light. Stay, you! My Lord Lancaster, quick, cut away this chain-mail. Are they all gone?" Staggering to her feet, she called after Jack O'Brien. "Your yacht, sir, bring Dr. Boyes—965, George Street. You, Lord Clydesdale, telephone Boyes to be ready."
They laid the master on the bench in the window and when nothing more could be done, waited with what patience they might, Lancaster on his knees, fanning the still white face, Mistress Brand seated at the head of the table against a galaxy of electric lamps. Beyond the broad frame of the open window glowed sea and sky in one great sphere of moonlight glory, and at times the perfume of seaweed came in on the salt cool air.
From time to time she plied the bandages about her brother's head with ice-cold water; and always, clutched in the death-like rigour of Brand's left hand, the aerograph clicked message after message. Presently above the low murmur of the pulsing sea, the tireless instrument sounded insistent signals, so that the woman's quick brain began to take in the words flashed down by Captain Simpson from the Lion.