THE CHARIOT OF
THE SUN

A FANTASY

BY

ROGER POCOCK

LONDON
CHAPMAN & HALL, LTD.
1910

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

TALES OF WESTERN LIFE
THE RULES OF THE GAME
THE ARCTIC NIGHT, Chapman & Hall
THE BLACKGUARD, Chapman & Hall
ROTTENNESS
A FRONTIERSMAN (AUTOBIOGRAPHY), Gay & Hancock
CURLY, Gay & Hancock
SWORD AND DRAGON, Hodder & Stoughton
THE FRONTIERSMAN'S POCKET BOOK (EDITED), John Murray.

CONTENTS

[Prologue]
I. [Chancellor of the Empire]
II. [The Master of Lyonesse]
III. [Our Lady the Queen]
IV. [The Coronation]
V. [The Gathering Storm]
VI. [The Penance Chamber]
VII. [The Taming of Lyonesse]
VIII. [The Mother of Parliaments]
IX. [The Royal Prerogative]
X. [The Dawn of the Terror]
XI. [The World-Storm]
XII. [The Third Day]
XIII. [The Queen's Messenger]
XIV. [The Story of the Ships]
XV. [Cast Out of Heaven]
XVI. [The Queen's Days]
XVII. [Her Majesty in Council]
XVIII. [The Queen's Madness]
XIX. [The Tale of the Dun Horse]
XX. [Victory]
XXI. [The Queen's Retreat]
XXII. [The Last Battle]
XXIII. [Prisoner of Love]
[Epilogue]

PROLOGUE

LONDON,
December 31st, 2000.

This is the story of the World-Storm. Leaders in every field of thought have described the events of the year 1980, but we who have come aged and shaken out of that chaos, know well that the half was not told.

The World-Storm was a human affair, and human events are ever based on love. For the love of woman a man gives all the labour of his life, or in the loss or lack of love will cast his life away. For the love of women men have built cities, or burned them, won thrones or lost them, have staked things present and the things to come. This is the story, then, of a man's love for a woman. And if the life of a man is a love tale, so is the life of a nation, which ends when the people cease to love their country. And so is the life of mankind, which will end when the love of God dies out from the human heart. Life is a plant which has its roots in love.

Reading over many histories of the World-Storm, by divines, by students, and admirals of the air, the whole of which have failed to reach down to the truth: I think that these eminent exact thinkers were mostly dry at the roots. Only a lover can write history.

We set sweet Margaret on the Imperial Throne, we prayed for her, and all the millions of our prayers like subtle spirits wrought upon her soul creating her a queen. We looked again, and behold she was august, inspired, beautiful, terrible—England! Who but a lover could write of such a queen? To me, a plain man who has loved, it is given that I should tell of that transfiguration, and how the lovely child, translated by our prayers moved through the darkness.

Looking back upon those days when frightened and starving, we saw the old order changed, and the Millennium born, I see the persons of the drama, vague, gigantic, fighting in a region of mist and flame to one great end of Peace. Yet I knew all the time that they were human, a woman, and certain men who loved and sinned, who fought and suffered. The evil was burned out of us, the good survives; the scorched and shaken earth is purified.

The Greeks, who were very wise, invented that old myth of Phaeton who dared to drive the chariot of the Sun, but lost his head, and failed, and burned the world.

There is to be no more war, so I doubt if there will be any more progress. Take this heresy if you will, as the maunderings of an old fighter; but have not the ages of suffering been ever the ages of growth? Strength is the child of pain, and in her agony the world gave birth to saints and heroes. The millennial peace will never know the like. Never again will there be such a woman as our Lady the Queen, such men as John Brand, or Lord Sydney. Their age is memorable, their race illustrious, and for my part, I do not greatly care to live on after them. My work is done, and sitting at my window as I write these last words of my prologue, I see with dim eyes the roofs of London reaching away into the night, the moonlight faint upon her hanging gardens, her palaces and towers, her spires and soaring domes. The bells have been tolling the hours of the dying twentieth century, but now they have broken into one great peal of triumph, they are ringing in the Millennium. "Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace; For mine eyes have seen Thy Salvation."

THE CHARIOT OF THE SUN

I
CHANCELLOR OF THE EMPIRE

"Margaret, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and of the British Dominions beyond the Seas, Queen, Defender of the Faith, Empress of India."

In the Year of our Lord, 1980, and on the third day of June in that year was Margaret crowned.

Three weeks before the Coronation the sun was setting over St. Michael's woods, and changed the grey walls of Ulster House to luminous orange. A purple bloom of shadow lay on the terrace, but full in the glow from the windows sat the master of the house asleep. The cane chair creaked at times under his weight as he changed dreams. Dressed in the evening costume of the period—claret-coloured broadcloth, and silk stockings, low shoes with garnet buckles, and white ruffles—he was a picture of dignified innocence and stately rest: His Grace, the Duke of Ulster, Chancellor of the federated British Empire, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, full of years, honours, and a good dinner.

Close to him, in the ivy of the wall, a pair of ring-doves cooed and crooned between love and slumber. They were newly wed, and all the world was at rest.

Above the cedars to the eastward a ship rose like a planet, her aeroplanes in red glory against the deeps of heaven. She swept across the south, hovered for an instant, drooped her ethereal wings, and flashed in narrowing circles downward until she fell out of the afterglow and loomed vast in the lower shadows. With feathery lightness she poised on the lawn, her gauze propellers singing themselves to sleep with the whirr of humming-birds. Then from under the gloom of her shadow came a man—a gaunt old man in a grey military cloak—who climbed the steps of the terrace and crossed the gravel space until he came in front of the lighted windows. There the man stood looking down with austere disgust upon the sleeping Chancellor. His ship had risen into the afterglow before the visitor moved a chair and sat down, still intently studying Lord Ulster's face.

Under that prolonged stare, the Chancellor stirred in his sleep, and muttering to himself, awakened, lifting his heavy eyes. In the deepening shadows he saw that silent motionless figure, tried to dispel the impression with a wave of his hand, then found himself broad awake, face to face with Nicholas IV. Emperor of Russia.

At once the Chancellor rose to his feet, and made his royal guest welcome with many a courteous phrase. He offered apology that his servants were all at a church concert this Sunday evening, and that neither himself nor his son had been at hand to receive the Imperial yacht with proper honours. He offered hospitality, invited his Imperial Majesty to enter the house.

His words disappeared into the air, slow cold eyes followed his every movement, and the Emperor waited in freezing silence. Motionless, chilled, shocked, dismayed, the Chancellor stayed his speech.

"Your Grace will understand," said the Emperor, "that I do not come as a friend."

Germany and France had been gathering armaments, relations were strained to the breaking point, war might be declared at any moment, the allies were only held from attack by the ominous silence of Russia. Then Ulster had won the Emperor to his side, and an alliance was now in treaty between the Russian and the British Empires which would make the threatened war impossible. It was in the moment of the Chancellor's triumph that Nicholas IV. came to his house an enemy.

"For your own sake," said the Emperor, coldly, "you'd better see that we are not overheard."

Ulster seized this chance of covering his confusion, entered the house, surveyed the empty study and returned, saying again that his household were all at the church. The Emperor had taken one of the garden chairs, his back to the windows, and thoughtfully looked out upon the garden, his long lean fingers tapping a cigarette. By a gesture he told the Chancellor to sit down.

"There is," he began in his purring, sibilant English, "a young Indian prince now resident in England."

The Chancellor had been racking his brain to find the meaning of the Emperor's coldness. His head was lowered in thought, but now he glanced up sideways under his heavy brows.

"Lots of them," said he.

"I speak," said the Emperor, "of the Maharajah of Haidar."

"I remember, sir," answered Ulster, thoughtfully. "He is serving in Her Majesty's Bodyguard."

"Exactly," said the Emperor in a tone which forbade further comment. "This young prince is descended, your Grace, from the ancient royal line of the Moguls. On his elevation to the throne of Haidar, he was recognized by the Moslem as a sacred personage. He demanded of the Indian Government the restoration of the ancient Peacock Throne, which had been taken from his ancestors by the Persians, and later secured by the British from the Persian Treasury. He demanded also the right of a royal salute, claimed to be addressed as a Royal Highness, and asked for certain privileges of maintaining armed forces within his kingdom of Haidar. All these demands were granted."

"Sir," the Chancellor spoke satirically, "these statements are of the profoundest interest."

"They are," said the Emperor. "The concessions granted to this prince actually endangered the British supremacy in India. The restoration of the Peacock Throne met with violent protests both from the loyal princes and from the English press. When this throne was brought to Haidar, its arrival was attended by portents, so-called miracles, a ferment in the bazaars, riots in many cities, and at last a revolt in the North West Provinces. Of course revolt was crushed.

"The presence of Prince Ali, perfectly loyal as he was throughout, became so dangerous that he was hurried out of India, and gradually the country settled down. But the memory remained of gallant English officers who were slaughtered, mutilated, of innocent children dashed against stone walls, of women who were—we will pass that by. Whoever gave orders for the granting of Prince Ali's claims was guilty of all that, the massacres, and the vengeance. The man who had to face the rage of England then, might have envied Judas Iscariot. The Viceroy of India claimed to have received orders from the India Office in London. Then the Secretary of State for India proved that he had issued no such orders. So the Viceroy shot himself. Your Grace was at that time Secretary for India."

A bluish pallor had overspread Lord Ulster's face, and he answered nothing.

It was then that the Marquess of Sydney, the Chancellor's only son, returned from the church. Entering the house from the north, and making no sound upon the carpets, he passed through a curtained doorway into the study. In the afternoon he had been writing a letter at the desk set between the middle windows, and now, returning to finish it, he was glad to find the room unoccupied. He sat down, took the letter from his blotting-pad, and considered what he had written.

Then he heard the striking of a match outside on the terrace, and the sound of his father's voice. Lord Sydney was slightly annoyed, uncertain for the moment whether to take his writing elsewhere. Some neighbour, old Pollock probably, had dropped in to talk politics and would stay as usual lor supper. His father was still speaking in low, even tones, not likely to disturb him. Lord Sydney became absorbed in his letter. It is curious to note that pens and matches were still in those days used by old-fashioned people.

Outside, the Emperor, striking a match, and lighting his cigarette, heard the Chancellor patiently.

"Yes," he said, "I understand, of course. Your Grace was, comparatively speaking, a poor man, and could not as such aspire to the Chancellorship. A legitimate ambition thwarted by want of means, a career in jeopardy—yes, I understand. As to Prince Ali's demands they seemed quite innocent—a diamond throne, a royal salute, a few such trifles. He offered you two millions sterling if the Viceroy could be moved to grant his claims. The Viceroy was moved, had no writings to show in defence—and shot himself. The claims were granted, and babies were dashed against stone walls. His Grace of Ulster, with two millions of money, rose to the Chancellorship. It might be awkward for my Lord Duke if these facts became generally known."

The Chancellor gripped the arms of his chair, and leaning forward laughed in his throat.

"Your Majesty," he answered hoarsely, "has acted with rare prudence. I am grateful for the opportunity of dealing with this disgraceful slander, which might otherwise have endangered our relations with your Imperial Majesty's Government. The fabrications of some secret service agent——"

"Enough, my Lord; the agent in question was my agent, the money with which Prince Ali bought you was my money, and here," the Emperor produced from under his cloak the famous Russian papers, "I hold the written transactions."

"Am I a child, sir," cried Ulster, testily, "to be frightened with bogies?"

Nicholas opened the papers and bent forward that the Chancellor might see them.

"Is that enough," he asked, "or do you want to see more? Look," he turned the papers slowly page by page, "at this, and this, and this!"

"Forgeries," answered the other boldly, "forgeries all. How could your Majesty be so deceived?"

Nicholas with a smile turned to the last page, "and this?"

The Chancellor's eyes seemed starting from his head, his jaw dropped, a moan broke from his throat; then with a sharp effort he drew himself together, and pointed at the papers.

"That—that—" he gasped, "that accuses me, much more it accuses you. That you, an Emperor, set such a trap is a disgrace crying aloud to Europe, that—that your Majesty is unfitted for a throne. I dare you, I challenge you. Publish those papers, and not an ambassador would remain at the Russian capital!"

"That I set the trap?" Hot fury darkened the Russian's face, "This scullion work is not in the hands of kings. Would you make me your partner?"

"Sir," Ulster instantly shot out his arm, extended upwards over the papers. "Look! The yacht has signalled!"

The Emperor folded the papers, and jammed them back into the breast of his cloak.

"Let her signal," he answered; "I am not your partner, neither am I your dupe."

"Take the two millions," cried Ulster, "and give me these papers."

"I do not bargain with your Grace," answered Nicholas.

"What do you want me to do? I'll resign the Chancellorship, retire, anything!"

"And cheat me of what I bought?"

"If you expose me, you take my life."

"I have taken it, and paid for it such as it is."

"You can't force me to live! I repeat, to live!"

"As you please. If you die, these papers shall be published as a memorial volume. If you disobey me, they shall be published. If you attempt to cheat me, they shall be published. You have sold yourself to me, and I claim you."

Ulster shrank back into his chair, covering his face, and for some time remained in silence. At last in despair he muttered into his breast—

"What are the terms?"

"I will give you back these papers when you have earned them. You shall live on, Chancellor of the British Empire, honoured, reverenced. When you die a state funeral will attend you to the grave, and another truly British monument will disfigure that poor old Abbey."

Ulster cast about for a weapon, and the Emperor, divining this, chuckled.

"Under my cloak," he said, "I've got an automatic, over your house my yacht. You need have no fear. Indeed, I know the limitations of your power as Chancellor, and shall not press too hard. Now as to terms: I permit you, my Lord Duke, to save your country from the Franco-German invasion. But you will complete the Anglo-Russian Treaty on the terms proposed by my ambassador."

"My colleagues would never consent," cried Ulster, "I should be thrown out of office."

"Tell your colleagues that unless the treaty is signed, Russia will join the Franco-German alliance. My share is India. They will consent.

"Secondly, your Grace, I have to tell you that my brother the Grand Duke Alexander Alexandrovitch was lately slighted by the young Queen. She shall marry him."

"Sir, she would die first!"

"She shall marry him, and your Government shall make the offer of her hand.

"Thirdly, my Lord Duke, I will be secured from any future treachery. You will personally entrust me with the Formula of the Fleets."

When England's great enemy demanded the Formula of the Fleets, Ulster's brain refused to receive his meaning. The naval airship of the period carried no stored force, but the power driving her engines was flashed to her through space from the nearest fortified station of the Admiralty. Each station gave its ships a power-field extending two thousand miles in all directions. Thus the Home station was a fortified position in the coal measures of Staffordshire. Groups of stations covered Canada, the West Indies, and South America; South Africa was in the power-field of the Victoria Falls, Central Africa was controlled from the White Nile, West Africa from the Niger Valley. Another chain of power-fields centred in the Ocean Fortresses: Gibraltar, Malta, Alexandria, Aden, Colombo, Rangoon, Singapore, Hong Kong. From the Arctic regions to the Antarctic ice, no corner of the world was secured from the visitation of our fleets. To debar foreign navies from using our stores of power, each ship had her engines keyed to an exact adjustment known as the Formula of the Fleets. Given that formula, a foreign ship could traverse the whole planet. The British Empire and the United States used one formula, entrusted only to the Chancellor, the President, and the Adjusters-General, and one can readily understand that this key of space conferred most awful powers.

And were the formula changed without due warning, every ship afloat would be plunged through space to destruction.

"The Formula of the Fleets," Ulster repeated vaguely. "You!" Then he seemed to awake. "You devil!" he cried furiously. "No!"

He choked, he could find no utterance, but wrung his hands, and, starting to his feet, shook his arms upward at the heavens. Then he saw the Emperor's cold face between the lamplight and the moonlight smiling, and at the sight drew back. A strangled sob broke from him. "I am trapped, shamed, broken; I have sinned, but still I am an Englishman, and all my years are given to England's service!"

The Chancellor had back his dignity and a new courage.

"The claims of the Russian ambassador insult this nation; the proposals of that drunken and disgusting beast, your brother, insult my sovereign; the demand for the Formula of the Fleets is a deadly insult to myself. You have forfeited all claims to treatment as a sovereign; but such claims as you have presumed to make to me, I shall lay before my colleagues, before the Empire, and before the world. As to your charges against me, they come not from a friendly prince, but from an enemy too base even for the courtesies of war. Our people will not see the sin of the Chancellor in this crime of Russia."

The Emperor's cruel eyes glittered, the moonlight caught a gleam from his teeth.

"Most noble patriot," he answered softly, "most courteous statesman, no doubt the English can be gulled into a belief that the Russian Emperor came secretly and at night, and behaved in an unseemly and ridiculous manner. They would even believe that I danced on your terrace by moonlight. Proof would at once appear that I never left my house at Pera, and the mad Chancellor would become the laughing-stock of Europe. Consider the cartoons!"

Ulster sank back into his chair, and his face writhed, for the most heroic are unarmed against ridicule.

"Moreover," the Emperor smiled, "already a copy of the documents I have shown you has been placed by an Englishman in the hands of the editor of the Times—sealed, and awaiting my orders. In these papers there is no reference to Russia, only to certain transactions between Prince Ali and his Grace the Duke of Ulster. Russia does not appear in such affairs of bribery, fraud, and betrayal. After the Chancellor's disgrace, and shameful end, the Germans and the French will make declaration of war, will be joined by Russia, and this country swept from the map of Europe which it has marred too long. The British Empire will be divided among the allies. I have offered to give you back your life, and the immortal fame of saving your country. Refuse, and I give you to shame and death, the British Empire to destruction. Of course, if you want my mercy, you will apologize first for insulting me." The Emperor stood up and waved his hand. "I have called my yacht," he said not unkindly. "I give you this minute to surrender."

Far up in the heavens a white light flashed like a star, and from the great spaces of the night, a shadow swooped down, winged, swift, instantly growing gigantic against the moon, then gleaming in her rays. The Chancellor watched spellbound, and as he watched the terror seized his brain, the doom of a great Empire, condemned to this death, abandoned by God.

Then the agony of a broken man rang out in one great cry, "I have surrendered!" and the echoes of walls and trees heard him, and answered.

II
THE MASTER OF LYONESSE

When on the terrace of Ulster House, Nicholas of Russia dealt heavily with the Chancellor to his ruin, one witness was so placed that he heard all. The witness was the Duke of Ulster's son, James, Marquess of Sydney. It is a very pleasant thing to hold this gentleman in memory, to think of him as he was in life, and at that time in the thirtieth year of his age. He was a tall man, nervous rather than strong, his face very fair and comely. In habit he was lean, bronzed with the sun; in bearing most knightly and courteous; in manner a little cynical with a grave humour. But that tells nothing of the quality in his eyes, and in his smile, which made one love and trust him. None of the pictures or statues to his memory do justice to that wonderful quality of the man, nor can a written word call back the charm.

It was on the 11th day of May, 1980, that he heard the passages between the Emperor and his father. It was on Friday, the 30th, four days before the Coronation, that he moved. There were railways in those old-fashioned times, lines of a single rail. Catching the 9 a.m. express from Paddington, Lord Sydney reached the Land's End district by noon, and alighted at Lyonesse.

This was his first visit to the etheric city, and as he left the terminus to enter Brand Street, he was astonished at the grandeur of the place. Thanks to the mildness of the Cornish climate, palms and acacias sheltered the pavement. Down the long vistas of sub-tropic trees there were fountains spraying white splendour into the sunlight, and statues of golden bronze lurked in the shadows. The street was lined with shops and theatres, traffic throbbed upon the causeway, the pavements were thronged with people. The town, even in 1980, was large, its population numbering half a million, a grey granite city walled about on three sides by the sea cliffs. The streets were filled with a tumult of affairs, but where they converged upon St. Buryan Square, there was a resting-place of lawns and trees shadowed by groups of buildings. Upon the western frontage of the square, stood a rough-hewn palace some acres in extent, the office of John Brand III.

Homely and plain was the master's room in that palace. The threadbare carpet, the shabby furniture, the queer old plans and pictures on the walls were relics passed down from another age. In that chair an American of the nineteenth century had dreamed, from the books of that case had learned, at that table planned—and the result was Lyonesse. The relics spoke of poverty, of research, of noble patience, and the founder's grandson kept these things as a reminder.

The American sat at his desk, and one might have known him for Lyonesse, so mighty his physical strength, so shabby and neglected his dress, so steady his labour. They say he was a hard man at that time, rugged, avaricious, rather feared than liked.

A sealed envelope was brought to him, with explanation that a man had called who would not be denied and had given trouble. Brand opened the cover and within found a visiting card.

"Trooper the Marquess of Sydney,
Her Majesty's Bodyguard."

His face brightened as he read; gladly he sent a welcome to his visitor, gave orders that he was not to be disturbed, and in the interim of waiting set all his work aside.

He rose at Lord Sydney's entrance. "Well, old fellow," he spoke heartily, as they shook hands, "is it ten years?"

"Fourteen since our last fight at school. I'm awfully glad to see you, Brand."

"You've forgotten the black eyes I gave you?"

"I'd be sorry to fight again; you're much too strong. But your nose, Brand, you must remember my sign manual, and I was so proud of that nose."

Brand stroked his blunt nose thoughtfully, "Most tender memory!"

Lord Sydney smiled, and as the other led him to a seat—

"We promised to write to each other."

"We were very young," Brand chuckled. "So you went soldiering, I to my trade."

"Each to his tribe, and God for all," said Sydney. "I used to envy you."

"I wanted to be a soldier," answered Brand.

"But, Sydney, why all this secrecy; why put your card in a sealed envelope?"

The soldier's face turned grave. "I have good reason. These walls," he looked anxiously about him, "have they ears?"

"Sydney, this isn't London."

"May I look round?"

Brand laughed, but his visitor walked to the door and opened it suddenly, making a rapid survey of the ante-room. Other doors he examined which led to the safe, and to Brand's private chambers; then considering the walls and hangings, returned to his place.

"I should have been followed from London," he explained, "but I hired an actor to personate me, and he is leading a fine chase of spies to Stamboul."

"Who has you watched?"

"My father, and when he knows I've been here you'll catch the infection. I warn you, Brand."

"My dear fellow, your father——"

The Guardsman's eyes flashed ominously, his jaws hardened.

"What do you know of my father?"

"Chancellor of the Empire, his Grace the Duke of Ulster, K.G., and a lot more twaddle."

"By the Almanac, yes, and head of the Gold Party which sits up to hate you all night. Come, speak out!"

"My dear fellow, I never met your father. In politics I like fighting him, and I think he likes fighting me. He would never speak evil of me as a private man."

"Or you of Ulster? Well, I can't blame your courtesy, Brand, I don't understand your politics. They say that you finance the Labour Party. You've been accused of Socialism."

Brand chuckled. "Have you heard about my eating babies?"

"Even a cannibal might love his country. Brand, I'm in horrible trouble, and I've come to you for help."

"You've come to me for help. Go on, old chap."

"In politics you can accuse a man without any feeling of hatred?"

"I would not have him butchered."

"Not even if your opponent granted the Peacock Throne to Ali of Haidar?"

Brand's face flashed with anger. "My friend, spare me all mention of that," he said. "Is it a kind thing, Lord Sydney, to tear the old wound open?"

"Does it hurt me less? I'd go on if it killed both of us, and you shall listen."

"Perhaps you don't know," answered Brand, "that my young brother saw his wife crucified, before the rebels gouged out his eyes and burned him."

"Would you treat the man as a mere political opponent who granted the Peacock Throne to Ali of Haidar?"

"The Viceroy died by his own hand. He is beyond our vengeance."

"Vengeance?" cried Sydney, "my words bite deep. Is vengeance in your code of political courtesy? I tell you the man who granted Prince Ali's claims is still alive, within the reach of vengeance. He drove the Viceroy to suicide, and thought that under heaven there was no witness left to rise against him."

"That is beyond belief; there are limits even to treachery."

"Are there such limits? The man who granted Prince Ali's claims received not thirty pieces of silver, but two million pounds. He lives."

Brand turned away his face.

"Prince Ali was an agent, Brand, an agent of Russia, and the bribe of two million pounds was Russian money. The man who received that price of blood has not hanged himself, neither were his eyes gouged out, nor was he burned like your brother. He bought with it the Chancellorship of the British Empire. He is my father."

Brand's iron-hard face was sterner than ever now. "Have you gone mad?" he asked.

"Prove me insane or dreaming, or bewitched. Prove my father an honest man, and England safe. It would be all right then, Brand. Do you think it is a little thing to tell; that it is easily said? I, Ulster's son, that was a gentleman, am now a spy. His shame has tainted me, and so the leprosy will spread from generation to generation. I suppose," he added, "you think I'm hysterical."

Leaning forward, Brand laid his hand upon Lord Sydney's shoulder.

"There's some mistake," he said.

"I tell you that my father, Ulster, is sold to Russia. He has forced upon the Government a degrading treaty."

Brand was silent. "He has given our Lady, the Queen, to that drunken beast Alexander."

Brand was silent.

"He has divulged the Formula of the Fleets!"

"Sydney!" Brand rose overthrowing his chair, then withholding himself by main force, sat heavily upon the desk. "Go on," he said hoarsely, "these statements need to be proved."

"Time enough for that," Lord Sydney flung himself beside Brand's knees upon the desk, and buried his face in his arms. "I've lived in a dream world," he said in bitterness, "a world which I built for myself, where one's father could be respected, one's mother honoured. All things were as they should be; one could play the game——" He looked up, and his eyes were reddened. "I was a boy in that fool's paradise—but now, ah, well," he threw his head back, looking out at Brand with half-closed eyes, "I suppose I've got to be a man." Then he told Brand of the Emperor's visit to Lord Ulster, and how he had overheard what passed between them.

"Have you proof?" asked the American.

"I realized," said Sydney, "that I must have proof. I watched my father's face from day to day, and when he returned to town, I went with him. For once he was glad of my company, while with treason upon treason he bought the papers which Russia held against him. By his face I knew when the Government consented to the Treaty, when they agreed to the Russian marriage, when he betrayed the Formula. He had earned the papers then. I don't think he ever slept until last night, until he had paid the price. I was alone with him last night when the Emperor's messenger came. We had finished dinner, the long, dull dinner, the servants cleared out, and Ulster had his wine. The messenger was shown in, bearing a despatch box, and I did the honours, while Ulster unlocked the thing. I saw him take out a sealed package and a letter which he tried to conceal from me. The messenger drank our health, and Ulster escorted him to the door. I had time to slip a drug into Ulster's wine.

"Yes, he slept almost before he had read the Emperor's letter. It was a queer letter. Once a month hereafter His Grace would receive a messenger and to him display this package with unbroken seals—on pain of instant vengeance. A little of that treatment would tame any Chancellor. The sense of being watched, the horror lest the package miscarry, the fear ever with him, the curse that must be borne in silence year by year, then death and exposure. It would have driven him stark staring mad! I have relieved my father of that curse, his spies are chasing me to Constantinople. Here is the package—the proof of what I have said, and you shall break the seals."

Brand opened the Russian papers, the transactions between Ulster and Prince Ali, which page by page he examined. He filled a briar pipe, lighted, and smoked it through before he spoke.

"I think," he said at last, "that this is a strong chain of evidence, but only in converging evidence is there proof. There is ground here for a charge against the Duke, not for his conviction; and all his friends would rally to his defence, making him stronger than ever. The value of these papers is his evident fear. Now as to the secret treaty."

Lord Sydney produced the Draft, which the master read.

"There is ground here for an attack upon the Government. And as to the Formula?"

"Only my word," answered Sydney. "You doubt my word!"

"Not I. But imagine this case tried by the House of Lords, the judges being Ulster's friends with the fear of their own downfall if they failed him."

Lord Sydney rose distracted and paced the floor, unnerved, broken.

"And you are going to fail me?" he cried.

"Easy, boy, easy," said Brand, relighting his pipe, "that kind of play never scored at school. The games must be played more soberly to be won."

"Don't preach at me, Brand," said the other roughly. "Ah, forgive me! If you only knew—you've never seen her, have you? But if you saw the Queen, you would understand, for she is brave as a lion, stainless as the lilies, her voice makes us mad with love; yet she is our Lady, and we scarcely dare to look her in the face. And she is to be sold to infamy! Oh, God, what can I do, what can I do to save her?"

"Lord Sydney, you forget yourself."

My lord looked at him, his eyes narrowing, his mouth hardened, his whole face freezing with self-suppression.

"Yes, that is so, Mr. Brand. Back to the facts then," he laughed nervously, "we have to fight the Chancellor, we have to fight the Government. Then there is Russia to fight, and Europe."

Brand went to the window, and there stood looking out. Beyond the pavement and the trees rose all that city which his fathers and himself had built upon the storm-swept moors of a wild headland, his walls the cliffs, his moat the Atlantic; and this bastion of our island stronghold was not unworthy to guard the British Realm.

Until that day we knew of Lyonesse as a strong man, and an humble, so we thought; for in the twelve years since he came to power, the hard-hitting, rough-fighting master of industry had never lost his habit of grave self-command, or let any breath of passion sway his justice. A man must be true to win the confidence of friends, but great to win the trust of enemies.

Now the deeps were moved, and elemental forces stirred within him. Henceforward he was to suffer, to rejoice, to pity, to slay within no boundaries of self-discipline, to love with irresistible passion, to strike with overwhelming rage. One does not praise or blame the hurricane.

Brand came back to the desk, sat down in his chair, and laid his hand upon the Russian papers.

"One would think," he said, "that the man who owned these papers, owned this Chancellor. He obeyed Russia—will he fight me?"

"There is the whole party of the capitalists," answered the other ruefully, at which Brand was aroused.

"Will they fight me?" he said.

"But the allies will declare war!"

"Am I not Lyonesse!"

"You cannot fight three nations."

"My father warned me," said Brand, thoughtfully, "and somehow I always knew that sooner or later I must take the field to save Britain. No man has seen etheric power in action."

Sydney breathed hard. "You called it once the Chariot of the Sun."

"The Chariot of the Sun. Yes. Heaven send I may never have to use etheric power for war."

III
OUR LADY THE QUEEN

In the wondrous romance of our Island history the reigns of three English Queens stand out with singular splendour. First came Elizabeth the Great, then Victoria the Good, and now in the fulness of time reigns Margaret the Fair.

At the end of his long reign the old King built on the site of Buckingham House, a great white palace for Margaret. Above the marble walls terrace upon terrace the hanging gardens bloomed, and tier on tier of gleaming colonnades; then pearl-white domes broke the long lines above, and gemmed pavilions flanked the central towers. Not that Margaret cared for palaces. Her mind ran upon lighting, and she showed the old King books about the Varangian Guard of Greek Byzantium, the Grand Musketeers of Muscovy, the Mousquetaires of France. For her sake he took liberties with the Ancient and Honourable Corps of Gentlemen-at-Arms, a nice piece of antique frippery which he changed into a standing regiment generally to be known as the Queen's Blackguards. This force he quartered in the palace and made it a very good nursery to train young officers for the Imperial Army.

To enlist, a lad must undergo the severest tests of mind and body, then pass the school of arms. Then the Queen granted to him chain mail and helmet of silver, a black cloak charged with the royal arms, the sword and the spurs. For officers the armour was of gold, the cloak scarlet; for undress, a suit of woven gold or silver. Quarters were given in the palace, but the trooper must provide his own sustenance, and for his servant a trained man who rode in the rear rank of his squadron. The discipline was rigid, and what with training for the Imperial army, there was little time for mischief. They were the last cavalry of the civilized world.

Such were the Queen's toys, palace and guard, beyond all jurisdiction save her will.

The Plutocracy ruled, the Imperial court only remained in the realm on sufferance as a venerable fiction, and nobody ever dreamed that Margaret's playthings, accepted by the nation as a joke, were destined to prove a most momentous fact. For the present it was pretty to see the fair maid, ruddy, sunburnt, wilful, playing with her glittering pageantry of state in the white palace. So the rose of England bloomed in a garden of swords, and on the eve of the Coronation no little cloud had risen as yet in warning. Looking back through a score of years it seems a wonder passing belief that June, 1980, dawned with a cloudless heaven, and the earth at peace.

One glance at the calendar brings it all to mind. Only last Friday Sharon won the Derby, Jim Carrington up, wearing Tom of Lancaster's colours—rose red, and how the people cheered the young prince afterwards! On Saturday Her Majesty was at the Colosseum to close the Pan-Anglican games, and with her own hands crowned the victors with wreaths. The Maharajah of Gwalior gave a Nautch at his palace in Kensington. On Sunday the great Dignitaries assembled in town for the Coronation, attended a special service at St. Paul's. On the 2nd of June, Monday morning, the Gigantic arrived—one of Mr. Brand's etheric liners—with a contingent from the army of the United States in honour of the Coronation.

Word came in the afternoon that Mr. Partridge with his yacht Meteor had won the America Cup at St. Louis. This evening was set for the Masquerade at Devonshire House, and there was to be a torch-light procession of the City Liveries. As to the palace, that was mostly concerned on Coronation eve with matters of apparel, the burnishing of jewels, nervous rehearsals, and feverish attempts at repose.

In the portico, three saddled horses, overcome with heat, mouthed their chained bits, and swished their lazy tails. In the guardroom, midway upon the alabaster stairs, three gentlemen of the guard, Queen's orderlies in waiting, tried not to fall asleep. They had taken off their casques with the lions, but still that ridiculous chain mail was suffocating. They yawned for want of better occupation, talked to keep themselves in a state of decent wakefulness.

"Ho-la," said MacNeill, rolling over in his chair, "I'll grill my other side now. By the bars of Hades I'd be cooler at home." MacNeill was half Spaniard, a banker's son from Venezuela. "Ali," he turned to the Indian prince who lounged by the wall, "you know all about this business to-morrow. What's it like?"

Lazily the Prince lifted his eyes—big, soft, gentle eyes they were.

"My dear MacNeill, what business?"

"Why the Coronation, of course; weren't you crowned when they made you King of Haidar?"

The Prince laughed easily. "It wasn't a crown, we have a green umbrella."

"The ancestral gamp," said MacNeill, irreverently. "Is Haidar so wet? What do they worship—ducks?"

"Allah, el Allah!"

The Prince scarcely breathed the awful name, and his eyes were hard now.

MacNeill apologized with much politeness, and asked if the State Umbrella was old.

"Very old." Prince Ali smiled.

"Holy?"

"As my Faith."

"Won't keep out the wet?"

Still smiling, the Prince drew off his gauntlet, and swept it softly across MacNeill's face.

So long Lord Sydney had watched Prince Ali in silence, now he came forward, and, with a little bow, laid claim to the gauntlet.

"Your Highness," he said respectfully, "as a reigning sovereign cannot fight this cad, or he would never have dared to insult you. You," he said, turning upon MacNeill, "will apologize to the Maharajah or I'll thrash you within an inch of your life."

"I didn't insult him," growled the offender, sulkily. "I don't understand what you're driving at."

"My dear Prince," Lord Sydney turned his back upon MacNeill. "He would not understand more if I thrashed him."

"You're quite right, Sydney," Prince Ali accepted the return of his gauntlet. "I have so few friends that one more," he clasped Lord Sydney's hand, "has the larger place in a full heart. I shall remember."

Just then an Equerry came down the stairway, and gave to MacNeill a letter from her Majesty to be despatched. The trooper, muttering wrathfully, set on his helmet, took up his gloves and sword, and swaggered away down the stairs. Without, they heard his horse dancing with excitement, break off at a canter into the distance. Sydney and the Prince laughed together.

"Maharajah," my Lord Sydney laid his hands very tenderly upon Ali's shoulders. "Do you believe that I am your friend?"

"Surely you have proved it more than once."

"Will you promise me not to be offended if I ask a still more personal question than even MacNeill dared?"

The beautiful dark eyes glowed. "Go on, my dear Sydney."

"What if I hurt, Maharajah? Your heart has changed to us since you came to England; you know now that we are not all brutes. You know that some of us, unbelievers, are not to be bought?"

"What do you mean?" An ominous flush burned in Prince Ali's face.

"When you bought my father with two million pounds, did you know where the money came from?"

Under the dark skin came pallor, and concentrated rage leaped to Prince Ali's eyes, as he recoiled.

"Understand this, my lord," said the Maharajah of Haidar. "One cannot hate an enemy from the very heart unless he has been a friend. Withdraw that question; I give you the chance to withdraw. To no other man living would I allow so much."

"I must repeat my question, Maharajah."

"I'll have your life for this!"

"And afterwards? How could you possibly remain in the household? Come, deny the charge, Prince, and let me beg your pardon."

"By Azrael——"

"Don't swear at me. I give you a week to leave Her Majesty's service."

A young man, a civilian, was coming up the stairway, a big boy with blue eyes and freckles, who carried a letter in his hand. Lord Sydney turned to him as he reached the stairhead.

"Can I serve you?" asked the guardsman, courteously.

The boy drew nearer. "If you please," he said nervously, "this letter is for the Adjutant."

"A rookie?"

"My name is Browne, sir, and I——"

"Fresh from the incubator?"

"I've passed," said the boy in shy triumph, "but the Adjutant?"

"I think the Adjutant is out on the tiles. Let me introduce you; Mr. Browne, Trooper Ali."

Prince Ali bowed stiffly and walked away.

"Won't you sit down?" Lord Sydney offered a chair.

The boy sat down, and Sydney joining him, he produced a cigarette case.

The trooper appeared to be shocked. "Put it away," he whispered. "We don't smoke—bad for a man in training."

From a syphon on the table beside him he filled a glass with sparkling water, a delicately flavoured draught, which the boy accepted wondering.

"Don't you drink wine or——"

"Never breathe the word! We must keep in condition, with the Tournament due next month, or the Tommies will carry off half our trophies. What games do you play, Mr. Browne? We want new blood badly, especially in the cricket field. I'm captain of the first eleven."

"I don't play, though."

"Are you a decent aerial yachtsman?"

"I'm a savage," cried the boy humbly, but Sydney had set him quite at ease.

"A savage?"

"I'm from the province of Yukon."

"Where on earth is that?"

"In arctic Canada. My old man has cattle."

"In the Arctic?"

"Yes, a six months' day, and a six months' night. I tell you it's an awful thing for a cowpuncher to face you fellows."

"A what?"

"Cowboy."

"But I thought that cowboys and dodos and mammoths and all those things were extinct—swept away in the nineteenth century. A real live cowboy?"

The lad blushed. "I was raised in the saddle, and it's a three-hundred-mile ride across the ranche."

"But cows!"

The boy laughed at Sydney now. "No, reindeer, and musk oxen. We have three hundred thousand head of stock, besides raising pelts."

"What are pelts?"

"Silver fox skins, sea otter, beaver, musquash."

The boy was straining every fibre of his being to win acceptance from this courtly man of the town.

"What a jolly outdoor life," said Sydney; "tell me more, do you——"

A faint sound of spurs arrested the trooper in mid speech. He instantly jammed on his casque and sprang sharp to "attention." In the curtained doorway opposite an officer appeared in golden armour; Sydney stood forward at the salute.

"A recruit, sir."

The boy went trembling and presented his letter.

"Hum—Mr. Browne?"

The boy blushed.

"We have your credentials, Trooper Browne, which are approved." He glanced over the letter. "I see that you passed with honours in horsemanship at the school of arms. Report at the Mess dinner to take the oath, after which you will be presented when her Majesty permits. Trooper Sydney, take charge of this gentleman."

As the Adjutant passed on towards the State apartments, a sergeant of the corps came running down the stairs, but stood aghast at the sight of his officer, and tried to conceal a large green cardboard box.

"Sergeant Dymoke," the Adjutant gave signs of impatience; "carrying parcels here?"

Dymoke grinned uneasily, dropping the box as he came to the salute.

"Forgive the Queen's champion, sir, for bearing the Queen's favours."

Now the Dymoke has from time immemorial in England a vested right of appearing at the Coronation mounted and clad in plate armour, to cast his gauntlet on the floor of Westminster Hall, and there challenge all comers to joust à l'entrance on behalf of his sovereign's right to the throne of this kingdom.

"I don't see," said the Adjutant, suavely, "what the Queen's champion has to do with that box of gloves."

"I intercepted these, sir," said Dymoke, "at the door of the private rooms; they are a gross of white gloves for her Majesty. I want to wear my Lady's favour to-morrow, and this is the first thing I've managed to steal for months."

"Pardon, sir," said Lord Sydney, saluting; "but though we can't all wear boiler plate like Dymoke, every trooper in the Guard wants to bear our Lady's favour."

"My Lord," the Adjutant smiled, "are we unfortunate officers to be left out? Sergeant, have one of her Majesty's gloves placed at every cover in the Regimental Mess, and pass the word for each man to fasten the Queen's favour on his helmet. If she is angry, she shall punish the lot of us—but see that no outsider gets a chance."

The boy was beyond surprise by this time, and, like a colt broken of shying, was introduced to the men on duty. He was shown the armoury, mess-room, club-rooms, baths, stables—all that splendid barrack which fronted the palace.

Then Sydney took him to the room allotted to his use, and the lad's heart beat high as he put on the undress uniform of the corps.

"Do you feel like a savage now?" asked Sydney, laughing.

"I don't know how I feel."

The lad was changed beyond knowledge, his bronzed skin glowing against the silver, and if his face was made in the rough, his limbs were a matter for boasting.

"We're all savages," said Sydney, "all savages, we English, under our skins. Ever seen any fighting, Mr. Browne?"

The boy's eyes glistened.

"How I wish——" he sighed, "but there's been no big war for thirty years."

"When you live on a volcano which hasn't been in eruption for thirty years—look out."

"But do you think——"

"Do you think," said Sydney, "that we wear this confounded livery for fun? Do you think we've given up smoking, drinking, late hours—and all the rest—from piety? Do you think we drill hours a day for want of other exercise? Wait until you've been a few days in town, and then you'll know."

The lad was thinking things which had no words; and when that evening he sat at dinner in the banqueting hall of white marble, surrounded by all the circumstance of Margaret's incomparable court, he could not trust himself to speak. He rose with the rest when the trumpets sounded, he put his lips to his glass when the vice-president cried—"Gentlemen—the Queen!"—but a little tear ran out of his left eye. He saw as through a mist the glittering splendour of the scene, and wanted to shout when the band played the National Anthem.

The Captain, Prince Rupert of Gloucester, had come forward to the front of the dais, with the other officers grouped about him. Then one of the trumpeters called a summons.

"Attend, Trooper Sydney."

"Come on," said Sydney roughly to the lad, and all eyes were upon them as they marched up the hall to the dais.

"Sir," said Lord Sydney, "I present Trooper Browne."

"Trooper Browne, kneel."

The lad bent his knee to the ground, and the Captain spoke again.

"I bid you lay your hands in mine."

Tremulous, the lad held out his hands until the Captain clasped them in his own, and began indifferently to deliver the great oath based upon Alfred Tennyson's code of Honour:

"And swear
To reverence the Queen as if she were
Your conscience, and your conscience as the Queen.
To break the heathen and uphold the Christ.
To ride abroad redressing human wrong.
To honour your own word as though your God's.
To speak no slander, nay, or listen to it.
To live a life of purest chastity.
To love one maiden only, cleave to her
And worship her with years of noble deeds."

Then the air rang with music, while the Captain, Lord Sydney attending as a squire, put upon the lad a tunic of mail, and on his head the lion-crested casque, bound spurs upon his feet, hung a sword from his belt and bade him in his life and to his death be ever a Christian, a gentleman, a soldier, in the service of Almighty God, the British Empire, and our Sovereign Lady.

The stately ritual was scarcely over, the regiment had not begun to disperse, the men just relieved from guard were still clattering in for dinner, when the great doors swung open at the back of the dais, and instantly every man in the room sprang at attention.

For the usher had announced—"Her Majesty," and Margaret, attended by her ladies, entered the mess-room.

"Cousin," said our Lady to the Captain, "we have come to demand the head of Sergeant Dymoke."

The Captain passed the word, and the Queen's Champion came forward to make obeisance.

"Sergeant," said our Lady, whose voice rang through the silent place, "you are charged with stealing my gloves. Guilty or not guilty?"

"Guilty, Madame," said the Queen's Champion, prompt to the word.

"You seem to be mightily pleased. I demand the gloves."

"I have but one left, Madame, and that next my heart."

"And where are the rest, pray?"

"I don't know, Madame."

But every man in the room had produced a glove to wave in triumph, and the officers themselves were first in the offence.

"So this shameful theft has been committed by all my lords and gentlemen of the Guard. Do you all plead guilty?"

The hall rang with the triumphant answer.

"Then," the Queen's voice sounded more than severe, "we pronounce sentence. Your punishment shall be a full-dress mounted parade, with no excuses, at the stroke of the next hour."

There was a general gasp of consternation.

"We have been dull all day, a prisoner in the hands of our governess, but to-night we are mutinous, we shall take the air and ride with our Guard. Dismiss!"

The Guard could not be restrained upon this eve of the Coronation from giving three cheers for the Queen, but presently the Captain begged leave of his cousin to grant audience to a new trooper. The quiet hall was almost empty now, and a young lad, shaking with fright, sank on one knee to kiss a small gloved hand.

"Are you very much frightened?"

The sweet voice came down to him out of a mist.

"Very," sighed Browne, scarcely conscious that he spoke, for now he was looking up and saw the glorious beauty of the Queen.

Something hummed in his ears, and yet he could hear his own voice like the voice of somebody else.

"I love you. I love you."

"You mustn't," said our Lady gravely, "it's very wrong indeed. The Queen may have everything—everything on earth, save that. There's nothing worth while in all the world save love, and the Queen must have no love. Don't you pity me?"

The lad saw a little quiver in our Lady's face, half grief, half laughter; then like a dumb animal which dare not even speak, he kissed her hand again.

That night, far away from the illuminations, the clash of music, and the roaring crowds, long silent streets towards Windsor awoke from their sleep with thunder of hoofs, the clank of steel, the music of armour. Queen Margaret was out for a scamper with her Guard.

IV
THE CORONATION

What was that old London like, the London of 1980, of twenty years ago, before ever the shadow of the storm darkened her suburbs? The town which awakened on the day of our Lady's Coronation was certainly a magnificent capital. Although not nearly so big as New York, its population numbered ten millions, its streets and gardens covering the valley of the Thames from Windsor to Gravesend. Railway travel had so increased in speed and comfort, that men living fifty miles from the city could reach their offices in half an hour. Aerial pleasure-ships enabled even the poorest to get out of town for fresh air; and there were now fields within easy reach for the games and exercises which our people have always loved. Very old folk could remember the curse of the coal smoke, but in 1980 the air of London was as clear as that of the country. The dirt from horse traffic had ceased to mar the streets, and the terrible, monotonous slums of the nineteenth century were replaced by districts of tenement buildings surrounded with public gardens. London had become what Paris used to be, the capital of civilization, the centre of science, art and letters, the metropolis of pleasure. Many millionaires from America and the Dominions had built their palaces in the West End, which had become a region of especial wealth and splendour, having its nucleus in the Imperial Court.

The day of the Coronation was heralded by pageants and festivals, the reception of Princes, the gathering of countless visitors. Troops were assembled from every part of the Empire, the Fleet was mobilized and soared like a glittering cloud above the Thames, the streets were being decorated, and buildings torn down to make room for spectators. All these things kept the public amused, and still no cloud had arisen.

On the 2nd of June the last edition of one evening paper announced that Mr. Brand had been waylaid by supposed tramps, robbed, and seriously injured. The morning papers of June the 3rd confirmed this news, stating that Mr. Brand had been robbed and nearly murdered in the night of the 30th of May, and the facts withheld until now. Chicago reported immense purchases of wheat, buyers not identified. Odessa and Melbourne both sent advice of a sudden and sharp rise in bread-stuffs, and meat, caused by unknown buyers. There was a sudden chartering of deep sea cargo ships by hundreds at home and abroad. Feverish activity was reported from the Chancellor's office, and Ulster had scarcely left his desk for the last thirty hours. An attaché at the Russian Embassy being interviewed, said everything was all right. These were the first faint zephyrs and little wandering breaths that ruffled the stillness of a world-wide calm.

The morning of the Coronation was sultry, and even before the fiery heat of the day there was no little suffering among the crowds gathered to witness the procession.

At sunrise the corps of gentlemen-at-arms, the Queen's Blackguards, were drawn up in front of the palace. Regiment after regiment of Imperial troops were passing into the Mall to take up their positions, the air was full of music from their bands, as far as the eye could see the parks and avenues were full of marching troops, the glow of scarlet, the fluttering of colours. Absorbed in the spectacle, Lord Sydney lounged at ease upon his charger, when a voice addressed him by name, and a letter was thrust into his hand. He thanked the bearer, then opened the note which had come from Lyonesse.

"Read and destroy. I have been waylaid, and pretty nearly killed, but hope to be out of bed to-morrow. The enemy has the papers. At all hazards get them back. If you fail I must strike." This in Brand's writing.

Scarcely had Sydney time to destroy the message before the parade was called to attention, and presently he found himself swinging with his regiment into position. Deep in his heart he cursed Brand's carelessness. Was Ulster such a fool as to let the Russian papers be stolen again? "If you fail I must strike!"

Alone among the thousands in the royal pageant, alone among the millions who kept that festival, the trooper foresaw and feared.

Well Sydney knew the antagonists at war, the Chancellor, his own father, and Brand, his life-long friend, the one commanding the forces of the British Empire, the other controlling powers awful beyond conception. Around him were his comrades in their shining harness, and ever he heard the roar of voices greeting Margaret, the Queen. Yet to him the pageant was a dream passing through white spaces of silence. And it was borne in upon him then that he would never see the light beyond the darkness, the peace after the storm. For him the way led on into the Shadow of Death, where a man must ride alone.

So swept the pageant onwards to the city, and thence through crowded streets to Westminster. In the van went detachments of the Imperial Army. There followed the dignitaries of the Commonwealths of Canada, Australasia, Africa, of the Dependencies and the Indies, attended by contingents from the several races of mankind, bodies of men-at-arms from all the forces of the Empire. Then came the estates of the British Realm, the Commons, the Lords, the Imperial Council, the Princes of India, the envoys, ambassadors, and foreign princes, the Household, and last the Queen's Blackguards in their dazzling silver, escorting the lumbering-golden carriage of Margaret the Fair.

And always above them floated the pageant of the Aerial Fleet soaring against the blue, and sheltering the streets from the fierce heat of the sun.

As in many a former time of national rejoicing, once more the immemorial Abbey sent up the Te Deum and the solemn service of the Eucharist. Queen Margaret sat upon the stone of destiny, the crown of white gems was placed upon her head, while the trumpets pealed, and the nobles of the old isles put on their coronets and rendered homage.

Once more, as in ancient times, the banquet was spread in the great hall of St. Stephen's Palace at Westminster.

Old white statues of the Kings looked down upon this new Queen, crowned by the Grace of God, Defender of the Faith, Defender of our time-honoured, well-tried Faith. That faith of disciplined freedom had made a little nation very great, and had given an awful and far-reaching power.

At the high table the great officers of the kingdom waited upon our Lady with every solemnity that has come down through the centuries of a nation's youth. The heat was stifling, the fierce light of the morning was quenched in a white haze, and the sun was hidden now, for the air was darkening. Many of those who sat at the banquet tables have since spoken of the prevailing depression and weariness. Once somebody laughed, and the sound seemed out of place, for people were seized with vague misgivings, a sense of restless uneasiness verging on fear. The hall became dim as though it were evening, darkness swept down out of the spaces of the timbered roof. The air was full of electric tension, and the silence that fell upon the assemblage was broken at times by the roll of distant thunder; while the semi-darkness was now and then illumined by the flicker of far-off lightning. One of the Queen's ladies fainted, causing some stir for a moment, while the darkness deepened until it seemed to be night. A moaning wind caught the doors and swept them wide apart. Then came a peal of trumpets while three horsemen clattered in from the palace yard. Here came the hereditary Champion of England, mounted and clad in plate armour, attended by the Earl Marshal and the Lord Great Chamberlain on horseback, and by a body of trumpeters and heralds.

Then a herald, lifting up his voice, made proclamation that the Champion of England challenged in single combat to the death, any who should dare dispute the right of Margaret to the British Throne. When the proclamation had been made, the Champion rode forward, and taking the steel gauntlet from his hand, he flung it ringing upon the pavement.

Even as he gave the challenge, the lightning blazed behind him, the roof was shaken with a crash of thunder, men sprang to their feet, and women screamed aloud, while with roar of wind, hissing rain, shaft upon shaft of lightning, and peal after peal of thunder, the dreadful elements took up the challenge. Amazed and appalled, the Queen and her nobles sat for the most part silent, but some few fled aimlessly from the tables, rushing here and there in panic.

Nobody noticed in that confusion that a trooper, in the armour of the Guard, picked up the Champion's gauntlet from the floor. By that act he challenged Margaret's accession, and accepted the gage of battle with the Queen's Champion.

Dymoke bent forward in the saddle, trying to see through the gloom.

"Who are you?" he cried. "Damn you! Let see me your face."

A blaze of lightning revealed to him the face of Prince Ali.

"You fool," he cried; "do you challenge our Lady's right?"

"Don't talk nonsense," said Ali, laughing. "Here," he presented the gauntlet with a gesture of mock humility, "you can't leave this lying about."

The Champion seized the gauntlet, and with it struck Prince Ali across the face.

The Indian drew back, his eyes gleaming out of the darkness.

"Afterwards," he said. "Afterwards. You have challenged Heaven, and your God has answered you."

V
THE GATHERING STORM

It was evening, and the sweet cool dusk brought many tired Londoners to the Mall. From the Victoria Monument to Trafalgar Square extended that old avenue where garlands of lamps festooned the trees, fountains sprayed liquid air to cool the gardens, cafés set out their tables and seats upon the gravel, and a military band provided music. At one of the tables a journeyman carpenter was at ease with ale and a pipe; and looking about for a seat came a grey old soldier, an Anglo-Indian colonel, lately retired. When the artisan made room and found a chair, the old man gruffly thanked him and sat down.

"A warm night, sir?"

"Ugh!" grunted the Colonel. "Where's that confounded waiter? Warm! Would you like a frost?"

"Big crowd to-night, sir," ventured the carpenter.

"Disgusting babel. Ur-r-r! In my time one came here for peace and quiet. I hate mixed crowds."

"The modern democracy," observed the carpenter, his eyes twinkling amusement. "In the old days my father could not have sat here chattering sociably with your father, sir."

"I didn't come here to jabber, curse you, sir!" said the Colonel. "Surely," he leaned forward, "I ought to know that old frump with the cloak——

"Lord Fortescue?"

"The Chief of Staff! Of course. Dear me, how old he's grown. Polly Fortescue of course! Where's that damned waiter?"

The carpenter touched the Colonel's sleeve. "Look, sir, those two men in silver."

"Bah!" the old soldier snorted with rage. "Queen's Blackguards. Bah! In fancy dress, the bounders! This so-called Chivalrie Renaissance among the idle rich is a piece of damned disgusting snobbery. Ugh!"

"The young 'un is the Duke of Lancaster. The tall lean chap is the Chancellor's son, the Marquess of Sydney—rare good at the wicket, sir."

The Colonel scowled sideways at the passing Guardsmen.

"I hate this foppery—ought to be whipped."

"We may need them," the carpenter turned grave, "may need them badly, sir—may need every man we have in the Empire. Have you heard, sir, that Brand is provisioning the country for a siege?"

"Pooh! Old invasion scare again—young man, I was brought up to that."

"I'm afraid, sir, it's something worse than invasion. There's a rumour that unless the Government drops this Russian Alliance, Brand's going to read them a lesson."

"Don't talk to me about Brand, a beastly common tradesman—ought to be locked up. Bah!"

"Well, I'm a working man," said the carpenter, "and we're not much in love with this Capitalist Government. Hello, here's the Marquess of Sydney back again with—look," he pointed with his pipe stem. "That's John Brand!"

"Brand, you say?" The Colonel half choked with excitement, "point him out quick. Is that really Brand himself? Why, damme!"

Brand and Lord Sydney were talking in low tones, earnestly, as they passed through the lanes of trees.

"My dear Brand, it's too horrible," said the Guardsman, "you never could hold the reins through such a crisis. There must be some other way."

"There is only one other way. Get back the Russian papers. I must have those papers, I must publish them word for word, then leave the people to judge."

"I have tried. Can't you believe that I've tried to get them, Brand?"

"I couldn't blame you, Sydney, if you refused your help. I know what it means to you."

"To rob my father, to betray him to his enemies, to hand him over to justice, then to be Duke of Ulster afterwards in his place, and bribe thieves and prostitutes to shake hands with me—the leper. I know what it means, and I have not turned back."

"Give it up, Sydney, leave it to me, and let me get the papers."

"First spy, then coward, I must sneak, and then run away?"

Yet that old dread seized him which has shaken the nerve of many a gallant Englishman, before and since, who has heard his country call on him to serve. What is this England? She gives her children to the wolves, to the sharks, the desert, the ice field, plague, famine, war; waters the continents with our blood, paves the sea with our bones, and goes on her way forgetting, asking for more. And if she is not content that we die the lesser death, but requires the son to give his father's body, shall she find men cowards, afraid to sacrifice?

"No, I have not turned back!" cried my Lord. "How could I turn back!"

Brand wrung Lord Sydney's hand but made no answer.

Then my Lord told him what had been done already, and how the Duke of Ulster defended the Chancellory from attack with a force of detectives, a cordon of police, and in his private room reliefs of Queen's messengers on guard by night and day.

"I think," Sydney continued, "I can force the outer cordon. On the eve of the Coronation, yes, Monday—that's five days ago, a recruit took the oaths, a fellow called Browne, a cowboy from the Arctic. He has let me make friends with him, a good horseman, Brand, and we'll be through the lines before the police can fire. That's all arranged, but the trouble begins when we reach Ulster's room. The Queen's messenger for the first night watch is a newly appointed man, a retired Anglo-Indian officer, Colonel Anderson, V.C., otherwise known as Red Pepper. I saw him just now as we passed, at one of the tables. A friend of mine was talking with him, a carpenter."

"I noticed him," said Brand. "The carpenter was pointing me out. Your friend, you say?"

"When I was a youngster he built me a model ship; we've been chums ever since."

"Isn't such a friendship awkward for him?"

"I asked him once," answered my Lord, "and he went over to the open doors of the workshop. He was bearing a plank, and stood there in the sunlight pointing at the shadow which he cast upon the floor at my feet. It was the shadow of the Cross. 'Don't you envy me that?' says he. Then I looked up at his face and seemed to see the Carpenter of Bethlehem, offering a crown in exchange for only a coronet."

"You have sent your carpenter to Colonel Anderson?"

"Yes," said my Lord, cheerfully. "My carpenter has a rare gift of making friends. I told him everything, and he said that surely Colonel Anderson would serve the Queen if he knew."

"Colonel Anderson," answered Brand, "will obey the Queen's orders. Go to her and get a written command."

* * * * *

The Duke of Ulster was writing a letter to his son. "I am lonely," he wrote, and scratched out the words; "I am all alone," he wrote, and drew his pen hastily through the line. "I am left all alone. For thirty years I have laboured to leave to my son a great heritage of honour, to pass down to my heirs such——" He tore the paper to shreds and began again. How could written words carry his pain to another, or any confession, or any cry for help clear that estrangement!

For many days this poor traitor had been silent in the flames of his punishment, but now the fire burning within him kindled, and his mortally wounded spirit screamed for mercy. Only the night heard, only the pitiless walls rang back in answer. No human ear would ever hear that cry, no human heart would ever understand. In this night his soul died. Never again did he hope either for the help of men or the pity of God. Never again was he known to show mercy to either men or women, but fought with ruthless power in blind pain.

One whose name may not be given found fragments of scattered paper with the words upon them which the doomed man tried in vain to write to his son. The fragments have been by a strange chance preserved, surely the most pitiful scripture in all our national archives. Perhaps at the Day of Judgment this cry of a dying soul may yet be weighed and lie as heavy in the scales as Ulster's sin. So one prays who has himself need of mercy.

For a long time the Duke lay back motionless in his chair, his face bowed down upon his breast. Then an electric instrument stirred on the table beside him, clicking and throbbing out a printed message.

"MY LORD DUKE,

"I have the honour to warn you that the safe in your lordship's office will be broached to-night from the rear. We hope to take the assailant red-handed, but any papers of vital importance should be secured from a possible injury by explosives. I have the honour to be,

"Your Grace's Obedient Servant,
"PATRICK O'ROOKE, Sergeant."

The Duke hurriedly crossed to the safe, set the cypher, opened the doors, and secured the package of the Russian papers. After some hesitation he opened a cupboard between the windows, and hid the package in the pocket of an old office coat. A spy concealed within the panelling of the walls saw everything, the matured result of a plot to get the papers taken out of the safe and placed within reach of capture.

The Duke came out from the closet, turned to close the door, then with a violent start swung round raising his arms as though to defend himself. The Secretary for War had entered unannounced, was crossing towards the desk, and him the Duke confronted, his head thrown back, white fluttering hands waving dismissal.

"Leave my room," he said haughtily, "request my secretary to announce you, sir."

"Bosh—keep that for your flunkies, Ulster, I've got no time for your trumpery etiquette. Come to the House if you want to save your Government."

The Duke sat down in his official chair, and under lowering brows, glared at the Minister.

"Sir Myles," he said, "do you think you are entirely safe insulting me?"

"Safe? Confound you, Ulster—do your worst. We'll both be ruined by midnight anyway. Brand's people have attacked us in the Commons—they've produced this damned Treaty of yours with Russia—clause by clause, and the House is furious. We've had to give them the lie that there's any such Treaty. Come down and defend yourself, man, if you want to stay in office."

"Sir Myles," answered the Chancellor, "go to the Opposition with all your tribe, if you dare! Go, take your panic back to your seat in the House, and when I follow, see that I find you there. Get out of my room."

The Chancellor was alone in the silence, gnawing his fingers, biting his nails to the quick.

He must go to the House of Lords, he must fight, he must get the Commons pacified, the Russian Treaty accepted by Parliament—that or war with the Leagued Nations, that or the destruction of the betrayed fleets, that or invasion, conquest, the fall of the Empire, his own destruction, and never-ending infamy. What could he do in the Parliament, what threats, sacrifices, appeals—to rally his scattered forces, to stay their panic? Yes! In one flash he saw his way cleared. He rose from his place triumphant, his eyes alight with victory! The Queen's move gives checkmate to this King Brand III.

A secretary crept in timidly, offering up words, then with a gasp of fear recoiled before Ulster's eyes.

"A letter? Bring it here. Go."

The Duke saw the superscription, and a trembling seized him, so that he sank back into his chair, for the writing was in the hand of Brand, his adversary, strong, hard, ominous. He wrenched the cover open, bent, and read, his livid face and burning eyes set on the script.

And in effect the ultimatum ran: "Resign, or fight Lyonesse."

He looked up, his lips quivering, his face convulsed.

"I must, I must," he muttered. To resign was to face the Russian vengeance, to fight, destruction. "I must, I must!" he whispered. "I shall go to the Queen."

Then throwing himself upon the desk, he buried his face in his arms.

VI
THE PENANCE CHAMBER

There was one door in the palace which the frivolous passed on tiptoe, where the boldest paused before they ventured to knock. Miss Temple lived there, the Queen's governess, who was supposed to refresh herself daily from the Lamentations of Jeremiah, the Psalms of Imprecation, and the cheering pages of Job. If ever the Queen's ladies romped in the corridor, she would come forth denouncing the iniquities of the age, and once when a profane Guardsman blew cigarette smoke through the keyhole, Miss Temple curdled his young blood with lurid prophesy.

On Monday, the 9th of June, pretty Mrs. Osbourne called. Her Jack had told her that his cousin, Miss Temple, was "a gay old puss who would tell naughty stories by the hour."

Miss Temple had lately published fulminations against the wearing of boy dress by athletic women, so at Jack's mischievous suggestion, Mrs. Osbourne called in her riding costume to hear the naughty stories. What transpired between the two ladies is not exactly known, but there are rumours of a locked door and sobs. Anyway when Lord Sydney dropped in for tea he found Miss Temple complacent and Mrs. Osbourne damp. Sydney, having urgent business, was by no means gratified at finding the old governess engaged.

"Now, pet," she said cheerfully, as she rose to welcome the Guardsman, "this is the Marquess of Sydney."

"Rattles, but doesn't bite," he responded. He was on duty, and the armour was always a nuisance indoors. Moreover, he could not find a seat, for Miss Temple dated from the quaint times of the old King when furniture was devised solely for ornament.

"Glad to see you, Mrs. Osbourne," he said, plumping abstractedly down on a doubtful stool. "Miss Temple often lets me come for tea."

"Oh!" quoth Mrs. Osbourne in a state of collapse. "Oh, thank you!" Sydney presented her teacup, and sat down again with his own. Then he turned to Miss Temple.

"How is our Lady?"

Miss Temple sighed. "She must have done something more dreadful than usual, for she wears plain black, poor child, sits in her penance-room, and watches the vulgar sparrows on the terrace. Do you know, I waited a whole hour with her before she even spoke, yes, and then she sighed. 'Dearie,' she said—you know her funny way,—'these sparrows have fleas'—she will be vulgar sometimes: 'and the Queen has worries, and the Chancellor has his party, and the Party has constituents, and the constituents have taxes, poor things. But the worm'—now why should she think of a worm!—'the worm has his skin scratched all the time so he never feels the least irritation. I wish I was a worm!' There! Did you ever hear such notions? I never taught her about worms, I always tried to lead her up to think of higher things. But then, just when I was going to correct her, do you know a great big tear rolled down her cheek. So I told her to comfort herself with the thirty-ninth Psalm. I wonder now what she has done?"

"Pawned the crown jewels?" suggested the Guardsman.

Miss Temple rustled with disapproval. "I think it's a message from the Chancellor. I'm afraid your father must have demanded another audience." Then the old lady glanced towards Mrs. Osbourne, who might gossip. "Of course," she added stiffly, "it must be about the duel."

Mrs. Osbourne sitting bolt upright on the sofa, knees together, toes in, squeaked like a mouse.

"What—a duel, oh!"

"Yes," said Miss Temple. "Prince Ali is to fight the Queen's Champion." Then she bit her lips in great vexation, for to a mere civilian she had betrayed a secret of the Guard.

"That's all right," Lord Sydney laughed heartily. "We had the duel this morning. I was Dymoke's second, and young Browne for Trooper Ali. We seconds arranged the detail—swords at ten paces."

"But," said Miss Temple, primly, "swords won't reach!"

"No," Sydney shook his head, "they won't. You should have heard our warriors cursing! I'm afraid my revered father has graver business than that to worry our Lady."

"Oh," chirped Mrs. Osbourne, "and my Jack said there was a dreadful rumour on the Stock Exchange. They say that monster at Lyonesse is behaving disgracefully. Yes, he has made horrible threats about the thingum-jig, the what d'ye call 'em."

"The price of gold?" Sydney was exchanging glances with Miss Temple.

"That's it," said the governess; "that must be it. You know how strongly I disapprove of profane books. This morning my poor child was fretting herself to death about Mayne's 'Gold and Lyonesse.' I took it away from her. What a shameful thing that Margaret should be crying over a book like that! Why should a godless man like Mr. Brand be clothed with such frightful power? Let him put his mouth in the dust. Now why are such things permitted?"

"Miss Temple," said Sydney, "can you remember back to the Black Decade? But no, you must have been a mere child then."

"A child? My dear James, I was a grown woman. We were so poor that we had to give up crinolines, and come down to two-yard skimps. The country was desolate, the rampart and the wall languished together, and coals were so high that we had to use briquettes. Trade was going all to pieces, and to keep up the Fleet, they actually taxed excursion tickets. My father was ruined by the crash in Centralias, and I went out as a governess."

"But Lyonesse," said Sydney, "has made everything all right. We were never so prosperous."

"My dear James, I am still a governess. Lyonesse? It was a moor in those days, and the foxes walked upon it. Yes, there was a very frousty old man who smelt of tobacco, in a shed where Lyonesse stands now, and a rumour got about that he could take common water and make it into gold. That was John Brand I. Yes, the workshop was very smelly, I remember; but think of it, pet, he was making solid blocks of gold as if they were only bricks."

The old lady was very busy at her lace cushion. "Yes, my father took me to see him just when I got over the mumps—most unbecoming, dear, with red flannel wraps. His son, John Brand II., was a fat man with a wart on his nose, and oh, such manners! He was the one who brought hundreds of tons of gold to the Mint, so that the price went down, and all the mines had to close, and lots of people were ruined. Russia went bankrupt; that was in 1940, and all the really nice people there had their heads chopped off in the Red Terror. That was an unspeakable mercy, because, you see, they had to leave off invading India.

"People used to say that the gold making was all vanity and lying divination, but the Government asked Mr. Brand if he would mind being taxed. He said he mustn't be taxed too much or he would go over to the United States, but he didn't mind paying for the fleets, and armies, and things."

"Do you know what taxes Lyonesse pays now?" said my Lord. "Brand pays over a hundred million pounds a year in Imperial taxes alone. Besides that he has to give all Governments a big profit on their coinages—and that amounts to millions a year saved to the tax-payers of the world. Goodness only knows how rich the man is. I suppose——"

Miss Temple, who hated interruptions, turned briskly to Mrs. Osbourne.

"Now, my dear pet," she said, "I hope James doesn't bore you?"

"Oh no, dear Miss Temple, I'm quite used to it. My Jack, you know, is on the Stock Exchange."

"Now where was I?" asked Miss Temple. "Oh yes, the city of Lyonesse. Well, that was named after the place where King Arthur came from when he was washed up. Merlin the sorcerer, you know, was fishing, and caught Arthur; and afterwards when Arthur didn't die, you know, but went away to be healed of his grievous wound by the Three Queens in one barge—well, I forget exactly how it was, but anyway King Arthur went to Lyonesse, wherever that is. And some day he's to come back and save England. Lyonesse, the real place I mean, has grown, until now it has any amount of people (and they do say that the co-operative stores are ridiculously cheap and most fashionable), and it's been the saving of England. Now John Brand II. is buried there—cremated, I mean—and John Brand III. reigns in his stead. Is it true, Sydney, that he's a woman hater?"

"Jack says he's a beast," was Mrs. Osbourne's comment; "but then Jack has lost a lot himself on Lyonesse Branch Industrials."

"Lay not up for yourselves treasures on the earth," said the governess, fiercely. "I wonder if it is finance which has worried my poor Margaret."

"No, Miss Temple," Sydney launched his bombshell. "My father is going to force our Lady to marry the Grand Swine Alexander."

"That horrible story again! Oh, James!"

"Yes, again, Miss Temple. Can you wonder now why she wears black, and sits in her penance-room envying the sparrows?"

"I must go to her," cried Miss Temple, rising, in great disorder. "My child! My poor child! Let me pass, Lord Sydney."

But the Guardsman barred her passage. "Her Majesty," he said, "is engaged."

Sydney turned upon the little lady in boy dress.

"Mrs. Osbourne."

"Oh, you made me jump!"

"These matters, Mrs. Osbourne, are secret."

She rose, drawing on her gauntlets. "Of course," she twittered, "I would never dream—wild horses couldn't——"

"They wouldn't be so rude, dear lady. But is it true that there are rumours on 'Change?"

"Oh, dreadful rumours, my Jack——" she was arranging her hair—"says that the gold fiend is going to sell his gold at a penny an ounce. He says that if that's true a sovereign won't buy a loaf of bread next week, but then, dear Miss Temple, that would never matter to my Jack. He always has rusks, you know. Well, good-bye."

"Good-bye, pet," said Miss Temple, kissing her on the forehead.

"Good-bye, Mrs. Osbourne."

"Good-bye, Lord Sydney—Ta-ta!"

"Thank goodness she's gone," said Sydney, closing the door behind her.

"Oh, but Sydney," Miss Temple quivered, "she'll tell it all over the town."

"Better than a newspaper," said the trooper.

"Sit down, James," Miss Temple resumed her place, "you tell me that Margaret is being forced into marriage with that odious Russian prince. But what has this to do with Lyonesse?"

"Dear old Mummie," answered the Guardsman. "Don't you see? Lyonesse doesn't care who marries the Queen. But Lyonesse is a business concern, and has no use for a Russian Alliance."

"And quite right, too."

"So Brand says to Ulster, 'Break with Russia, or I lower the price of gold.'"

"His father, John Brand II., did that, and Russia went bankrupt!"

"Russia will go bankrupt again, France bankrupt, Germany bankrupt. Who'll dare to disobey the man who can bankrupt civilization?"

Miss Temple thought that dear Sydney was getting very pompous and uplifted.

"Dear me," she tossed her head. "Your Mr. Brand will be getting himself arrested. A sort of commercial person—who is he to give orders to the Chancellor of the Empire?"

"This commercial person," Sydney laughed, "happens to live in a respectable democracy where a shopkeeper can sell anything he pleases at his own price."

"But, James, if the old Russian Empire was swept away by his father——"

"The world may be swept away by the son, Mummie. At all costs the Queen has got to be saved, England has got to be saved. There's still time to prevent this horror. I can't explain—I daren't—but you've got to help, you've got to go to our Lady. Tell her that if she will only give me a private audience I may be able to put an end to the Russian marriage."

"But, James, she daren't give a private audience to you. We should be found out, and there'd be such a scandal."

"You must be present, Mummie, but even at the risk of scandal go to the Queen."

* * * * *

In her penance-room our Lady was giving audience to the Chancellor, and while he, in his clear, exact speech, set forth the perils of the State, Margaret was thinking about something else. She sat before the window upon a low, square stool, her elbows on her knees, her chin upon her hands, just crushed into a lovely dimple by the mouth. Her lips were slightly parted, her dreamy, big, blue eyes set on the gardens.

The Empire, said Ulster, had prospered in the trade of Lyonesse, in great revenues furnished by the ungrudging Brands; and the people were proud of the giant merchant firm, strong in its long-tried honour and good faith.

But Margaret looked upon the wind-swept elms, the big white cloud-fleets sailing in high heaven, and silver flaws of wind coursed down the lawns. The Chancellor's words throbbed on her ears unheard.

The standard of all value, gold, was secured, he said, in the keeping of John Brand. What else, save gold, could measure the workman's wage, the cost of shelter, and the price of food? Strike down that standard, and the bread-winner could have no wages, could pay no rent, could buy no bread.

But Margaret saw the lilac and the may, the trees weighed down with bloom, swayed to the rushing wind, and little white daisies laughed along the lawns. And still the Chancellor's voice drummed without meaning.

Stab a man to the heart, was the statesman's thesis, and his blood will drain away leaving death behind. But gold was the life-blood of nations, gold money the driving force of civilization. Brand's monopoly was the life-blood of human society, in his good faith the public welfare lay, and all mankind depended on his honour.

Now Margaret heard the dull pain quaver in Lord Ulster's voice, as he urged the extremity of the general peril that Brand had broken faith.

"I wish I could understand," said the poor girl dreamily. "I've tried so hard to understand."

When the flowers unfold their petals to the sun; when wild birds preen their first fine bridal plumes; when a maid first trembles to a lad's shy kiss, spring stirs young blood, and the rose-flush of heaven glows in a girl's pure face, as the dawn of childhood flames to the day of life—then God ordains the sacred truce of Love. Child-life is shadowed with fears of the Unknown, the days of a woman are dark with the sorrows of the world, but between the time of fear and the coming time of sorrow is set the holy Sabbath, and truce of Love. Bitter the lot of a woman who looking back from the sunset time of life, and that long twilight waning down to night, remembers no daybreak, no flush of sunrise, no Sabbath of Love which strengthened her for pain.

Queen Guinevere went maying in the spring, Elizabeth rode a-hawking, Marie Antoinette played milkmaid; and Queens, who bear the heavy burden of state, have need of love and laughter to cheer the way, before the crown of diamonds is changed to a crown of thorns. Hungry for freedom, for love, the delight of life, Queen Margaret turned with a little bitter smile, turned her back to the gardens, and tried to think of finance.

"Don't be cross with me, dear Lord Ulster, I can't understand yet. Tell me again what Mr. Brand has threatened."

"To sell gold at a penny an ounce."

"But the coin, the sovereign, is something more than gold. It's stamped with a dreadfully hideous portrait of me, and my name, for a proof that the head wasn't meant for a crocodile."

"Yes, madame, it pledges the national honour that melted down or ground to powder its precious gold remains of untarnished worth. Failing that, the coin, even with the Queen's image, is spurious."

"A promise to pay," said Margaret, "and the promise keeps if I'm beggared."

"To pay, madame, yes, in food or fuel, or clothes, but the question is how much? For in the great sea of commerce, the prices rise and fall; and like a post to measure the flood and the ebb, so is the changeless standard of gold recording the tides of trade. Without that index, no man could sell his labour, or buy food. If Brand strikes down the standard, the world will starve."

"I understand," said Margaret. "Have you told me all?"

"About this peril, madame? No, not half. The wreck of the world can hardly be put in a phrase."

"I mean about Mr. Brand's letter. He threatened these terrors unless—unless what?"

"Unless the Queen suspends all relations with Russia. That means war with Europe."

The Queen laughed nervously. "Is Mr. Brand so wicked as all that? Shall we have him beheaded? I've got a headache, and I'd like to have somebody beheaded."

"I wish it were possible," the Chancellor sighed. "Statecraft was so simple, so direct, so easy once. But now——"

"Would Mr. Brand be as fierce if he had to make his threat openly in public?"

"Excellent!" said Ulster. "I could call him to appear at the Bar of the Commons. But that is a last resort—a forlorn hope. There's a gentler way than that. Do you remember, madame, the old Greek myth of Una, who led a lion captive to her beauty. I cannot fight this lion——"

Margaret blushed.

"Turn this gentleman from his purpose. I come to the Queen to confess myself defeated, beaten, humbled, a toothless old man in a terrible mess. Ah, madame, you can hardly know as yet the mysterious power of a woman's beauty."

"It sounds such utter nonsense," said Margaret, "and besides he's a monster, he hates women! Subdue this lion?" she added, thoughtfully. "Perhaps Lyonesse will do the like with me."

* * * * *

The Chancellor was gone, and Margaret sat alone, watching the passing shadows of white clouds, when Miss Temple came in upon her Lady's solitude, trembling lest the Queen should scold her, and hovered over her with a kiss and some whispers.

"Why, of course," said Margaret, gaily. "Let him come."

The governess returned leading Lord Sydney by the hand, while at the sound of the man's armour, Margaret felt a queer small thrill in her veins.

"Sydney, come here."

He bent upon his knee, kissed her white hand, but dared not lift his eyes to see her face.

"Dear me," said Margaret, "please be human, Jimmy. I've been sitting here all day trying to be good, whereas I'm just crazy for a game of cricket. Do you remember when you bowled, and raised a lump on my shin as big as an egg?"

He looked up into her face, and though she heard a little quivering sigh his eyes seemed to be laughing.

"You were Peggy, and I was Jimmy then, when you were ten and I nineteen."

"And me up in a tree stealing the cherries, and that awful farmer trying to shake me down! Then you came to the rescue."

"Can you trust me, Peggy?"

"Why, of course! What's the matter?"

He took a written paper and a pen which he laid on Margaret's knee.

"Will the Queen trust Jimmy even to signing that?"

"Colonel Anderson," she read, "Queen's Messenger, is to obey the bearer, Trooper the Marquess of Sydney."

"Is it something very wicked?" she asked.

"Awfully."

So the Queen wrote in great haste: "Margaret. R.I."

THE SECRET OF LYONESSE

AN INTERLUDE

This is the secret of Lyonesse, that the Divine methods of creation had been applied to the needs of man.

Come just for a moment upon this path of thought, leaving the old earth, to tread a course of stars, to traverse the Milky Way. Come to the very end, to the edge of the Formless Void. And now look down into Space, into the outer darkness, into the Ether.

The Almighty has put a stress upon it, and the Ether lives. Stressed in one way and we know it at once for Matter, a fine dust. Its desire for rest we know as Force, driving that dust in a whirlwind roaring through the dark. The dust is heated by its movement, and flames into light whirling through space. That whirling cloud of light is a new-born sun. So suns are born. The sun cloud throws off a lesser cloud, which gathers into a separate sphere. The little globe whirling about its parent will cool and become a planet, like the Earth. So worlds are born.

There are many Forces, but one group, the ripples of the Ether, form an octave like that of music. First of the seven notes are the long, slow ripples which we feel as heat; second, are the Hertzian ripples used in the wireless telegraph; third, is a region of the unknown; fourth, is the octave of Light the rays of the spectrum; fifth, the Rontgen rays; sixth, the Gamma rays proceeding from radium; seventh, the ripples of the Etheric Force. It is upon the notes of this vast scale that the forces of creation play the music of the spheres.

The dust vibrations are of many kinds. One we know as gold, another as hydrogen, a third as carbon; and when two kinds vibrate in perfect harmony, they mingle together just like notes of music. Thus oxygen and hydrogen vibrating in harmony are water.

The first man who ever walked upon this path of thought was John Brand I. He measured and reproduced the vibrations of matter, the tremours of Force. For him, in very deed, the stars sang together. First of all mortals he heard the music of the spheres.

It was John Brand II. who made hydrogen cease to vibrate, so that it lapsed into ether, then struck that mighty chord which brought the ether to life again as gold. He had mastered the Divine alchemy, he followed upon the footsteps of the Creator, he played the music of the spheres.

For ages the alchemist, not fathoming the ways of God, had failed, but this humble and reverent man grasped the great secret. He learned how to make not only gold but all the elements of matter; he struck the chords of Force.

VII
THE TAMING OF LYONESSE

To the foreman of the works, the physicist William Robertson, had been entrusted the secret formula for making gold. As a shareholder in Lyonesse this man grew fabulously rich, and more, the brilliant Sir William Robertson was ambitious of power and splendour. Ill could he bear with the new master of Lyonesse, plain Mister Brand of the shabby clothes, the thread-bare furnishings, the cautious policy. The two men were never friends, time made them enemies.

Robertson earned a barony by joining Lord Ulster's party, and expected an earldom for publicly affronting his master. Then came the day of trouble, when Brand joined issue with the Chancellor, and war was imminent between Lyonesse and the Government. The ingenious physicist was frightened, foresaw disaster whichever side he joined, and promptly betrayed them both. He was in America now, starting new factories to undersell the gold from Lyonesse.

So ended the great monopoly, so was the standard wrenched from the master's hand, so came the fall of gold. Brand only knew of one way upwards. For him ascent of mountain heights meant sweating labour, endurance, patience, faith. He could not understand the winged vanity of this servant who betrayed him in his own household, or of Lord Ulster, who had betrayed the Empire. These men had bartered their souls for wealth, rank, office, as though the admiration of their fellows could ever lift them up above the earth. They bartered their souls for wings, and that which rose upon the wings was only a swollen corruption.

Brand had no pity for the tortuous errors of weak men, only a dull anger without understanding, a smouldering rage which the slightest breath would kindle into the flames of war. Then the Queen sent for him. A woman was to turn aside the fury of Lyonesse, to subdue and tame this man who reined the coursers of the sun, and drove the awful powers of creation.

The Queen sent for him. Brand mentioned to his secretary that he had a business appointment, and so, leaving his London office for an hour, he walked to the palace, glad of a little exercise and fresh air. He came to the gates, presented his card, and was told that popes and archangels would be denied admittance if they came to a state ball in a tweed suit.

Lord Sydney got him passed through the gates, but drew him aside under the shadows of the porch.

"Have you no other clothes?"

"Not in London, Sydney. Is it vital?"

"To a woman, yes."

"It seems there's some sort of a dance here, to-night."

"Only a state ball," said the trooper sarcastically, "for the royalties of Europe, the Embassies, and all the dignitaries of the Empire—most of them took the trouble to change their clothes."

They stood within the great Ionic portico, lighted with flaring torches, occupied by the Yeoman of the Guard in their ancient scarlet livery, bearing halbards. By the door stood clusters of gorgeous officers, and within one could see walls of translucent alabaster, clusters of malachite columns, a vast perspective melting into haze of golden light.

"Princes and dignitaries," said the master, thoughtfully. "I wonder how many of them will be alive next month."

"Is it so bad?" asked Sydney.

"Unless you can get me the Russian papers."

"This afternoon," answered Sydney, "Her Majesty gave me the order."

"Use it to-night."

"I can't leave the palace."

"These fripperies are more important!" Brand turned away from him in angry impatience. "I can wait no longer. Take me," he said, "to the Queen."

They crossed the portico, they entered the vestibule, but at the foot of the alabaster stairs Brand drew back, clutching Lord Sydney's arm.

The trooper saw the colour leave Brand's face.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"That carpet," said the master under his breath. "Why is it red?"

Lord Sydney stared at him amazed. "Why not?"

Without answer, the great man brushed roughly past him and hurried on. Did he foresee that within a few weeks these alabaster stairs must run cascades of blood, the gorgeous corridors beyond be choked with corpses, the gaunt and starving mob ravage these chambers of state, while shattered dome and reeling tower crashed down through the burning roof? Did he foresee that the princes and dames and gentlemen who thronged the rooms were to offer tiaras of diamonds for horseflesh, to haggle with stars and orders for a cup of water, and be dragged out of the cellars and murdered in the streets of the blazing capital?

People shrank away from the look in Brand's eyes as he approached them, many who began to comment on his dress, stopped in mid speech, a lane of silent spectators opened to give him passage, a confusion of rumour followed in his wake, and the news of his coming spread excitement to every corner of the palace. For no light purpose would the master of Lyonesse come unprepared in haste at such an hour, business of moment was afoot, a crisis in public affairs. Was it open war between John Brand and the Government?

Attended by Lord Sydney, the master entered the throne room, and even he seemed to be moved by the dazzling splendour of the scene. He saw a vault of gold sustained on columns of onyx, an atmosphere of radiant light, dense with perfume, tremulous with music, a confusion of robes and gems, the slow grave movement of some stately dance, then a lane of people opening to the very steps of the throne, where Margaret stood attended by her court.

Her robes were like an iridescent cloud, and wondrous opals starred her coronet. And like the changing colour of the gems, her face was different as he looked, a shade of annoyance melted to a smile, yet in the very gentleness of her greeting, the man was doubtful of a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

Brand heard Lord Sydney making the presentation, felt that the people about him seemed embarrassed, wondered what fantastic etiquette he ought to follow, looked our Lady straight in the face, took her extended hand with reverence in both his own.

"Forgive me," he said. "Please tell me what to do."

He could not hear his own words, his heart so thundered, and every artery in his body thrilled. Margaret was shaking hands with him frankly, cordially.

"Yes, shake hands," she cried, tremulous with laughter. "Let the Queen shake hands with the King of Lyonesse!"

"I am ashamed," he said, humbly. "I ought to have dressed—to have——"

"Come in disguise? Why that would be absurd for Lyonesse. We will ask you only to wear the Rose of England," she took from her shoulder a blood-red rose, and fastened it with a jewelled brooch upon his breast. "My Lords," she cried to her attendants, "witness that we create the Order of the Rose for Englishmen who have served their country well. Brand of Lyonesse, first Knight of the Order of the Rose, this is our thanks for great and ungrudging service. Come, honour us with your escort, Mr. Brand."

She led him to a balcony overlooking the gardens—faint came the sound of distant music there. She thought of the things to be said, the things to be done, wondered how she could deal with this rough monster, hated the Chancellor for setting such a task, gave up the whole business in despair, and set herself to find out why Brand hated women.

"Here we can rest," she said; "you shall sit there and let me stand where I can see all my beech trees. Sometimes I stay here all through a summer night with Orion and the Pleiads to keep me company."

He could see her face dark against the full moon, wonderfully still. Her breast rose and fell as she breathed, her every movement swayed the changing glory of her moonlight robes. She seemed not earthly, but kin of great Orion and the Pleiads.

"What is your garden like in Lyonesse?"

"My garden?" he answered, trying to control his voice.

"I know," said Margaret, "what it must be like, a garden of rocks and the white surf for flowers. Your gardener is the wind—I should like your garden."

"From my cottage," he answered, "the wall goes down three hundred feet sheer to the breakers."

"Oh, I can see it! A wonderful cliff with big outstanding stacks and bastions, where the sea-eagles breed. How beautiful! But can you live there in winter?"

"Yes. I had a fright though once when a sea wrecked my study."

"At three hundred feet?"

"Seas have been known to break higher than that. My sister and I spend many an hour watching the big sou'-westers. Then the spray lashes miles inland over the city."

"And what is your sister like?"

"I believe she is plain," he looked at the Queen; "yes, she must be very plain, but somehow I never thought of that till now. I'll ask her."

"Please don't," said Margaret, hastily, "she might be angry."

"I'd rather not then," his grey eyes twinkled. "Sarah has so many things to vex her."

"And you always live in that eyrie?"

"Oh no, we go away sometimes in the Mary Rose, our yacht."

"For holidays?"

"We went to the Himalayas last, and perched for the sunset view on Everest."

"I didn't think that even an aerial yacht could live up there."

"I could show the Queen some wonderful places if she would venture a trip in an etheric yacht."

"How I should like to see the world like that!" The Queen sighed. "I'm tied up, you know, and everything I do is most improper."

This, then, was the monster, the dragon of the Chancellor's fears, this simple-minded, plain-living merchant, whose pleasure was in the greater, wilder moods of Nature, who spoke so gently of a virago sister.

"Please tell me about the factories," she said.

"Must I talk of sympathetic vibratory physics?"

"Heaven forbid! Why that's worse than even the Budget!"

"And in practice a simpler, easier trade than cooking."

"Even the changing of water into gold?"

"A matter of rule of thumb, like making bread. But I must not bore the Queen by talking shop."

Our Lady's eyes intently studied Brand. "Do you know," she said gravely, "that my advisers call you a public enemy."

The man looked up at her smiling. "They lie," he said frankly.

He dared to call her Chancellor a liar! "You will explain," she said.

"Oh, but I didn't want to offend you!"

Margaret smiled despite herself. "You said you would make gold cheap."

"I am so much a public enemy," he answered, laughing, and spoke with easy confidence of a new merchandise in wares of gold, of plates and cups, of lamps and ornaments, for the common use and comfort of the poor, such as had been beyond the means of kings. He spoke of dreary brick houses, and dismal streets annealed with rough gold, of silver columns and gemmed entablatures, of public monuments in golden bronze, of cities which will not rust, or tarnish, or get dirty, which frost cannot splinter or rain dissolve, their splendour imperishable and their celestial beauty. Margaret thought he had taken leave of his senses. For which of us in those days dreamed of the golden age or ever supposed that this should all come true?

Our Lady's voice had a resentful note as she reverted to the issues of the time, as in the Chancellor's terms, she voiced his horror at the fall of gold.

"A standard of gold set in the tides of trade? A beautiful image," said Brand, thoughtfully. "But, dear me, how it condemns poor Ulster! The tide is an age-long ebb of falling prices. So is the standard changed to a cross, and the debtor hangs there."

"I don't understand," cried Margaret, affrighted.

"Neither did the Jews. The cross was of timber once. Do you remember? and He who suffered, expressly said, 'they know not what they do.' The Jews were priests then, now they are bankers, brokers of money, usurers, capitalists of Ulster's party. And the cross is changed to gold where mankind hangs crucified. 'They know not what they do.'"

"Oh, this is blasphemy!"

"May I not even speak of the cross—I, the bearer of that cross?"

Our Lady looked at his clear eyes, and was ashamed. Then trying to defend her cause—

"My Chancellor came to me," she cried.

"It is not then the crucified who cried to the Queen for help? Oh, may I plead for them?"

So gravely, sorrowfully he spoke for the men who labour on the land, who face the dangers of the air, who sweat in the deep pits, who drive the machines in the factories—for all the great labouring nation.

"Oh, Mr. Brand, I can't listen to this! The nation sends the men who advise me."

"The Jewish nation? Yet even Ulster, their high priest, has generously permitted my coming."

"Not to convert me to your strange views, Mr. Brand."

"But to be condemned unheard? Oh, surely not!"

"Go on," said the Queen, indignantly.

"I spoke of the standard, or cross of gold," he said. "I, the idol maker, dared to speak blasphemously of the false god I have to uphold."

Margaret saw the twinkle in his eye, and could hardly restrain herself from smiling.

"I'm going to be still more wicked," he went on. "I'm going to tear the idol down and break it all to pieces. Ulster would agree with me that our wealth is the stored-up labour of the bread-winners, that all our capital arises from their patient, endless work. By that measure we are so much better than our savage ancestors, whose way of earning was to snatch and run."

The Queen nodded assent.

"These counters then, which we call money, are something more sacred than stamped gold or silver. They are hours of human life beaten out on the anvils of destiny. My tokens of labour were first used at Lyonesse, and it has become the most prosperous town in the world. The United States adopted the labour money, and it is the most prosperous of all nations. My currency stops half the cheating in finance, and Ulster's capitalists are in a state of fear. I speak for the whole labour party throughout the Empire, and for my own dear country, for after three generations we Brands are still Republicans of the United States. Yes, Ulster has argued wisely of the tides of trade—he dreads the tidal wave. I have set it in motion, and if this Chancellor attempts the least resistance, it will sweep away his Government."

Then Margaret turned on Brand in furious anger. "You threaten this tidal wave," she cried. "You dare to avow this sudden, cowardly, unprovoked attack upon my Government."

"So far is it sudden," said Brand, with grave respect, "that my foreman, bribed by Ulster with a title, has bolted, to set up American factories, and undersell my gold."

"Is this true?"

"It was in my letter which Ulster has shown to the Queen."

Margaret was silent.

"My attack," said Brand, "is cowardly."

"You admit that!"

"Yes, I admit the fear that the Government will commit suicide. In this emergency I strengthen the public credit with certain lands as a gift forever to the British nation. That also is in my letter which the Queen has read. There is no danger to the Empire."

Margaret sank into a chair, and remained silent.

"My attack," continued the master, "is unprovoked. Far be it from me to even seem provoked when the Chancellor offers the Queen in marriage to a Russian dipsomaniac lately released from an asylum. The Chancellor no doubt is the Queen's servant expressing her Majesty's will."

Our Lady's fan broke in her hands, but she remained silent.

"The public enemy," said Brand, "has so far avowed his sudden, cowardly, unprovoked attack upon Ulster's party. I have but reminded the Queen as to terms of my letter which had escaped her memory."

"Don't torture me," cried Margaret. "I have not read the letter!"

"I dare not accuse the Chancellor," said Brand, "of leaving his sovereign to face such issues unarmed and unprepared. He is an English gentleman incapable of conduct such as that."

"Stop, I command you!"

"No," said Brand, rising to his feet. "If the Chancellor has not warned the Queen, I shall! Bear with me, Queen Margaret! I have to deal with rough and brutal facts, to say things that hurt. Forgive me; be patient with me."

Margaret sat in rigid silence, at bay, waiting.

"The Queen has called me here," said Brand, "and I must speak. I have come to plead for the people, no matter what the cost. Russia, France and Germany are mobilizing. In feverish haste the League is arming for the invasion of England. Your people are never prepared for war; the Imperial fleets and armies are utterly unready—I dare not say how weak. Ulster, absorbed in appeals to Russia, offering terms for peace so shameful that they had to be denied in the House of Commons. There is no hope in war, no hope of peace. Nothing can save this country but the wreck of the Leagued Nations by the fall of gold."

The Queen sat motionless, staring.

"There need be no fear," he said. "Ulster's people dare not resist, lest they be swept away with the Leagued Nations."

Then Margaret leaned forward in her seat, wide, staring eyes intent upon his face, a slow hand reaching out along the balustrade, and groping fingers found an electric bell.

"Are we deposed?" Her voice was low and tremulous with passion. "Will you usurp our crown when you have swept away our Government?"

But the man who was to be tamed heard nothing, because of his pity for this helpless woman cursed with the heavy burden of the Imperial crown—betrayed, abandoned, yet still of unbroken and unflinching courage.

He took from its clasp the rose which the Queen had given, the blood-red Order of the Rose for Englishmen who have served their country well.

"It is bruised," he said, humbly, "by my clumsiness."

"It still has thorns!" cried Margaret. "You have slandered our Ministers, and to-morrow you shall meet them face to face, to repeat this treason word for word at your own peril before the House of Commons. You have insulted your sovereign!" Her hand struck the bell thrice. "Gentlemen of the Guard!"

Presently two orderlies of the Guard drew up in her presence, saluting.

"Gentlemen," said her Majesty, "we have been insulted. Expel this man from the Palace!"

Margaret sat alone in her balcony trying to hate Mr. Brand. She had never been so angry in her life.

All men did her worship, hundreds of millions rendered to her their homage, whole continents obeyed her, and in her name the masters of the world commanded. Her Imperial Majesty had never been disobeyed, and here was a man who dared——

What had he dared?

He dared to pity her because she had lost her temper.

She tore her fan all to pieces and scattered the wreck on the floor.

This monster had come to be subdued, to be tamed, to be turned from his purpose. He had not been much subdued, or to any great extent tamed, or in the least degree turned from his purpose. He was not even ruffled! The surf of her fury had beat against his cliffs, and then he said he was sorry to see her bruised.

There was the stab of defeat. Thrust a sword into a pool, and where it touches the water it seems to bend. Such is the sweet obliquity of a woman's mind that, in its clearness, her defeat may seem better than triumph. He was rather a nice monster, this Brand; friendly in a quaint way, very frank in his admiration, and, whether she liked it or not, determined to save her from the Russian marriage. She was very angry still—with the Chancellor!

When at last she gave the Chancellor audience, her face was hard, her manner cheerful, her bearing defiant.

"Ulster," she said, "I've failed."

The statesman was not such a fool as to ask for reasons. Well he knew the danger signals, the anger growing in her eyes, as she spoke with the directness of a man.

"Mr. Brand," she continued, "wrote you a letter, part of which you told me, the other part kept back. Give me the letter!"

"Oh, madam, not that, I implore you."

"I insist."

"Dear Lady, forgive an old, tried servant of the State, who would give his life to guard you from such things!"

"Give me that letter!"

There were tears in old Ulster's eyes as, with a shrinking reluctance, he protested—even while he obeyed—speaking of things unfit for the Queen to see, and devilish evil planned against her throne.

But Margaret, in burning eagerness, wrenched the paper from his hand, and bending forward to the light which streamed from the windows, spread out the sheet upon her knees and read.

There is no need to quote this forged letter, which made the Queen believe that Brand of Lyonesse, under pretext of the gold crisis, was plotting to seize the actual reins of power.

Subtly was the mind of our Lady poisoned until the Chancellor seemed to defend the realm from foul and deadly treason, against the nation, and against the Queen.

"Ah, madam," he said, "I am an old man, my eyes are dim with the passage of many years in the royal service. I cannot claim the inspired foresight which commanded that this traitor expose his own infamy at the very bar of the House of Commons. Your Majesty has been pleased to hale this man before the bar of the nation's judgment. When he speaks in public, when he threatens the nation, when he declares war against civilization—then, and then only, will public opinion support the Government, and we shall deal swift vengeance. But there will be a panic, this threat of the fall of gold will disturb the peace of the nations, and, madam, the nations will hold Ministers responsible."

"But you're not."

"What, madam, do France, Russia and Germany care for that? Remember the League has but one purport, one policy—the destruction of the British Empire. Here is the chance for which they have been waiting for many years. They are mobilized, they are ready, and their strength is overwhelming."

"Yes," cried the Queen; "but our Treaty with Russia."

"If it were only signed. We have offered Russia her own terms, yet she hangs back."

"But why?"

"Because the old Emperor dreams of a dearer and more personal bond."

The Queen turned pale.

"The Russian constitutional monarchy allied by blood to the ancient and royal line of England. Ah, madam, the dream is worthy of that great prince. For, once unite these two Empires with ties of blood, and henceforth that alliance ensures the power which alone brings peace."

"And the newspapers will gush," said Margaret, bitterly. "And the people will shout. Oh, this is worthy of you!"

The Queen rose from her seat trembling, her face white with fear, her hands clenched, her teeth set. But what was in her heart could not be spoken. From her childhood the lesson had been drilled into her brain that princes may not have hearts, that they may not love, or mate, save for public ends. But used as she was to the curse of the blood royal, she shrank back affrighted when national policy doomed her to marry the Grand Duke Alexander.

"Ulster," she cried, "Margaret of England says that an English gentleman might be found, who is neither a prince nor a cousin, nor a coward, nor even a drunkard, and the nation be all the stronger."

"Madam, remember the blood royal of that great race which has for twenty centuries reigned in this island. Your ancestors never failed the nation, though many died for England, and all have suffered for her. Is Margaret less royal, less brave, than they? If the Queen fails us now, this coming world-storm of financial panic will bring the great invasion on our coasts. We need in our sovereign, courage sprung from a race of kings."

The Queen was in torment, and now in the background of her mind, a sunburnt, manly gentleman was speaking of his cottage on the cliffs, of his sister Sarah, who was plain, of the surf which beat upon the rocks, and the spray which drove for miles, and the spindrift high in air above the storm-lashed granite of Lyonesse.

"There will be war," said Ulster. "Thousands must die upon the field of battle. Women must cry, and orphan children must starve."

"Let there be war," cried Margaret. "War is better than shame."

"Your Majesty, if war can save us from shame—let there be war. But when we are overwhelmed, when all our people are given over to their enemies, then there is shame. When our bread-winners, ruined by the invasion, must starve to pay indemnity to Europe—then there is shame. And shall the last of our great sovereigns leave us to shame like that?"

Margaret, standing between the glow of the lamps and the soft pallor of the night, robed in a texture of changing glory like the wings of angels, looked up to the smiling face of the dead moon. Must she, like that poor servant of the world, the life fire quenched and hope utterly perished, move on an orbit of unending patience, and by a borrowed light from Heaven shine for cold duty's sake before mankind? So many a woman with a broken heart has made of her living death a light for men.

VIII
THE MOTHER OF PARLIAMENTS

The mother of Parliaments was in session, that venerable and most majestic court which struck the fetters from our slavery and made us free. Here was the serfcreated citizen, here we gained liberty of Faith, freedom of utterance, freedom of education, freedom of commerce. And here Brand cut the last shackle of all our chains, and gave us the free finance.

There is no need to repeat his words. He had mankind for audience, and those words will never be forgotten.

Consider, then, what he did:

He moved to save the Empire from Ulster's treason.

For the confounding of the Leagued Nations, and to take our enemies at unawares, he hastened the fall of gold.

To be exact, at three days' notice, he offered ounce ingots of fine gold at a penny each to be sold by the Bank of Lyonesse in every large town throughout the world.

He promised to accept British money at full value, giving in exchange the Labour currency as used in America and at Lyonesse.

This Labour money may be defined as a currency based on the security of public lands, all value of land being created to the labours of the community. With the increase of public revenues from State land, the taxes are gradually remitted.

Mr. Brand further opened two thousand shops in the Kingdom where food was offered for Lyonesse currency.

And to strengthen the credit of his enemies in power, he gave us his private estates, worth more than three hundred million pounds.

A sound swept through the chamber like a sob, as the great merchant received from an attendant a roll of parchment, and in silence bent down laying the gift at the feet of his hearers.

"It is the beginning," he said.

He was standing before a single rail of brass, the Bar of the Commons. In front of him extended the open gangway to the table bearing the mace, and above sat the Speaker in his chair of office. On either side rose the close-packed benches back to the walls, aloft were the crowded galleries.

The wavering factions were won for Lyonesse, the Labour party waited exultant, and a division then would have wrecked the administration, saved the Empire. Still the hard-stricken Ministers were silent, and all men in strained attention, breathing deep, fastened keen eyes upon the American's face.

"Let no man blame me for the Fall of Gold. Through the treachery of one of my servants the monopoly has fallen from my hands, the barriers are shattered, and the world goes on. We are in the presence of forces irresistible, powers beyond control. Against this hour of danger I have provided money, credit, food to strengthen the hands of the Government, to sustain the life of the Empire.

"But I must warn you, and beg you to hear my warning, that any attempt to withhold these things from the people will result in overwhelming disaster."

Then in an awful silence the leader of the Government rose from his place upon the Treasury bench.

"Do we understand, Mr. Speaker," he said, angrily, "that Mr. Brand threatens the Imperial Government?"

"No," answered Brand; "I warn."

Sir Jonas Mempes raised his hand, stilling the disquietude of the House.

"Mr. Speaker," he turned to address the chair. "We are warned, sir, by this gentleman that he is about to debase and degrade the coinage which bears the image and superscription of her Imperial Majesty, and which also bears a statement of value to which is pledged the good faith of this Government. The Queen and her lieges are invited to assuage their defaulted honour with a currency bearing the countenance and superscription of Mr. John Brand.

"Whose is this image and superscription? That of Mr. John Brand, citizen and merchant. Render, therefore, unto Mr. John Brand the things which belong to Caesar!

"I do not deny, sir, the undoubted right of any citizen and merchant to sell fine gold, or to issue promises to pay, whether stamped upon metal or paper, or the skins of beasts. But if we find such commerce doing treason to the sovereignty of our Lady, the Queen, with dishonour and ruin to her lieges, I claim that this Parliament has the higher undoubted right of restraining that commerce by force.

"I will render to Margaret, Queen and Empress, the things which belong to my sovereign, but this august commonwealth of nations, this British Empire is not to be ruled by any broker of money, or any merchant of gold.

"Sir, I understand that Mr. Brand warns us that he is about to seize control of the public moneys. Now, the whole function of Government consists in the maintenance of public credit, the collection of revenues, and the application of funds to the uses of the community. Such function, vested once in the singular puissance of kings, has become the heritage of the electorate, the Divine right of the people. The maintenance of that right unimpaired either by kings, armies, traitors, or mobs is the special and peculiar function of the House of Commons. To interfere with, or to threaten that right is felony. Mr. Brand is either our King, or he is accused out of his own mouth of high treason.

"Sir, it is within the constitutional rights of the House to authorise the Speaker in the committal of Mr. Brand to the Clock Tower, but I submit that this gentleman is here of his own free will, and stands with his rights untarnished as in some sort our guest.

"Again, the House of Commons may take legal proceedings through the Attorney-General, but I submit, sir, that this is a case in which the whole Parliament must as one man confound a perilous conspiracy, or be lacking in its duty to mankind."

The sullen mutterings of the Opposition had grown now to a roar which drowned the Speaker's voice.

"I observe," said Sir Jonas at last, "that Mr. Brand is still present as a guest of the House."

Loud shouts rang out from beneath the galleries, members started to their feet.

"Order!" cried the Speaker. "Order! Sergeant-at-Arms, conduct Mr. Brand to the doors!"

Then far above the tumult and confusion of the House, the voice of Sir Jonas Mempes rang out his challenge.

"On behalf of the Government, I beg leave, Mr. Speaker, to give notice of a bill attainting Mr. John Brand of High Treason!"

* * * * * *

Slowly the American walked, attended by the officers of the House, across the deserted lobby, along the empty corridor, then into Westminster Hall, and down the broad stairway, until the tumult died away in the far distance, till only the stone flags answered to his tread, and the walls echoed. His way was lined with statues, pale ghostly effigies of Kings and Statesmen, their triumphs all forgotten, their griefs assuaged, their sins, their penances, their burning passions stilled. Many of these had been arraigned, attainted, slain, or fretted themselves to death, or died in harness, builders of England, architects of her Freedom, forerunners of her Peace.

So he came to the doors and passed out into the sweet air of the evening, refreshed and humbled. Perhaps, in his zeal for the Queen, he had dealt rather too abruptly with the Commons.

This man was but thirty years old. With reverend age such as ours, and our maturer wisdom, he would not have dared to mount that perilous Chariot of the Sun, or threatened senates, or laid impatient hands on grave affairs. It was not his fault that we were falling into Russian vassalage, or that his disloyal servant shattered the standard of gold; he lacked the benefit of our sage advice, and if he greatly dared, he suffered for his audacity in trying to rescue the Empire by affronting the Commons.

Some day his statue will be joined to that white avenue of the mighty dead who set the landmarks on the way of life. That night, whatever its cost to the master of Lyonesse, we entered the region of Etheric Power, and the beginning of a more spacious age. For so rolls the ordered motion of our race from height to height up the great way towards Heaven. The fences are breaking down, the barriers are conquered, and our horizon broadens as we climb. We hope that the walls of Time and Space shall melt, the skies be torn asunder like a scroll, and when we win to the last heights of human destiny, we shall stand upon white summits, we shall behold the Infinite.

Rose flush of evening on the Abbey spires, cool bloom of dusk on that long range of palaces housing the departments of State, violet splendour of countless lamps, and Whitehall seething with traffic, so Brand saw Westminster on that last day of peace. Quiet in mind, a little tired, he strolled up Whitehall, taking the western pavement, touching his hat when men saluted him. He thought of Margaret, the Queen, and the memory of her face was very pleasant. He had just passed the narrow entry of Downing Street when he heard a sudden sharp fusillade of gunshots, and looking back noticed the instant gathering of a crowd. He went on very anxious at heart, thinking of Sydney. He was abreast of the old Admiralty porch when he heard behind him the clatter of a horse charging up the street at full gallop. He paused, turned, went out upon the causeway, and stood waiting full in the lamplight. The horse, coal black, came tearing down upon him, the rider, a gentleman of the Guard, his helmet and armour shining like Sirius, greeting him with a shout of recognition, waving something in the air, a package of documents, the Russian papers! The black horse reared to the bit, the rider sprang from the saddle.

"Well met," he cried; "Mr. Brand, these are from Trooper Sydney. Take my horse, escape!"

Brand took the package of papers, which reeked of blood.

"Is he dead?"

"Captured, sir, and Colonel Anderson shot. I'm going to join Lord Sydney!"

"Tell me your name."

"Browne."

The trooper glanced towards the advancing police.

"Mount, sir. Ride for your life!"

Brand swung to the saddle. "Where's the Queen?" he asked.

"At the Opera." The trooper snatched a white glove from his helmet. "Send this to our Lady."

"Thank you," said Brand, "I'll tell her how you served." And so broke away at a gallop.

The trooper, drawing his sword, turned upon the police, and delayed them with the formalities of his surrender.

IX
THE ROYAL PREROGATIVE

If Brand knew that his formal attainder was pending in the Commons, he did not know that the Chancellor had ordered his summary arrest.

The horse carried him to the Opera House, and from the portico he found his way up the main stairway into the foyer. There, at the ante-room of the royal box, an equerry was in attendance who conveyed his word to her Majesty.

"A Queen's messenger desires audience, and sends this white glove as a token."

Police officers had entered the box office below; Brand heard them on the stairs; and orders were shouted in the very foyer before the equerry returned.

"For the Queen's sake," he begged, "be quick!"

"Her Majesty will grant you audience."

Brand dashed past him into the ante-room. "Now," he said, "guard that door."

He found himself alone in a small, dark chamber, the very walls trembling with the crash of triumphal music, and loud voices from the corridor behind were already demanding admission. Then curtains were drawn asunder, and Margaret herself stood in the opening, against the glare of the auditorium, a glory of light shining as a halo about her, kindling the diamonds of her tiara. Her face was in shadow, her eyes big and dark as they searched the gloom of the place, until they fastened upon him.

"Mr. Brand? How dare you! You a Queen's messenger?"

With a gesture of rage, Brand flung the Russian papers upon the table between them.

"By right of blood!" he answered. "In the attempt to bring those papers to you, Colonel Anderson gave his life, Lord Sydney and Trooper Browne their liberty—and I am Queen's messenger in their place."

Margaret, with trembling hands, turned on the lights, and, moved by an impulse of horror, shrank back from the blood-stained papers; then, startled by a noise in the corridors—

"What's that?" she cried.

"Don't be frightened," he answered quietly. "It's only the police."

"What do they want?"

"Only me, don't trouble yourself. Here,"—he took the Russian papers, and wrenched off the blood-stained cover—"read," he said sternly.

Wonderstruck at his daring, confused by the glitter of his eyes, humbled by the prescience of some great calamity, Margaret sank down into a chair, while Brand spread the papers before her. She was dazed at first, understanding nothing of what she read. Presently she became absorbed, scanning page after page in feverish eagerness. Then, in deadly rage thrusting the papers aside, she rose confronting Brand.

"You accused our Chancellor, you slandered him, you insulted your sovereign with falsehoods about our administration, you were expelled from our palace in disgrace." She clutched her throat, hardly able to speak. "And you come back—with these—infamous slanders!"

"I have come back, woman, with the proofs for which Colonel Anderson gave his life-blood and two gallant gentlemen their liberty."

"But you have accused our Chancellor!"

"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?"

"His own son brings the charge. I have Lord Sydney's word."

"Lord Sydney's word! And that is more than proof. But how shall I know that you come from Sydney?"

"That glove!" said Brand. "How else should I have that glove?"

"And yet!" Margaret wrenched a letter from within her dress. "Since yesterday I have kept this with me to read, to study." There was hope in her voice, a flash in her eyes again. "You wrote this to the Chancellor. How can you speak of treason; you, who wrote this?" She flung the letter across the table. "Read!"

"My letter to the Chancellor? Why, this. My letter was short—that's not my signature!" He held the paper against the light. "The paper—how does it come to bear this water-mark, the Imperial cypher, 'M.R.I.'? The water-mark in mine is 'Lyonesse.' Is Lord Ulster insane? Does he suppose that I—a business man, would send such a letter as that, and keep no certified copy?" He opened his pocket-book, and produced a copy sworn before witnesses. "Let these be compared!"

Intently Margaret studied both the water-marks, and the texts of these two documents. Then, without a word, crossed to an armchair over against the curtains, and there lay back with closed eyes, thinking.

"Mr. Brand," she said at last, wearily, "you and my Chancellor charge one another with treason. You spoke of Sydney—what part has he in it?"

"He came to me," Brand answered, "a month ago, gave me these papers, begged me to save the Queen, and delivered his own father into my hands for punishment."

"Go on."

"Without any proofs against him, I had to attack the Chancellor at once. There was no time to lose. Without any proofs, I attempted yesterday to warn the Queen of her peril, and was driven out from her presence. Without any proofs, I was compelled to-night to face the House of Commons. A Bill is being passed attainting me of High Treason."

"How did you get back these papers?"

"Yesterday Lord Sydney begged the Queen to sign an order commanding Colonel Anderson to obey him."

With a little startled movement, Margaret looked up.

"How did you know that?"

"I sent Lord Sydney."

"Proof upon proof," she muttered. "Please go on."

"By the Queen's command, Colonel Anderson stole these papers from the Chancellor's office. He was shot down, Sydney was captured, Browne surrendered. By accident the message passed to me."

"And the police are waiting outside that door for you?"

"I am an outlaw," Brand laughed, "and here in sanctuary."

For a long time her Majesty remained silent, while the ante-room shook with the tremor of music, and the glow from the stage shone softly between the curtains.

The performance was an oratorio based by Mr. Stevenson upon the Divine Comedy of Dante, but in accordance with a usage still new in 1980 both vocalists and chorus stood in the wings of the proscenium, supported by the orchestra, and a concealed cathedral organ. For the oratorio was rendered in the music of colour upon a screen, and Stevenson's "Inferno" is notable for the dim, awful beauty of its opening numbers, and for passages of terrible splendour. For an hour there was no word spoken in the ante-room, while the light changed and glowed between the curtains, and the great chorus swelled and rolled from the proscenium.

At last, with a little sigh, Margaret looked up. "Tell me, Mr. Brand, what shall I do?"

"Who am I," said Brand, with reverence, "that I should dare give counsel to the Queen?"

"At the risk of your life you came to warn me."

"That the Chancellor has committed treason; that I am a rebel in open revolt, that war has been waged to-night, blood has been shed. This very house is guarded by my yacht."

Margaret was silent.

"How shall I dare advise the Queen?" said Brand. "I have come to offer my life and all the strength of Lyonesse to defend my sovereign and my adopted country. I dare not advise, but weigh the facts, Queen Margaret, and let me hold the scales. As head of the State you must decide for England. There is no compromise, no middle way. Denounce the Chancellor of Treason, or commit me a rebel to prison."

Margaret leaned forward, her hands resting upon the arms of the chair, her eyes full of wonder.

"And you will submit?"

"Am I not the Queen's servant?"

"But they'll kill you."

"Should I care to live?"

His manner was changed, the roughness was all gone, as after a storm the ocean is at rest, deep, quiet, fathomless. His eyes seemed to smile, and his voice was low and reverent.

"Perhaps I am wrong, but I should not live to see this country a vassal of Russia. My people at Lyonesse and I have always worked for England, and we all have a certain pride in working well. Set that aside, my life is not the weight in either scale of the Queen's judgment. Who will serve England best, Ulster or Brand, the traitor or—the rebel?"

"What if I refuse," said the Queen, proudly, "to treat you as a rebel? What if I, the Queen, share the guilt of rebellion with you, and place myself at the head of this revolt?"

"There will be civil war," Brand answered coldly, dispassionately, "the most terrible war in all the annals of the world."

From Margaret's neck there hung a cross of diamonds, a thing of pitiless white splendour. The Queen pressed the sharp stones of it against her forehead.

"You," she said, "are ready to die for England, and I—and I—and I have sold my body to this Alexander of Russia. Death would be such a little thing compared with that. If you give yourself up, and I give myself up, there'll be no civil war."

"There'll be no war," he answered thoughtfully. "No war if the people accept the shame of peace."

"They will think as we do," said the Queen. "The men like you, the women like me. The same blood runs in them—and they'd cry out for war." Margaret laughed nervously, and dropping the cross, bent forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her face in her hands. "To think for the people—to live for the people, I was drilled to that, to be married for the people with a thing that one could not touch with the end of a glove. Ugh!" She shivered. "For the people, and I hate them! Yes, hate them. I wouldn't mind dying for them, but to live for them like that is horrible!

"I shall never forget that night when mother told me. Nobody will ever know what she suffered bravely, quietly, hopelessly, wearing what she called her crown of thorns. And then one night she took me on her knee—a poor, little, scraggy thing I was, all arms and legs. How she cried—and I was crying too. She told me that after her I must be brave and wear the crown of thorns, and I nearly cried my head off. Yes"—Margaret's voice broke with a little whimper—"and I didn't know then all that it meant."

She brushed away a tear with her gloved hand, then looked up.

"I wonder," she said abruptly, "why I told you—you of all men. Forget what I said, do you hear?—forget that I whined like a sick child—forget, I say! No, don't speak to me." Then in low, awed tones, "I've got to think for the people." The horror rushed in upon her senses, and feeling as one does in the presence of the dead, in overwhelming sorrow: "I am the Queen," she said, "and I must hold the scales, must judge for the people. I can't, I daren't. Oh, what am I that I should judge for the people? A little while ago I was playing with dolls, on Monday rode with my Guard, on Tuesday danced, and to-day I have to judge between you and Ulster, between life and death, between war and peace!"

But to Brand it seemed a dispensation of heaven that the fate of mankind was not at the mercy either of a treacherous politician, or of a master of industry, stained with the vices of the world, blunted and brutalized by lifelong struggle. This child, in her innocence and her purity, could only see the great plain issue between right and wrong.

Margaret looked up into his face. "And I must make up my mind?" she asked.

The whole fate of the world hung in the balance, and he answered gently—

"Yes."

A burst of triumphant music filled the theatre, and then the clatter of applause, and, in the silence afterwards, from some far distance of the streets, a sound, a confused murmur growing to a dull, ominous roar.

"Hark," whispered the Queen, "what is that?"

And Brand answered, "That is the beginning of the storm."

A hum of conversation in the house drowned out the sound, the auditorium was flooded with electric light, men moved from their places to rest in the interlude, and standing at the curtains Brand looked down out upon the golden tiers garlanded with roses, and throngs of women waving their slow fans.

Outside in the streets men were shouting, but he could not hear what they cried, amid the gusts and eddies of the gathering uproar. A crowd had surrounded the building now, turbulent, yelling. Gentlemen from the audience who had strolled out to the stairways returned to the tiers with blanched faces. Some bade their women put on their cloaks to leave, many brought newspapers, and were assailed with questioning. The tidings of the night spread on from tier to tier, an orator began shouting from the gallery and had to be removed; even in the grand tier a woman screamed.

In haste the management had the lights turned down while organ, orchestra and chorus took up the measure of the oratorio, but not even the seven Hells of Dante could still that audience, or drown the sullen, vengeful roar of the crowds outside. Many who tried to leave the theatre came back unable to face the tumult of the streets. The management began cautiously to withdraw the audience by way of the iron doors and the stage, while the performance dragged on amid tumult and growing panic.

Only once in that hour Margaret spoke. "Are you not afraid?"

Brand smiled and shook his head. "Not even a little."

"I see the Queen's face," he said, "I hear the Queen's voice, and my world has narrowed down to these four walls. Presently the Chancellor will come, and the Queen will give her judgment." He laughed a little, looking down at her from his place by the curtains. "Outside these walls of life there is another broader world than this. The storm has broken here, there are no storms yonder, in that other broader world where we shall serve. Here you are the mightiest of all earthly sovereigns, and I your servant ready when you need me. But there we shall have hands to grasp the stars, feet to tread the orbit of the sun, and greater strength to serve for greater ends. You hold life in your right hand, death in your left hand, Margaret, and presently you will judge whether I serve weakly here, or strongly in the hereafter. Why should I be afraid?"

"You've given me back my courage," said Margaret, humbly. "I shall not be afraid."

It was then that the equerry came announcing the Chancellor and two Ministers of State who desired audience.

"Let them come," said Margaret, and when the doors had closed, she told Mr. Brand to wait in the royal box. "Leave me," she said, and with a smile held out her hand to him. "Whether it is life, Mr. Brand, or death, you will know that I tried to do right?"

"I am your servant," he answered, "in life or death," and bending down he kissed our Lady's hand.

Margaret was alone when Ulster came, standing before the table, while all about the small, dark, silent room swept the roar of the great panic. The two Ministers bowed low as they entered her presence, but her eyes were upon the Chancellor, so, instead of bending his head, he looked at her wondering, and laid a roll of parchment upon the table. Then he drew back from before her stare, and bowed profoundly.

"Your Majesty," he muttered.

"You may speak."

Before her staring eyes the Chancellor stammered, "My colleagues and I—and I have begged this audience, madam, on business of most desperate urgency."

"What is this business?"

"It is the will of the Parliament that Mr. John Brand be attainted of treason felony. A Bill has been passed, and requires only the royal fiat. La Reine le veult?"

"My Lords," the Queen spoke slowly, monotonously, staring all the time into the Chancellor's eyes; "I send this matter back to an Imperial Parliament which has had no time to think."

"Is it possible," cried the Chancellor, indignant, "that your Majesty sets the whole Empire at defiance?"

"Is that a threat?"

"No threat," he answered, furiously; "but a reminder that the Royal Prerogative fell on the scaffold of King Charles the First. Under the guidance of her Ministers, the Queen will not expose herself to deposition."

"My Lords,"—her Majesty turned upon the attendant Ministers—"you have heard me say that this Bill concerning Mr. Brand must be again considered before we make it an Act of Parliament. You have heard my Chancellor threaten deposition, even death, as though the Queen could be bullied with the blustering of so pitiful a coward. As a woman I demand your protection from this man, as your Sovereign we command you to obey."

The Chancellor tried to interfere.

"Silence," cried Margaret. "Silence! I, the Queen, am speaking, and I, not the Parliament, am England. My Lords, I charge this man, my subject, with being a paid spy and agent of Russia. He has attempted to imprison Mr. Brand because he is loyal and has come to my defence. He has betrayed the Formula of my Fleets. I command you to seize the Duke of Ulster, and to hold him as my prisoner. You shall disobey me at your peril. Arrest that man!"

But these Ministers, supposing Margaret to be insane, backed slowly out from her presence.

X
THE DAWN OF THE TERROR

We have been slow to anger with our kings, grateful if they were not altogether bad, tolerant through much evil. One very shifty exponent of Heaven's grace we killed, but, indeed, we were sorry afterwards, made him a statue, mourned for him, dubbed him the Martyr, and set up the son in his place, who was seven times worse.

And even when we, the Democracy, took the burden of Government on ourselves we did not grudge our allegiance, supplies, apparel, and dignity of state to the princes of Britain. English or foreign, good, or bad, or infamous, we loved them as much as ever. We were not unmindful of the leaders who fought and bled for England long ago, but rather we upheld in gratitude and loving memory the ancient symbols of dead power. Crown, sceptre, throne, were reverenced on bended knees, by a people who, being kings, had become regal, both in might and in their courtesy.

There cannot be two sovereignties in this realm. When her Majesty attempted to wield in very deed the royal power, she found that the iron sceptre of her fathers had withered to a reed, and in her hands broke. She was no longer Queen.

At midnight Parliament knew nothing of Ulster's treason, knew nothing of Brand's purport to strike the Leagued Powers down before they had time to attack. These lords and gentlemen of the Imperial Council, the Peers, and the Commons, waiting for the Chancellor's return with the royal assent, were loyal men representing the whole federation of the Empire, in honour bound to maintain the sovereignty of the people. But they saw that with the Imperial currency discredited by Brand, and Lyonesse money discredited by Government, the sun would rise upon conditions of general panic.

It was no time for polite remonstrances, threats, or the slow processes of law. Brand had taken sanctuary with the Queen; and in her presence, or in her house, he could not be arrested while she reigned. At all hazards he must be captured, and, if only for that necessity, the Queen who gave him shelter must be deposed.

All the powers of the Imperial Council and the Parliament were instantly called to aid. The new day broke upon an Interregnum with His Grace of Ulster as Lord Protector of the Commonwealth. Margaret was called upon to abdicate, her Palace was invested, and demand made at the gates for delivery of her person.

Brand was attainted, his possessions were sequestrated, a reward offered for his capture. It was made a penal offence to circulate Lyonesse money or to trade in specie. A moratorium accorded grace to debtors. The day was made a Bank Holiday.

But in the main issue the Government failed to effect entry of the Palace, or to procure the body of John Brand.

At midnight Brand's yacht escorted Margaret to her Palace, and neither the Queen nor her servant flinched from the instant necessities of civil war. Indeed, the Duke of Ulster had scarcely reached his office in Downing Street when, like a meteor, the Mary Rose swept down out of space and discharged a body of sailors and guardsmen upon the roof of the Chancellory. The building was ransacked from garrets to basement, the safe was broached, its contents secured, and nobody knows to this day how the Chancellor managed to escape.

Brand's people were in the house, and the yacht, with open gangways, lay helpless upon the roof when three electrical aerial destroyers of the Fleet pounced down to effect her capture. She sounded the recall, and gained some precious moments in parley, but still escape was impossible, for the destroyers had every weapon trained at point-blank range. The last men gained their quarters on board, the port clanged home, a bell sounded, and then in haste the destroyers opened fire. To their amazement and horror they saw the yacht for an instant poise in the moonlight, then change as they supposed into a blur of quivering vapour and totally disappear, leaving the shell-struck roof a mass of flames.

Brand said afterwards that guardsmen and sailors alike were seasick as she rose, circled round Buckingham Palace, then flashed down on Holloway Prison. "It was a near thing," he confessed, "and I almost killed one of my engineers. His heart stopped beating and the surgeon had some trouble in pulling him round." There was panic in the courtyard at Holloway, sharp explosions rang out here and there, while some cased ammunition blew the store room to pieces, raining showers of bricks into the courtyard. Despite all resistance, two prisoners were taken from the cells, and like a steel projectile, the yacht flashed homeward, delivering Sydney and Browne upon one of the Palace towers. Brand left the yacht, which drove away some destroyers and poised in the high air on guard. Until dawn, the master was at work in an office set apart for him on the frontage overlooking the Mall.

Since midnight the Palace had been ringing with the noise of preparation for war. A single breath from great artillery would sweep the fairy-fragile walls into white dust, but two hundred gentlemen of the Guard thought otherwise. In the dead of night, transport wagons were taken from the royal garage, and under escort entered the silent metropolis. Warehouses were forced, weapons, provisions and forage were taken in the Queen's name, and the supplies brought back to the Palace. There the tanks were filled, the non-combatants discharged. The outward-facing windows were barricaded to resist musketry, the re-entrants loopholed for machine carbines, the salients turned into bastions commanding the curtains, and each door guarded with a small earthwork.

On the level roof of one of the Palace towers the Queen watched the red dawn break, the red dawn of the Terror. Her ladies had been crying in the bedchamber, and she had cried too. They were all gone now save Miss Temple, the governess, who had been openly mutinous and rude to the Duke of Gloucester, Captain of the Guard. Now the Court Chaplain waited in his vestry not daring to proceed with the early service, because Miss Temple was in possession of the chapel, where she knelt protesting aloud before the Altar.

The Queen was alone upon her tower, kneeling with her arms thrown out upon the balustrade, watching the red sun light the domes and the spires of the Capital. The sun swung upwards, the little white clouds swept merrily overhead, the Palace resounded with sharp commands, the rolling of gun wheels, and the tramp of men, while sometimes through a momentary silence came the song of the birds and whispering of the trees. Margaret's head fell softly on her arm, and kneeling on the cold, white stones, she slept, and sleeping dreamed that once again she walked amid long aisles of chestnut trees in the garden at Hampton Court. She walked with the gaunt old governess hand in hand, talking of days to come, and the courtly splendour of a stainless reign. Miss Temple was to be Archbishop of Canterbury, the nation was to rest under the ancient shadow of the Holy Church, women were to be forbidden to smoke or ride cycles, bachelors were to be shut out from public office, music halls were to be entirely devoted to the meetings of missionaries. Then Mr. Brand came wandering up the avenue, his yacht at heel like a dog, and he was remarking, with a pleasant smile, that it was all quite simple with etheric power, but would she be pleased to wake up. In vain her protests, for he told her she must wake up, she must, she must wake up.

She did awake with a start to find beside her a tall lad in a canvas suit, grimy from head to foot.

"Oh, Tom," she cried, "go and wash. You, a Prince!" She yawned daintily as she rose to her feet. "You example to the British public! Oh, you disgrace!"

"A nice sort of Queen you make sleeping on the tiles like a cat. But I say, Meg, won't it be fun if they do attack! Gloucester's giving me a machine-gun, north-east salient. Oh, it's glorious!"

"Do be cautious, Tom, you know you're next to the throne."

"Keep the throne to yourself, I don't want it! Tommy of Lancaster with a crown! Bah, it doesn't look good enough. I say, won't you have some food? I'll send my servant up with a tray. You needn't come down; you'd get in our way downstairs."

"I'm very hungry," said the Queen; "but is there any food?"

"Plenty," said the Duke of Lancaster; "I'll send some up. By the way, that man from Lyonesse wants to have audience."

The Queen's face darkened and the young prince laughed.

"Ah, you see through him at last; I'm so glad. Margaret, the regiment hates him. I'll send him up and just you give him fits. If you want him shot give me first chance; now do, Meg. I'd love to riddle a man."

"Go away, go away, Tom, or I'll have you arrested for cheek."

The young prince snatched a kiss, and fled rejoicing.

Troops of the Government had already cinctured the Palace with a cordon of steel; and as the Queen waited scraps of talk came drifting up from the guarded walls, chaff of the besiegers, rallies of the besieged.

Through the dark hours fear had come to Margaret, her thought was haunted by the Master of Lyonesse, her very dreams invaded. The fear was too intangible for control, too great to fight. His presence had driven her to refuge from him on the highest tower, but even here she felt that, far above, his yacht hung on guard in the thin spaces of the air. Again and again she had fought back the tears which would come despite all her courage; but now, conscious that her face was drawn and white, and sorrow stained, and deeply lined, she found herself, woman-like, trying to be neat before the master should see her. In anger and in dread she waited for him at whose word the great world-storm had broken loose to drive her like a withered leaf whither she could not guess and dared not think. He would come with his quaint friendliness, strong and at ease, would sit upon that balustrade and swing his legs like a boy, talking of huge Powers as the counters of his game, though nations reeled under the blows he dealt and millions of men died for the words he spoke. She could hear his tread upon the stairs, could feel his rough presence as he crossed the pavement. She braced herself with an effort to face him, then turned and saw Brand as no one ever did before, haggard and ghastly, utterly broken down. He had come to her in weakness for sympathy, for comfort, and all the fierce, vindictive words which she had prepared for his confusion passed from her mind forgotten.

"It is done," he said faintly; "all done," and at the sound of his voice she shrank away in loathing. "All done,"—he sank down upon a stone seat against the balustrade—"and now the Queen may rest."

She looked across the great town southwards, and from far off came sounds of distant tumult. And then in passionate reproach she echoed—

"Rest? Stand up and see." The words came harsh from her throat. "See what you have done!"

He stood up and his slow glance went outward from sylvan parks and tree-girt palaces to long-drawn lines of bright-hued garden roofs, sky-piercing domes, and sun-gilt monuments, a valley of terraced buildings, stone-clad hills, heights overflowed, and towered heights beyond, suburbs which rivalled Babylon and Rome, and still no visible limits bounded London. Ships beat the clear air with unnumbered wings, yachts from the suburbs, aerial liners home from distant towns, and far above the grim destroyers soared. So fared the illustrious Capital of the world just at the last end of the electric age. The momentary tumult had died away.

"How quiet it is," he said, looking down to the streets; "and all the poor folk must think that the last trumpet has sounded, that this is the Day of Judgment."

"Because of your crime and mine," said the Queen, in bitterness. "Oh, why did I listen to you? Why did I attempt to save myself from the Grand Duke at such a price as this!"

"Do not be angry," he answered, resting his elbows on the balustrade. "The big clouds roll up the sky, there's lightning and thunder, a huge, tremendous roar that makes everybody frightened, the rain splashes down and smokes up, the drenched earth quivers and steams—and then we all feel much better, and the Chariot of the Sun shines high in Heaven."

She turned in coldness from him. "I have seen," she said.

"And I have seen," he answered, wearily. "So Ulster sent his troops to guard the Palace? That was thoughtful of him." He leaned heavily upon the balustrade and turned a wan face, smiling. "I have seen Ulster make me a poor man this morning. He has three hundred million sterling now to help the people through this trouble: he will save me a deal of work. I have seen him capture my transports laden with food, my stores and warehouses of provisions, my two thousand bread shops which were to open this morning. He kindly undertakes the work of feeding eighty million people for me. If a few millions go hungry now is it my fault that I gave, or Ulster's blame that he stole?"

"Only a few millions!" the Queen moaned. "Oh, horrible! horrible! Only a few millions dying of hunger because of your crime and mine."

"Nay," he answered, gently; "because Ulster has taken the food I gave to the people. But for that seizure, no man need have starved. They will understand. All night I have been busy that the world might understand. To the newspapers I have dispatched the story of what I have done. First the people will read Lord Sydney's deposition as to his father's treason, and the papers secured in proof. Then they will read in facsimile those Russian papers, showing in Ulster's writing how he betrayed his country. Next comes the story of my vengeance against a disloyal Government, my gift to a betrayed nation, and finally there is the Queen's own passionate appeal to her people."

Brand laughed a little. "Ulster set a trap, and the jaws have closed not on the Queen, not on the Queen's servant. I think I see Ulster's legs in the trap. What will the people say of this Chancellor who is an agent of Russia, who has divulged the Formula of the Fleets, torn up the British Constitution, and dared to levy war against the Queen's Majesty? By attacking me he has beggared all his capitalists. By seizing my gift he has to feed eighty million of his enemies. I think that Ulster may be safely left to the people."

"But," said the Queen, doubtfully, "the Navy and yonder troops obey the Government."

"From force of habit," Brand laughed easily, "and in the end some will side with the Lord Protector, some with their sovereign. Even if they attack I have but to give one signal to my yacht."

"And the Chancellor is caught in the trap he set for you!" Margaret's voice rang with triumph now, though her eyes were glittering with tears, as turning to Brand she seized him by the hands. "At last I understand, at last I know. Can you forgive me all my doubts? Tell me,"—she seemed to plead for his full confidence—"what shall I do?

"Wait," he said, earnestly. "For time is on the Queen's side, and every day will weaken Ulster's following. The Queen has appealed to her people and they will reply. Wait, the Queen is at war with Ulster, not with the nation, and any movement now means bloodshed. Englishmen are not so easy to rear that we should waste them."

"And we have strength to wait?"

For answer he pointed upwards to the heavens, while the Queen watched him, wondering and afraid.

"There's something supernatural here," she whispered. "Hope has come back to the earth, and only an hour ago I could see nothing but blind destruction. You have faith?"

"Faith?" He bowed his head. "Yes, faith in God most pitiful—faith in my Lady Margaret of England—faith in this country, always very great in moments of danger. We are a masterful race. Even Ulster strikes bravely in his peril, strikes out like a man and fights hard. It has given me a new faith in Englishmen to find him such a strong enemy."

The Queen looked down at the long lines of the investing troops, and the midsummer sun shone on her wavy hair. The face of Margaret at rest was surely the saddest face in all the world. Her loathing and terror of the man was gone for ever.

"We must not think," said Brand, "that Ulster is beaten yet. I feel that he has other weapons, other resources; I cannot guess where the next blow will fall, but he strikes hard, with rare confidence in his strength."

"Yesterday," she said, and there was a little quiver about her lips, "I was Queen of England."

"And to-morrow," he answered, "you will be Empress of the World."

"And yet," she went on, "I have misgivings—everything changes so quickly that I am bewildered."

"Yesterday I was my own master, at least I thought so; but now——" He looked at the Queen's face and his eyes became very bright. "Ah, yes, it is all written up on the mess-room walls—

'I swear
To reverence the Queen as if she were
My conscience, and my conscience as the Queen.'

Oh, how the words took hold of me this morning, as I saw them written on the walls."

His face became almost beautiful as he looked at the Queen, he spoke as one inspired, and all his heart went out with the solemn words of the code of honour. He knelt at the Queen's feet, he took the Queen's hands in his, and looking up into her wondering eyes he repeated—

'To love one maiden only, cleave to her
And worship her with years of noble deeds
Until I win her.'

"Oh, Margaret, Margaret of England, the God I worship gave me etheric power. I thought I was omnipotent, but I made mistakes, terrible blunders, thinking I could do all the work in a week. I was in such a hurry, full of a boy's pride of service, and look at the horrors I have brought upon the world with my rash haste. What is etheric power compared with the power in a woman's eyes? I don't know how it is, but I see everything so clearly now, and all my power is nothing—nothing whatever in the eyes of the Queen. I suppose I must be in love. Am I in love?"

"You mustn't," gasped the Queen, "it's not allowed. The Queen is not allowed to be a woman."

He laughed, kissing her hands as he spoke. "Not if I conquer the world and lay it at the feet of the Queen?"

"I don't know," Margaret smiled sadly. "I must ask my governess, and she will say, there are no precedents in the book of etiquette. We must be good and serve England."

"England!" he cried, gazing into the Queen's eyes. "I love you, England. Isn't that allowed?"

"Not if you put it that way, Mr. Brand. England is not a woman, but a country."

"Bounded on the east by a man's love, and on the west by a man's hope, and on the north by a man's fears, and on the south by a man's faith."

"But that's not geography, Mr. Brand. Please get up."

"I won't unless you promise to let me love England my own way."

"I can't prevent that," said Margaret, smiling.

XI
THE WORLD-STORM

When Brand made his declaration before the Parliament night had already fallen over Europe, and although it was still broad day in the New World, the banks and exchanges were for the most part closed.

But out beyond the Pacific another dawn had flamed along the Kamschatkan volcanoes, the rose flush glowed upon the snows of Fuji, a land breeze awakened the dreaming Eastern Isles, a level sun flashed diamonds in the surf of the Barrier Reef, and the bells of Australian cities rang their summons to work and prayer. So it was that the world-storm which gathered in Europe, broke first upon that far-off Commonwealth which stands at the gates of the Daybreak.

In Brisbane and Sydney, in Melbourne and Auckland, the people were at their breakfast-tables when the news' telephones rang the first notes of alarm, and spoke of the fall of gold. "Nothing to fear," said the average bread-winner. "Brand guarantees good money."

Next came the news that the master was chargeable with treason.

"Nothing to fear," said the average Australian. "Brand will be in gaol and the old money sound as before."

Prudent men called at the bank to withdraw their deposits. Careful housewives laid in a stock of food. There was a heavy run on all the banks, a sharp rise in the price of provisions, a reluctance to give the usual measure for gold, but still no general panic until noon.

"The Queen joins Lyonesse in open war against the Parliament."

They are of the master race, these Australasians, men who have conquered the deserts, law-loving, self-controlled, cautious, not very easily frightened, ready to lay wagers cheerfully on the issues of life and death. But the bread-winner will fight like a wild beast in defence of his wife and his children. The coinage was discredited, Brand's labour money might become waste paper.

"Get food while money still has power to buy!"

The rich besieged the banks, and prosperous people bought loads of provisions for cash, not caring what they paid. The shops of the butchers, grocers, and bakers were thronged with customers begging to be served. Still there was decency and order, a cheery confidence that the storm would pass, and the taking of heavy odds against Lyonesse.

"Brand's private yacht has defeated three destroyers."

Etheric power! These people had been familiar with Brand's ships for years, bolts of wrought steel, propelled by etheric engines, which could flash through high space at two hundred miles an hour. They were not armed, but suppose that he used them as rams against the fragile, electric battle fleets? Lord Ulster had levied war against etheric power!

Then men went mad. In the rush for food women were crushed to death, and many persons who had secured provisions, were set upon and robbed by criminals. Shops were plundered, armouries were sacked, the police were overwhelmed. Then aerial destroyers fired on the mob.

Sweeping away all values attached to money, with every hour the stress of panic spread. A coinage is only the small change of trade, but with its failure all belief in bonds and promises, all savings, all investments were dishonoured. The rich were bankrupted, the poor thrown out of work, the shops were closed, traffic was suspended, private and public credit alike were shattered. By the third day the Government of the Commonwealth had fallen, and men went armed to guard their families.

At the first motion of the storm, the Australasian bankers sent out their plea for help. The Phillipines and Japan were already appealing, and the cry of the islands awakened Asia. But there was no help. Bravely the Chinese merchants faced the crisis when their time was come, and honourably met their obligations. Malaya awakened, Burmah, India, Persia, Siberia were swept from end to end; and so in the wake of the sun the storm swept on, travelling at a thousand miles an hour, gathering momentum every moment until it fell like the crash of doom along the length of Africa, across the breadth of Europe.

The break of day found Europe under arms, the aerial fleets on patrol, troops holding the towns. The exchanges, banks, and provision stores were attacked, the doors of them sealed and under guard of sentries. No work could be done, no wage could be earned, traffic ceased, the channels of news were closed. The world-storm struck the East with a fever, a raving delirium, the West with paralysis. In Russia, Germany, and France there began from that time a condition of living death, and afterwards in many a muddy street guardsmen who visited Berlin, saw crops of grass.

On that first day the storm went roaring by leaving Europe shaken, and striking the coasts of America in the full height of its fury. However sound its finance, no nation can stand alone, and in the general bankruptcy of all the world, the great Republic fell. They say that the new metropolis on Manhattan Island is even more stupendous than that which was burned, but still in the negro states of the Mississippi, the ploughs are driven through fields of human bones, and some of the Mexican silver mines are walled up for fear of pestilence.

It is curious to remember how quiet was London on that first day of the Terror. Here was the calm tract in the centre and vortex of the cyclone.

Wisely the Parliament had declared a Bank Holiday. Places of business were closed, the traffic had an easy holiday gait, the parks were thronged, and even the public meetings were not stormy.

In the fortified Palace our Lady's servants had time to sleep after a hard night's work. Her Majesty was not seen, Mr. Brand was supposed to be transacting business in his office in the east front. Prince Ali was a prisoner in the guard-room, charged with treason. My Lord Sydney walked in the stable court with Mr. Browne. Some rumours went about that the captain of the Bodyguard, His Royal Highness the Duke of Gloucester, had a letter from the Dictator. Another rumour was spread that nearly all Mr. Brand's ships had been captured. Lying in various cities throughout the world, to receive and discharge their cargo, more than a hundred of these vessels had been arrested on behalf of the Government. Still the yacht, Mary Rose, hung glittering in the heavens like a star, and by aerial telegraph kept the master in contact with affairs.

Late in the afternoon a drenching shower of rain burst over London, with one great ringing peal of thunder.

Miss Temple would have us believe that this was the last trumpet sounding the call to judgment.

The Russian papers were now in all men's hands that they might consider her Majesty's quarrel, also Brand's proposals were known, and how his gift was withheld from reaching the people. And it was well understood that the Parliament, in fighting Brand, had caused all the money in the world to be dishonoured, so that neither the currency of the nations nor that of Lyonesse could be accepted as any measure of value. The leaders of public opinion, journals, clubs, societies, cities, fortresses, and colonies throughout the Empire were hourly declaring for the Queen.

The rich were on the Duke of Ulster's side, scouting the idea that he had betrayed us to Russia. The poor were with the Queen and Lyonesse. On the whole the fleets and armies obeyed the departments as usual; but rather than attack our Lady, or slaughter their countrymen, soldiers and sailors alike were ripe for mutiny.

Ulster was innocent until his guilt was proved; the nation wanted, even for him, fair play, a trial at law. We islanders are slow to kindle, and neither party desired civil war. So the day closed.

But with the second day, all England knew that trial at law was denied us, or even trial by battle. The deadlock remained and was forgotten. For how could any man remember that the Empire was betrayed, or so much as think of internecine war amid that beggary of the human Race? That was not to be salved by public holidays, or cured by politics, or stayed by war. The first necessity of life is food, and a merchant will not part with his good provisions for any quantity of bogus money.

At first we were all quite confused, storming the banking houses, which solemnly dealt out waste coin and waste paper to hungry customers. Or we thought to rescue our invested savings, and our stock-brokers screamed themselves hoarse trying to sell out shares in mines gone bankrupt, or the bonds of governments already fallen. We had nothing to sell but pieces of paper; we got their exact value back in scraps of paper. We began to understand that we were ruined.

There was no money. People came to the railway stations offering jewels or watches to pay their fares out of London. Then the trains stopped running, and they were rich who had yachts or carriages to make their escape to the country. From noon on the second day to the evening of the third, some thirty hours, the main roads were crowded with fugitives, and when some broken carriages blocked the way, the lanes on either side were overrun. Long afterwards the roads to the country were littered with the wreckage of that flight, in wagons overturned, in piles of broken furniture, in baggage thrown away, and household treasures, or here and there some shattered, trampled body of a man.

And the poor remained in London.

Now we had come face to face with the first law, "Adapt yourselves or die." Some of us adapted ourselves to the new conditions, but for those who failed—— A few days later one began to notice a faint, sickly smell in the streets, and when the air was still, a thin, white mist hanging above the roofs. This bred the pestilence. For there was famine such as had never been known in human annals, famine in the midst of a great abundance.

It must not be thought that there was any lack of food either in London or the provinces. Brand had seen to it.

At the beginning many families laid in stores of victuals, filled their water tanks, fortified their homes, and gallantly defended themselves by force of arms. The big employers kept their servants alive by daily issue of rations, and that long after they suspended work. The Government issued free rations for all those who were strong enough to fight their way to the depôts, and get off home again without being killed. The farmers and fishermen brought in supplies which they traded for works of art and precious merchandise, for land and houses. These men became very rich.

There was plenty of food, but after the Government fell three-fifths of the whole supply was lost by pillage and burning. The fire brigade was helpless for lack of water; the police and the troops were withdrawn, dispersed, or massacred.

We were reduced to the strangest shifts and expedients for money. Coins passed according to size and weight, as pence, halfpence and farthings. Thus, four sovereigns made an ounce, or penny, which would buy a small roll of bread. Ounces of tobacco, brass checks representing goods in storage, medals, gems, blankets, were common tokens of barter. A revolver cartridge would buy four ounces of meat.

We lacked one old resource of former troubles—horseflesh. There were a few horses owned by rich men; but motor carriages did all the traction, and one cannot eat dynamos. It was curious, too, that panic of the naturalists concerning the Zoological Gardens. Many of the animals condemned for soup—the lions and tigers, for instance, were the last surviving examples of species and orders now wholly extinct. Thousands of starved Londoners protested concerning the lions—the British Lions.

Twenty years have gone by since then, and God has touched our hair with silver in token of the eternal peace to come. And still in the deeps of the night the memory breaks into our dreams, and lifts us broad awake with a scream of horror. Yet, would we part with that dread remembrance? No, not for worlds!

How sweet it is in memory once again, to walk those old streets of the lost Capital, to see once more the faces of that time, of men brought near to Heaven in their pain, of women glorified by suffering, and little children waiting patiently for the end. We never hoped to live, we rarely cared, for hope was dead in many a smiling face. Fear was dead, too; there was nothing to be afraid of, except life. Men spoke very gently when they met, women would purse their lips and hurry on. One got so used and inured to horrors that the environment of death was no more to be thought of than the air we breathed.

One saw so many deeds of sacrifice, so many saintly and heroic actions, that these made the framework to one's thoughts of life.

So is the memory sweet of those embittered days when, grim confused wars racked all the peoples of the earth; those days of famine, pillage, massacre, of wasting pestilence, and flaming desolation. Heaven and hell were opened, but men looked upward.

XII
THE THIRD DAY

On the third day the Primate called the whole nation to fasting, humiliation, and prayer. At St. Paul's Cathedral the Litany was to be read; and when the great bell began to toll his minutes over the Capital our Lady said she would attend that service.

For by this time the press had spoken in no uncertain voice. A newspaper is, indeed, like a lens, a burning glass condensing the thought of the people into one clear flame of utterance.

The clear flame had fallen upon the Lord Protector and his Parliament, the nation waited for the Queen to strike, and she did well to trust the poor who loved her.

So, dressed in deep mourning, and attended only by Miss Temple, our Lady drove out through the gates in an open carriage. She would have no bodyguard, save in the protection of the mob. The troops cheered as they opened their lines for her passage, men came uncovered, and begged leave to draw her carriage, and all through the streets she was guarded by crowds of men with a great deal of noise, but much besides of loving reverence.

An attempt to arrest our Lady would have led to grievous trouble for the Government, for the Dictator's writ had little meaning now, and for the moment it seemed that his rule was come to an end. Without attracting notice, Brand's yacht followed Margaret to St. Paul's.

He sat alone in his office behind the darkened, barricaded windows. A pocket aerograph clicked on the desk before him, message after message flashed down from the yacht by his secretaries, and at times, with the little key throbbing under his finger, he sent instructions back.

Nearly all his ships were captured now, Lyonesse had fallen, and yet he must wait, guarding the sacred person of the Queen until the time was ripe, until the nation called him to strike the Dictator down. He must be ready when the moment came, he must have the full support of the Imperial Fleets, the Armies, the departments, the people's trusted leaders, the functions of the whole administration. The new Government must date from Ulster's fall, leaving no instant of doubt, of anarchy, and, above all, this must be Margaret's Government, no froth upon the waves of revolution. There must be no cry in the streets of Brand's Dictatorship, or any mention of himself at all. His portion was with the ships and factories. But it was hard to wait while his ships were captured, his factories despoiled, his good name marred by this reluctant, torturing, agonizing silence.

He closed the instrument, and lying back in his chair, remained in thought. These three days had sprinkled his hair with silver, aged his strong face, added to the rough power of the man something of majesty, and there came into his eyes a light that had never shown until he knew the Queen. The vision of her arose before him now, her voice seemed to ring through the quiet room, and his heart went out to her in desire.

Who was he that he should dare to love this child of mail-clad Kings, this mighty Empress in whose august name the very skies were governed, and the sea, and realms and continents of men within the limits of the British Peace? He was a commoner, a tradesman, and yet no difference of rank or station, of wealth or power, eminence, faith, enlightenment, has ever set boundaries to human love. 'Tis the man and the woman who mate, not their condition. Had he not seen the evidence of love in Margaret's face? And to win her he must conquer the whole world.

But he was presently aroused from his enchantment. Already some one had knocked at the door unnoticed, and now, while with clasped hands he sat before the table, and with uplifted eyes gazed on his mental vision of the Queen, there was a visitor standing within the room. Dimly aware of some impending peril, Brand turned round to find a stranger bowing apologies, a gentleman in civilian dress, yet wearing a turban of banded green and gold, an Oriental, haughty, yet in some queer way, servile.

"You are Prince Ali?" he asked.

"At your service, yes."

"Escaped from the guard-room?"

Prince Ali put a bolder face on his intrusion, went to a chair by the wall, sat down and crossed his legs.

"Before you ring for my guards," he explained, "I have business with you."

Brand smiled at the man's audacity.

"Of course,"—his Highness lighted a cigarette—"you share our common sorrow at this grave crisis?"

"No, sir, we have nothing in common."

"I observe," the Prince laughed, "that the sea-eagle wastes few regrets over a panic of gulls."

"Am I to be one of your eagles, or one of your gulls, Prince Ali?"

"Of the gulls? No." He shrugged his shoulder. "You are King of the air, as I am of India!"

"I supposed," said Brand, gravely, "that her Majesty was Empress of India."

"Was Empress, yes. I see we understand one another."

"I think, my dear Prince, that I follow your meaning. So India finds her opportunity in this crisis? May I venture to ask if you speak on behalf of Russia?"

"I speak," said the other, haughtily, "for India. I speak for the India which has waited ever since 1857."

"For a repetition of the artillery salutes fired by the British in 1858?"

Ali's face darkened with sudden passion. "Your tact, Mr. Brand, is most English. Yes, I have the honour to speak for the India which has waited since the artillery salutes of 1858."

"And how am I to serve you?"

"I come, Mr. Brand, to the future Dictator of the world, not to ask favours, but to confer them."

"Indeed, you are too kind. Go on, sir."

"I must warn you first that Lyonesse has been captured."

"You don't say so."

"Also that all your ships are taken, save two which are homeward bound, and will be secured on their arrival. Your yacht has gone to the city to guard the ex-Queen. You are helpless in the hands of your enemies. I have come to save you."

"Indeed." Brand reached forward across the desk, and touched an electric bell. "How you escaped from the guard, I don't quite know," he said; "I have rung to inquire."