Saluting the throne as we passed, we formed before the dais, measured each man his distance, and made ready. Lancaster, badly wounded and barely able to stand, planted the Guidon on our Lady's right, our lance-borne pennant charged with the royal arms, half seen through low-rolling flame-hued smoke, glowing with golden and scarlet blazonry.
Already the rioters in their thousands were being swept headlong as though by a whirlwind through the chambers of state, their flight converging in the throne-room, and, for one wild moment threatening to roll insensate over our last defence. Like a rock in mid torrent we split the rush in two, then free to breathe again wiped the blood from our swords and waited. Through the red gloom, we could see battalions of Russian seamen clearing a space with their bayonets on the further side of the hall. Opposite, an Admiral attended by his staff advanced midway to the throne and halted. On either side of this group of officers, the battalions, far back against the columns, halted, grounded arms with a crash, and unfixed bayonets. Their rifles clattered to the "ready," the "present," then with a deafening roar and a blaze of flame, delivered one volley. The floor was littered with the broken cots of the hospitals, with heaps of plunder, and with piles of the dead. We were alone with our enemy, and in a momentary silence heard the sharp crackle of advancing flames, felt the furnace heat, and saw the red glare deepen on drifting wreaths of smoke.
The bugles were sounding the English general salute, and as the Admiral advanced at the head of his staff, we could do no less than respond to that courtesy with our swords. We looked at the Admiral's face, and he was the man we had expelled in disgrace from the Palace, his Imperial Highness the Grand Duke Alexander.
Our Lady never moved, nor would we draw aside one inch to give him passage. Dymoke was facing him on the right, Branscombe on the left, when at last he spoke to the Queen.
"Your Majesty," he said, "I have come to renew my suit, attended by half a million of your devoted admirers."
Our Lady never stirred.
"I might," he continued, "have expected a more courteous reception for the Emperor of All the Russias. Yes, my brother, Nicholas, is with the saints, and I am Father of the Russians. My heroic adversary, I have come to offer you the Russian throne in exchange for the British."
"Sir," said Margaret, "my kingdom is all red flame, my people are the dead, and I will not leave this throne. Of you I can ask nothing for myself, but for my Guardsmen here, and for some poor fugitives yonder—if you have not already murdered them, I ask life."
"Madam," cried Branscombe, "you ask too much! I speak for the whole Corps of the Guard!"
"Death!" cried Lancaster, and Browne called "Death!" and all the rest echoed "Death!" "Death!"