"Good-bye," Sydney was muttering. "For ever and for ever, Margaret. Come, sir, come on," he laughed. "I've news for you." They entered the silent corridors of the Palace. "Queen Margaret has a keen scent for explosives, and all your thoughtful arrangements have been changed. From the Broad Sanctuary to Trafalgar Square your Departments of State are mined with high explosives. In your own office Gloucester's lying dead. There's conspiracy afield to take your life to-day, or Margaret would never have named to-morrow for surrender. Even with my help you may be dead by then. Hush! It's not safe to talk till we gain your ship."
They crossed the throne room, traversed the State apartments, and gained the head of the alabaster stairs.
"Guard, turn out!" cried my Lord, and the main guard paraded before they reached the porch.
"By her Majesty's command,"—Sydney saluted the officer of the day. "The main guard is desired to attend my Lord Duke to his ship. Pass, sir," he said to Ulster, "I attend you."
And as the main guard formed as an escort of State, Sydney hung back until Sergeant Dymoke passed him.
"Dymoke," he whispered, "fall out."
The Queen's Champion fell out of the ranks, and my lord held him within the shadow of the columns.
"Dymoke, old man,"—his voice was scarcely audible—"I'm going with Ulster in the Golden Hind, and I leave you a message for the Guard. I know a little of these etheric ships. Long years ago Brand showed me the detail of their gear. When they rise they're free from the pull of the earth, and but for the brake would be whirled into outer space. One blow of my sword will shatter the brake past mending. I'm going for a long voyage, Dymoke."
"Sydney, we can't spare you! Oh, let me go myself, if it must be done."
"Am I not to guard my own honour?" My Lord dropped his sword on the wrist sling.