"Madam," said Strangford, "a couple of hundred thousand German prisoners sent as a present into the hungry Russian lines might,—well, Russia loves Germany none too well as it is."
But Lord Fortescue objected, protesting that "London was full of foreign spies, and that we could never conceal our preparations."
"Permit me, madam," cried Strangford, eagerly. "My dear Lord Fortescue, here we have the complete plans for the evacuation of London. I could get the papers sold privately to the French, and we could so shape our preparations as to make the Allies believe we were in full retreat to the Midlands. Afterwards we shall have both Russians and Germans accusing the French of treachery. We shall split the League!"
There is no need to tell again the story of our Lady's stratagem. During the five days of its preparation, the armies of the League closing down through the western suburbs, cut off all hope of retreat, all chance of succour. No help could reach us from the outer world, and lost in the valley of death, we could send no word to salve the fear of England, or to restrain despair. So much we lost.
Then came the thirty-ninth of the Terror, when the German forces, a hundred and fifty thousand strong, marched into the capital.
From the Palace towers we watched the red sun rise, heard the first gun, and waited minute after minute until the silence became agony. Then came a sudden blaze from a thousand guns, the Palace reeled under the crash, and over the ruins of central London went up a cloud of dust. Of the German forces, thirty-one thousand men are supposed to have perished in that cloud, fifteen thousand escaped in panic flight, a hundred and four thousand prisoners were released starving into the hungry Russian lines.
Our Lady was pleased to dine that night with the Bodyguard. The tables, for lack of room elsewhere, had been set in the guardroom upon the alabaster stairs, and in her Majesty's honour we twined garlands of rose and laurel about the lamps, brought out the gold plate, and used some of that old, gracious pageantry which graced the bygone times. Outside, the guns were firing a salute, the bells of London pealed for victory, and our trumpets pealed as we rose to drink to the Queen. Then Sir Myles Strangford came, attended by his staff, and from the upper stairway read the report of our triumph.
"A hundred and fourteen thousand stand of arms, the German siege train, Woolwich Arsenal, three thousand wagons of military stores, twenty-two million rations——"
The harsh call of a bugle cut short his words, a quick, imperative summons at the very gates of the Palace. No English bugle was sounded in such a place.
When an attendant had been sent to make inquiries, Sir Myles went on reading the proclamation of victory, news that would bring comfort to the besieged, hope to all Britain. His voice was fervent in thanksgiving; a storm of cheering drowned his closing words. Standing with drawn swords we sang the National Anthem, thinking most of us of the women folk at home, our mothers and sisters in danger, and our dread sovereign Lady whom we served. Then the song died on our lips, our swords drooped, and there was silence while a vague fear gripped us at the throat.