The aerograph began to be disturbed; a rush of signals hummed from its armature.
"Position mined—rebels in possession. Ground the Fleet!—Ground the Fleet!—Ground the Fleet!"
"Oh, quick!" cried Margaret, in agony. "Order the ships to ground!"
The First Lord, poor Mendip, had fallen back in his chair, his white face convulsed, his fingers twitching and pulling in frenzy at the key of his instrument. Our Lady rushed to his side, seized the aerograph from him, begged him to dictate the orders to the ships. And all the while, the old man striving for utterance, the rest of the Ministers frantic to hear him speak, the gun-fire quickened in the distance, and some one was thundering for admittance outside the door of the room.
"He's dying!" Margaret's voice broke to a wail of misery. "Oh, who knows the cypher of the Fleet? We'll be too late—too late!"
The door burst open, an officer of the Bodyguard broke headlong into the room.
"Madam," he yelled, "the ships—the destroyers of the patrol are foundering!"
Lord Mendip's head had fallen back, his fingers were tearing at his breast, his eyes were glazing. Then his arms fell limp, and the change passed over his face, and the jaw dropped.
Our Lady bent and kissed the still dead face, then reaching out her hand beckoned the living.
"Kneel, gentlemen," she said in a low, awed voice. "Pray for the passing Fleet, for ninety thousand men called by their God."