A Russian general officer had come up the stairway attended by a trooper bearing the white flag on a lance.
"Gentlemen," he said, in broken English, "I have the honour—I bear a letter to her Britannic Majesty."
His eyes followed ours as we directed him, and perhaps, after all, the Russians pleaded for an armistice. The Allies were ready to fly at each other's throats, there was hatred within the League more than against ourselves. And yet the Russian's bearing boded no good to us, and as our Lady read we saw her face turn grey.
She beckoned the envoy to retire—told him to await her pleasure at the gates, kept silence until he was gone.
"Strangford!" she cried, "Strangford! Come here!"
She thrust the paper into Strangford's hand, and we saw him too grow cold before our eyes.
"Madam," he groaned, "I fear this is the end."
"Gentlemen," our Lady lay back in her chair very faint and ill. "Gentlemen of the Guard, you who have never failed me—never failed me," she started up, a new thought lighting her face. "You're the only men in the Empire who have not failed me. I appeal to you—I want ships—I want a squadron of ships. Help me! help me!"
Not a man moved, for how could we find her ships? We had given our yachts, those who had them, and had not failed her when our lives were needed—but ships! At the beginning the Channel Fleet was lost, but the fleets of the League were destroyed by etheric rams. The reserve fleets of France and Germany had been defeated by the Mediterranean Squadron. Victorious in a hundred aerial fights, the ships which remained to England were on guard, lest the French and Germans attempt a last attack. We dared not withdraw one cruiser lest our enemies take the air again—and that meant ruin. There was no squadron left even for the Queen's most vital need—or else the siege of London had been impossible. There were no ships.
A slow tear trickled down our Lady's face.