So they all knelt, our Lady, the adjutant of the Guard, the Ministers of State, while outside, the crash of musketry, the roar of guns thundered the requiem of the English Fleet. Presently the body of the old lord slipped down and fell before Margaret's knees. Shrinking away, she went back to her place upon the throne.
Some of the Ministers were moving to take away the body, but our Lady checked them.
"No," she said, "do not take it away, but lay it there before us upon the table."
They laid the frail body upon the table, paying some reverent offices, closing the eyelids, folding the hands. Shrinking from that presence, dreading, fearing it, our Lady lifted her reluctant eyes.
"We need this reminder," she said faintly, "that we are all being judged."
Then that swaggering, gallant, old Lord Roderic Scott rose, bowing to her Majesty and to the dead.
"Madam," he said, "the Fleet is gone, the Departments may last an hour, and then the Republicans will turn their guns upon this building. If your Majesty is determined to wait, I trust we shall all have the decency to die like gentlemen. But I beg your Majesty to accept the use of my private yacht, and return to Windsor until we can raise an army."
"My dear Lord Roderic," our Lady smiled. "What armies would care to fight for a runaway Government? I think I have a better plan than that. Sir Myles, I see you have troops here guarding the Palace."
"Three thousand, madam, and a battery."
"You have not enough men to save both the Departments and the Palace?"