"Not I." Brand pointed downwards at the papers. "These in his own hand accuse the man who has sold your honour."
"My honour? You mention my honour? Understand this, and tell all who care to hear, that it has pleased us to take for our Consort His Imperial Highness, the Grand Duke Alexander of Russia, whose sword will deal with questions concerning our honour. Now go!"
Brand bent forward across the table and stared into the Queen's eyes.
"I go," he said, "to Sydney and Browne in prison, and on to Colonel Anderson in Hades, bearing the Queen's message that by her orders, Ulster betrayed the Formula of the Fleets."
"The Formula of the Fleets? What do you mean?"
"I mean that if you are moved neither by absolute proof of Ulster's treason, nor by the blood of your servants, then you are partner with him, you share his guilt, for you betray your people."
Then Margaret quailed before his eyes, shrank back from him and turned away her face.
"Oh, I can't, I can't!" She looked up at him, convulsed with terror, her arms thrust out in protest. "I can't believe. He couldn't betray me like that! Betrayed! Betrayed!"
"Yes," answered Brand; "betrayed."
"But the Formula of the Fleets? Prove your words. On your peril prove everything you say—who charges our Chancellor with divulging the Formula of the Fleets?"