flames devouring St. Paul’s Station. The railway bridge was thus cut off, otherwise it might have considerably relieved the frantic traffic. After half a dozen futile attempts to get across—for it seemed that there were two human tides meeting there, persons desirous of re-entering London after the bombardment, and those flying in terror from the enemy—I resolved to abandon it. Therefore, with my boy Frank, I walked along the Embankment until I got close to Waterloo Bridge, when, as I approached the great single arch that spans the roadway, I noticed a boat containing three men shoot out into the river from beneath the wall, close to where we were walking. It slipped silently beneath the shadow of the second arch, where there was some scaffolding, the fine old bridge being under repair.

“The bridge above was just as crowded as that at Blackfriars, the throng struggling both ways, meeting and fighting among themselves for the mastery. In those frantic efforts to cross the river, men and women had their clothes literally torn from their backs. The men were demons in that hour of terror; the women became veritable furies. On the Embankment where I stood in the shadow, however, there were few persons. The great fires in the Strand threw their reflection upon the surface of the water, but the Savoy, Somerset House, and the Cecil also threw great black shadows. The mysterious movements of the three men beneath the bridge attracted me. They had rowed so suddenly out just as we passed that they startled me, and now my curiosity became aroused. Concealed in the deep shadow I leaned over the parapet, and watching saw them make fast the boat to the scaffold platform on a level with the water, and then one man, clinging to the ladder, clambered up into the centre of the arch beneath the roadway. I could not distinctly see what he was doing, for he was hidden among the scaffolding and in the darkness.

“Presently a second man from the boat swung himself upon the ladder and ascended to his companion on the platform above. I could distinguish them standing together, apparently in consultation. Close to me was the pier of the Thames Police, and both of us slipped down there, but found nobody in charge. The police, Metropolitan, City, and Thames, were all engaged in the streets on that memorable night. Nevertheless, the trio beneath the bridge were acting suspiciously. What could we do? German secret agents had committed many outrages during the past ten days, more especially in blowing up bridges and wrecking public buildings with bombs, in order to disorganise any attempt at resistance, and strike terror into the hearts of Londoners. A bomb had been exploded on the terrace of the House of Commons two days before, causing great havoc, while the entrance hall of the Admiralty had also been wrecked. Penge tunnel had, by explosives, been rendered impassable, and an attempt in the tunnel at Merstham had very nearly been successful. Were these suspicious men engaged in the dastardly act of blowing up Waterloo Bridge?

“It suddenly struck me that it might be part of Von Kronhelm’s scheme to blow up certain of the bridges in order to prevent those who had fled south from returning and harassing his troops, or else he wished to keep the inhabitants remaining north of the Thames, and prevent them from escaping. As I stood upon the police pier I saw the two men high upon the scaffold motion to the third man, still in the boat, when, after a few moments the last-named individual left the boat, carrying something very carefully, an object looking like a long iron cylinder, and slowly made his way up the perpendicular ladder to where the pair were standing right beneath the crown of the huge arch.

“Then I knew that they were Germans, and realised their foul intention. A few feet above them hundreds were fighting and struggling, all unconscious of that frightful explosive they were affixing to the arch. What could I do? To warn the crowd above was impossible. I was far below, and my voice would not be heard above the din.

“ ‘What are those fellows doing, do you think, father?’ inquired my boy, with curiosity.

“ ‘Doing?’ I cried. ‘Why, they’re going to blow up the bridge! And we must save it. But how?’

“I looked around, but there was unfortunately no one in the immediate vicinity. I had no weapon, but the fellows were no doubt armed and desperate. Into the dark police office I peered, but could see nothing. Then suddenly an idea occurred to me. If I raised the alarm at that moment, they would certainly escape. Both Frank and I could row, therefore I sprang into the police boat at the pier, unmoored her, and urged my son to take an oar with me. In less time than it takes to relate we had pulled across into the shadow of the big arch, and were alongside the empty boat of the conspirators.

“ ‘Row away for your life!’ I cried to Frank, as I sprang into the other boat. Then taking out my knife I cut her adrift in an instant and pulled out hard with the tide towards Cleopatra’s Needle, while Frank, grasping my intention, shot away towards the Surrey bank. Scarce had I taken out my knife to sever the cord, however, than the three men above noticed me and shouted down in broken English. Indeed, as I pulled off there was the sharp crack of a revolver above me, and I think I narrowly escaped being winged. Nevertheless, I had caught the three blackguards in a trap. The explosive had already been fixed to the crown of the arch, but if they lit the fuse they must themselves be blown to atoms.

“I could hear their shouts and curses from where I rested upon my oars, undecided how to act. If I could only have found at that moment a couple of those brave ‘Frontiersmen’ or ‘Britons,’ or members of rifle clubs, who had been such trouble to the enemy out in Essex! There were hundreds upon hundreds of them in London, but they were in the streets still harassing the Germans wherever they could. I rested on my oars in full view of the spies, but beyond revolver range, mounting guard upon them, as it were. They might, after all, decide to carry out their evil design, for if they were good swimmers they might ignite the fuse and then dive into the water, trusting to luck to get to the steps around Cleopatra’s Needle. Would they dare do this?

“They kept shouting to me, waving their hands excitedly; but I could not distinguish what they said, so great was the din on the bridge above. Frank had disappeared. Whither he had gone I knew not. He had, however, seen the revolver fired at me, and recognising what was taking place would, I felt certain, seek assistance. One of the men descending the ladder to the water, shouted again to me, waving his hand frantically and pointing upward. From this I concluded that he intended to convey that the time-fuse was already ignited and they were begging for their lives to be saved. Such men are always cowards at the supreme moment when they must face death. I saw the fellow’s pale, black-bearded face in the shadow, and an evil, murderous countenance it was, I assure you. But to his shouts, his threats, his frantic appeals I made no response. I had caught all three of them, and paused there triumphant. Would Frank ever return? Suddenly, however, I saw a boat in the full light out in the centre of the river, crossing in my direction, and hailed it frantically. The answering shout was my boy’s, and as he drew nearer I saw that with him were four men armed with rifles. They were evidently four Freeshooters who had been in the roadway above to hold the bridge against the enemy’s advance!

“With swift strokes of the oars Frank brought the police boat up alongside mine, and in a few brief sentences I explained the situation and pointed to the three conspirators.

“ ‘Let’s shoot them from where we are!’ urged one of the men, who wore the little bronze badge of a Frontiersman, and without further word he raised his rifle and let fly at the man clinging to the ladder. The first shot went wide, but the second hit, for with a cry the fellow released his hold and fell back into the dark tide, his lifeless body being carried in our direction.

“The other three men in the boat, members of the Southfields (Putney) Rifle Club, opened a hail of fire upon the pair hidden in the scaffolding above. It was a dangerous proceeding, for had a stray bullet struck that case full of explosives, we should have been all blown to atoms in an instant. Several times all four emptied their magazines into that semicircular opening, but to no effect. The fusilade from the river quickly attracted the attention of those above, to whom the affair was a complete mystery. One rifleman upon the bridge, thinking we were the enemy, actually opened fire upon us; but we shouted who we were, and that spies were concealed below, whereupon he at once desisted.

“A dozen times our party fired, when at last one man’s dark body fell heavily into the stream with a loud splash; and about a minute later the third fell backwards, and the rolling river closed over him. All three had thus met with their well-merited deserts.

“ ‘I wonder if they’ve lit the fuse?’ suggested one Frontiersman. ‘Let’s go nearer.’

“We both rowed forward beneath the arch, when, to our horror, we all saw straight above us, right under the crown, a faint red glow. A fuse was burning there!

“ ‘Quick!’ cried one of the sharpshooters. ‘There’s not an instant to spare. Land me at the ladder, and then row away for your lives. I’ll go and put it out if there’s yet time.’

“In a moment Frank had turned the bow of the boat, and the gallant fellow had run nimbly up the ladder as he sheered off again. We saw him up upon the scaffolding. We watched him struggling to get the iron cylinder free from the wire with which it was bound against the stone. He tugged and tugged, but in vain. At any instant the thing might explode and cause the death of hundreds, including ourselves. At last, however, something suddenly fell with a big splash into the stream. Then we sent up a ringing cheer.

“Waterloo Bridge was saved!

“People on the bridge above shouted down to us, asking what we were doing, but we were too occupied to reply, and as the man who had so gallantly risked his life to save the grand old bridge from destruction regained the boat we pulled away back to the police pier. Hardly had we got ashore when we distinctly saw a bright red flash beneath the Hungerford railway bridge, followed by a terrific explosion, as part of the massive iron structure fell into the river, a tangled mass of girders. All of us chanced to have our faces turned towards Charing Cross at that moment, and so great was the explosion that we distinctly felt the concussion. The dastardly work was, like the attempt we had just foiled, that of German spies, acting under orders to cause a series of explosions at the time of the entry of the troops into London, thus to increase the terror in the hearts of the populace. But instead of terrifying them it only irritated them. Such wanton destruction was both unpardonable and inconceivable, for it seemed most probable that the Germans would now require the South-Eastern Railway for strategic purposes. And yet their spies had destroyed the bridge.

“With the men who had shot the three Germans and my lad Frank I ascended to Waterloo Bridge by the steps from the Embankment, and there we fought our way through the entrance of the huge barricade that had been hastily erected. The riflemen who had so readily responded to Frank’s alarm explained to us that they and their companions, aided by a thousand armed civilians of all kinds, intended to hold the bridge in case the enemy attempted to come southward upon the Surrey side. They told us also that all the bridges were being similarly held by those who had survived the terrible onslaught upon the barricades in the northern suburbs. The Germans were already in the City, the Lord Mayor was a prisoner, and the German flag was flying in the smoke above the War Office, upon the National Gallery, and other buildings. Of all this we were aware, and from the aspect of those fierce, determined-looking men around us we knew that if the enemy’s hordes attempted to storm the bridges they would meet with a decidedly warm reception.

“Behind the bridge the multitude pressed on both ways, so that we were stopped close behind the barricade, where I found myself held tightly beside a neat-looking little Maxim, manned by four men in different military uniforms—evidently survivors from the disaster at Epping or at Enfield. This was not the only machine gun, for there were, I saw, four others, so placed that they commanded the whole of Wellington Street, the entrances to the Strand and up to Bow Street. The great crowd in the open space before Somerset House were struggling to get upon the bridge; but news having been brought of bodies of the enemy moving along the Strand from Trafalgar Square, the narrow entrance was quickly blocked up by paving-stones and iron railings, torn up from before some houses in the vicinity.

“We had not long to wait. The people left in Wellington Street, finding their retreat cut off, turned back into the Strand or descended the steps to the Embankment, and so had nearly all dispersed, when, of a sudden, a large body of the enemy’s infantry swept round from the Strand, and came full upon the barricade. Next second our Maxims spat their deadly fire with a loud rattle and din, and about me on every hand men were shooting. I waited to see the awful effect of our rain of lead upon the Germans. Hundreds dropped, but hundreds still seemed to take their place. I saw them place a field-gun in position at the corner of the Strand, and then I recognised their intention to shell us. So, being unarmed and a non-combatant, I fled with my son towards my own home in the Kennington Park Road. I had not, however, got across the bridge before shells began to explode against the barricade, blowing it and several of our gallant men to atoms. Once behind I glanced, and saw too plainly that the attempt to hold the bridge was utterly hopeless. There were not sufficient riflemen. Then we both ran on—to save our lives. And you know the rest—ruin, disaster, and death reigned in London that night. Our men fought for their lives and homes, but the Germans, angered at our resistance, gave no quarter to those not in uniform. Ah! the slaughter was awful.”

CHAPTER VIII

GERMANS SACKING THE BANKS

Many officers were already billeted in the Savoy, the Cecil, the Carlton, the Grand, and Victoria hotels, while the British Museum, the National Gallery, the South Kensington Museum, the Tower, and a number of other collections of pictures and antiques were all guarded strongly by German sentries. The enemy had thus seized our national treasures.

London awoke to find herself a German city.

In the streets lounging groups of travel-worn sons of the Fatherland were everywhere, and German was heard on every hand. Every ounce of foodstuff was being rapidly commandeered by hundreds of foraging parties, who went to each grocer’s, baker’s, or provision shop in the various districts, seized all they could find, valued it, and gave official receipts for it.

The price of food in London that morning was absolutely prohibitive, as much as two shillings being asked for a twopenny loaf. The Germans had, it was afterwards discovered, been all the time, since the Sunday when they landed, running over large cargoes of supplies of all sorts to the Essex, Lincolnshire, and Norfolk coasts, where they had established huge supply bases, well knowing that there was not sufficient food in the country to feed their armed hordes in addition to the population.

Shops in Tottenham Court Road, Holborn, Edgeware Road, Oxford Street, Camden Road, and Harrow Road were systematically visited by the foraging parties, who commenced their work at dawn. Those places that were closed and their owners absent were at once broken open, and everything seized and carted to either Hyde Park or St. James’s Park, for though Londoners might starve, the Kaiser’s troops intended to be fed.

In some cases a patriotic shopkeeper attempted to resist. Indeed, in more than one case a tradesman wilfully set his shop on fire rather than its contents should fall into the enemy’s hands. In other cases the tradesmen who received the official German receipts burned them in contempt before the officer’s eyes.

The guidance of these foraging parties was, in very many cases, in the hands of Germans in civilian clothes, and it was now seen how complete and helpful the enemy’s system of espionage had been in London. Most of these men were Germans who, having served in the army, had come over to England and obtained employment as waiters, clerks, bakers, hairdressers, and private servants, and being bound by their oath to the Fatherland had served their country as spies. Each man, when obeying the Imperial command to join the German arms, had placed in the lapel of his coat a button of a peculiar shape, with which he had long ago been provided, and by which he was instantly recognised as a loyal subject of the Kaiser.

This huge body of German solders, who for years had passed in England as civilians, was, of course, of enormous use to Von Kronhelm, for they acted as guides not only on the march and during the entry to London, but materially assisted in the victorious advance in the Midlands. Indeed, the Germans had for years kept a civilian army in England, and yet we had, ostrich-like, buried our heads in the sand and refused to turn our eyes to the grave peril that had for so long threatened.

Systematically, the Germans were visiting every shop and warehouse in the shopping districts, and seizing everything eatable they could discover. The enemy were taking the food from the mouths of the poor in East and South London, and as they went southward across the river, so the populace retired, leaving their homes at the mercy of the ruthless invader.

Upon all the bridges across the Thames stood German guards, and none were allowed to cross either way without permits.

Soon after dawn Von Kronhelm and his staff rode down Haverstock Hill with a large body of cavalry, and made his formal entry into London, first having an interview with the Lord Mayor, and an hour afterwards establishing his headquarters at the new War Office in Whitehall, over which he hoisted his special flag as Commander-in-Chief. It was found that, though a good deal of damage had been done externally to the building, the interior had practically escaped, save one or two rooms. Therefore, the Field-Marshal installed himself in the private room of the War Minister, and telegraphic and telephonic communication was quickly established, while a wireless telegraph apparatus was placed upon the ruined summit of Big Ben for the purpose of communicating with Germany, in case the cables were interrupted by being cut at sea.

The day after the landing a similar apparatus had been erected on the Monument at Yarmouth, and it had been daily in communication with the one at Bremen. The Germans left nothing to chance. They were always prepared for every emergency.

The clubs in Pall Mall were now being used by German officers, who lounged in easy-chairs, smoking and taking their ease, German soldiers being on guard outside. North of the Thames seemed practically deserted, save for the invaders, who swarmed everywhere. South of the Thames the cowed and terrified populace were asking what the end was to be. What was the Government doing? It had fled to Bristol and left London to its fate, they complained.

What the German demands were was not known until midday, when the Evening News published an interview with Sir Claude Harrison, the Lord Mayor, which gave authentic details of them.

They were as follows:—

Of the claim of £300,000,000, fifty millions was demanded from London, the sum in question to be paid within twelve hours.

The Lord Mayor had, it appeared, sent his secretary to the Prime Minister at Bristol bearing the original document in the handwriting of Von Kronhelm. The Prime Minister had acknowledged its receipt by telegraph both to the Lord Mayor and to the German Field-Marshal, but there the matter had ended.

The twelve hours’ grace was nearly up, and the German Commander, seated in Whitehall, had received no reply.

In the corner of the large, pleasant, well-carpeted room sat a German telegraph engineer with a portable instrument, in direct communication with the Emperor’s private cabinet at Potsdam, and over that wire, messages were continually passing and repassing.

The grizzled old soldier paced the room impatiently. His Emperor had only an hour ago sent him a message of warm congratulation, and had privately informed him of the high honours he intended to bestow upon him. The German Eagle was victorious, and London—the great, unconquerable London—lay crushed, torn, and broken.

The marble clock upon the mantelshelf chimed eleven upon its silvery bells, causing Von Kronhelm to turn from the window to glance at his own watch.

“Tell His Majesty that it is eleven o’clock, and that there is no reply to hand,” he said sharply in German to the man in uniform seated at the table in the corner.

The instrument clicked rapidly, and a silence followed.

The German Commander waited anxiously. He stood bending slightly over the green tape in order to read the Imperial order the instant it flashed from beneath the sea.

Five minutes—ten minutes passed. The shouting of military commands in German came up from Whitehall below. Nothing else broke the quiet.

Von Kronhelm, his face more furrowed and more serious, again paced the carpet.

Suddenly the little instrument whirred and clicked as its thin green tape rolled out.

In an instant the Generalissimo of the Kaiser’s army sprang to the telegraphist’s side, and read the Imperial command.

For a moment he held the piece of tape between his fingers, then crushed it in his hand and stood motionless.

He had received orders which, though against his desire, he was compelled to obey.

Summoning several members of his staff who had installed themselves in other comfortable rooms in the vicinity, he held a long consultation with them.

In the meantime telegraphic despatches were received from Sheffield, Manchester, Birmingham, and other German headquarters, all telling the same story—the complete investment and occupation of the big cities and the pacification of the inhabitants.

One hour’s grace was, however, allowed to London—till noon.

Then orders were issued, bugles rang out across the parks, and in the main thoroughfares, where arms were piled, causing the troops to fall in, and within a quarter of an hour large bodies of infantry and engineers were moving along the Strand, in the direction of the City.

At first the reason of all this was a mystery, but very shortly it was realised what was intended when a detachment of the 5th Hanover Regiment advanced to the gate of the Bank of England opposite the Exchange, and, after some difficulty, broke it open and entered, followed by some engineers of Von Mirbach’s Division. The building was very soon occupied, and, under the direction of General von Klepper himself, an attempt was made to open the strong-rooms, wherein was stored that vast hoard of England’s wealth. What actually occurred at that spot can only be imagined, as the commander of the IVth Army Corps and one or two officers and men were the only persons present. It is surmised, however, that the strength of the vaults was far greater than they had imagined, and that, though they worked for hours, all was in vain.

While this was in progress, however, parties of engineers were making organised raids upon the banks in Lombard Street, Lothbury, Moorgate Street, and Broad Street, as well as upon branch banks in Oxford Street, the Strand, and other places in the West End.

At one bank on the left-hand side of Lombard Street, dynamite being used to force the strong-room, the first bullion was seized, while at nearly all the banks sooner or later the vaults were opened, and great bags and boxes of gold coin were taken out and conveyed in carefully-guarded carts to the Bank of England, now in the possession of Germany.

In some banks—those of more modern construction—the greatest resistance was offered by the huge steel doors and concrete and steel walls and other devices for security. But nothing could, alas! resist the high explosives used, and in the end breaches were made, in all cases, and wealth uncounted and untold extracted and conveyed to Threadneedle Street for safe keeping.

Engineers and infantry handled those heavy boxes and those big bundles of securities gleefully, officers carefully counting each box or bag or packet as it was taken out to be carted or carried away by hand.

German soldiers under guard struggled along Lothbury beneath great burdens of gold, and carts, requisitioned out of the East End, rumbled heavily all the afternoon, escorted by soldiers. Hammersmith, Camberwell, Hampstead, and Willesden yielded up their quota of the great wealth of London; but though soon after four o’clock a breach was made in the strong-rooms of the Bank of England by means of explosives, nothing in the vaults was touched. The Germans simply entered there and formally took possession.

The coin collected from other banks was carefully kept, each separate from another, and placed in various rooms under strong guards, for it seemed to be the intention of Germany simply to hold London’s wealth as security.

That afternoon very few banks—except the German ones—escaped notice. Of course, there were a few small branches in the suburbs which remained unvisited, yet by six o’clock Von Kronhelm was in possession of enormous quantities of gold.

In one or two quarters there had been opposition on the part of the armed guards established by the banks at the first news of the invasion. But any such resistance had, of course, been futile, and the man who had dared to fire upon the German soldiers had in every case been shot down.

Thus, when darkness fell, Von Kronhelm, from the corner of his room in the War Office, was able to report to his Imperial Master that not only had he occupied London, but that, receiving no reply to his demand for indemnity, he had sacked it and taken possession not only of the Bank of England, but of the cash deposits in most of the other banks in the metropolis.

That night the evening papers described the wild happenings of the afternoon, and London saw herself not only shattered but ruined.

The frightened populace across the river stood breathless.

What was now to happen?

Though London lay crushed and occupied by the enemy, though the Lord Mayor was a prisoner of war and the banks in the hands of the Germans, though the metropolis had been wrecked and more than half its inhabitants had fled southward and westward into the country, yet the enemy received no reply to their demand for an indemnity and the cession of British territory.

Von Kronhelm, ignorant of what had occurred in the House of Commons at Bristol, sat in Whitehall and wondered. He knew well that the English were no fools, and their silence, therefore, caused him considerable uneasiness. He had lost in the various engagements over 50,000 men, yet nearly 200,000 still remained. His

VON KRONHELM’S PROCLAMATION TO THE CITIZENS
OF LONDON.

army of invasion was a no mean responsibility, especially when at any moment the British might regain command of the sea. His supplies and reinforcements would then be at once cut off. It was impossible for him to live upon the country, and his food bases in Suffolk and Essex were not sufficiently extensive to enable him to make a prolonged campaign. Indeed, the whole scheme of operations which had been so long discussed and perfected in secret in Berlin was more of the nature of a raid than a prolonged siege.

The German Field-Marshal sat alone and reflected. Had he been aware of the true state of affairs he would certainly have had considerable cause for alarm. True, though Lord Byfield had made such a magnificent stand, considering the weakness of the force at his disposal, and London was occupied, yet England, even now, was not conquered.

No news had leaked out from Bristol. Indeed, Parliament had taken every precaution that its deliberations were in secret.

The truth, however, may be briefly related. On the previous day the House had met at noon in the Colston Hall—a memorable sitting, indeed. The Secretary of State for War had, after prayers, risen in the hall and read an official despatch he had just received from Lord Byfield, giving the news of the last stand made by the British north of Enfield, and the utter hopelessness of the situation.

It was received by the assembled House in ominous silence.

During the past week through that great hall the Minister’s deep voice, shaken by emotion, had been daily heard as he was compelled to report defeat after defeat of the British arms. Both sides of the House had, after the first few days, been forced to recognise Germany’s superiority in numbers, in training, in organisation—in fact, in everything appertaining to military power. Von Kronhelm’s strategy had been perfect. He knew more of Eastern England than the British Commander himself, and his marvellous system of spies and advance agents—Germans who had lived for years in England—had assisted him forward, until he had now occupied London, the city always declared to be impregnable.

Through the whole of September 20 the Minister constantly received despatches from the British Field-Marshal and from London itself, yet each telegram communicated to the House seemed more hopeless than its predecessor.

The debate, however, proceeded through the afternoon. The Opposition were bitterly attacking the Government and the Blue Water School for its gross negligence in the past, and demanding to know the whereabouts of the remnant of the British Navy. The First Lord of the Admiralty flatly refused to make any statement. The whereabouts of our Navy at that moment was, he said, a secret which must, at all hazards, be withheld from our enemy. The Admiralty were not asleep, as the country believed, but were fully alive to the seriousness of the crisis. He urged the House to remain patient, saying that as soon as he dared make a clear statement, he would do so.

This was greeted by loud jeers from the Opposition, from whose benches, members, one after another, rose, and, using hard epithets, blamed the Government for the terrible disaster. The cutting down of our defences, the meagre naval programmes, the discouragement of the Volunteers and of recruiting, and the disregard of Lord Roberts’ scheme in 1906 for universal military training, were, they declared, responsible for what had occurred. The Government had been culpably negligent, and Mr. Haldane’s scheme had been all insufficient. Indeed, it had been nothing short of criminal to mislead the Empire into a false sense of security which did not exist.

For the past three years Germany, while sapping our industries, had sent her spies into our midst, and laughed at us for our foolish insular superiority. She had turned her attention from France to ourselves, notwithstanding the entente cordiale. She remembered how the much-talked-of Franco-Russian alliance had fallen to pieces, and relied upon a similar outcome of the friendship between France and Great Britain.

The aspect of the House, too, was strange; the Speaker in his robes looked out of place in his big uncomfortable chair, and members sat on cane-bottomed chairs instead of their comfortable benches at Westminster. As far as possible the usual arrangement of the House was adhered to, except that the Press were now excluded, official reports being furnished to them at midnight.

The clerks’ table was a large plain one of stained wood, but upon it was the usual array of despatch-boxes, while the Serjeant-at-Arms, in his picturesque dress, was still one of the most prominent figures. The lack of committee rooms, of an adequate lobby, and of a refreshment department caused much inconvenience, though a temporary post and telegraph office had been established within the building, and a separate line connected the Prime Minister’s room with Downing Street.

If the Government were denounced in unmeasured terms, its defence was equally vigorous. Thus, through that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon the sitting continued past the dinner hour on to late in the evening.

Time after time the despatches from London were placed in the hands of the War Minister, but, contrary to the expectation of the House, he vouchsafed no further statement. It was noticed that just before ten o’clock he consulted in an earnest undertone with the Prime Minister, the First Lord of the Admiralty, and the Home Secretary, and that a quarter of an hour later all four went out and were closeted in one of the smaller rooms with other members of the Cabinet for nearly half an hour.

Then the Secretary of State for War re-entered the House and resumed his seat in silence.

A few minutes afterwards, Mr. Thomas Askern, member for one of the metropolitan boroughs, and a well-known newspaper proprietor, who had himself received several private despatches, rose and received leave to put a question to the War Minister.

“I would like to ask the Right Honourable the Secretary of State for War,” he said, “whether it is not a fact that soon after noon to-day the enemy, having moved his heavy artillery to certain positions commanding North London, and finding the capital strongly barricaded, proceeded to bombard it? Whether that bombardment, according to the latest despatches, is not still continuing at this moment; whether it is not a fact that enormous damage has already been done to many of the principal buildings of the metropolis, including the Government Offices at Whitehall, and whether great loss of life has not been occasioned?”

The question produced the utmost sensation. The House during the whole afternoon had been in breathless anxiety as to what was actually happening in London; but the Government held the telegraphs and telephone, and the only private despatches that had come to Bristol were the two received by some roundabout route known only to the ingenious journalists who had despatched them. Indeed, the despatches had been conveyed the greater portion of the way by motor-car.

A complete silence fell. Every face was turned towards the War Minister, who, seated with outstretched legs, was holding in his hand a fresh despatch he had just received.

He rose, and, in his deep bass voice, said—

“In reply to the honourable member for South-East Brixton, the statement he makes appears, from information which has just reached me, to be correct. The Germans are, unfortunately, bombarding London. Von Kronhelm, it is reported, is at Hampstead, and the zone of the enemy’s artillery reaches, in some cases, as far south as the Thames itself. It is true, as the honourable member asserts, an enormous amount of damage has already been done to various buildings, and there has undoubtedly been great loss of life. My latest information is that the non-combatant inhabitants—old persons, women, and children—are in flight across the Thames, and that the barricades in the principal roads leading in from the north are held strongly by the armed populace, driven back into London.”

He sat down without further word.

A tall, thin, white-moustached man rose at that moment from the Opposition side of the House. Colonel Farquhar, late of the Royal Marines, was a well-known military critic, and represented West Bude.

“And this,” he said, “is the only hope of England! The defence of London by an armed mob, pitted against the most perfectly equipped and armed force in the world! Londoners are patriotic, I grant. They will die fighting for their homes, as every Englishman will when the moment comes; yet, what can we hope, when patriotism is ranged against modern military science? There surely is patriotism in the savage negro races of Central Africa, a love of country perhaps as deep as in the white man’s heart; yet a little strategy, a few Maxims, and all defence is quickly at an end. And so it must inevitably be with London. I contend, Mr. Speaker,” he went on, “that by the ill-advised action of the Government from the first hour of their coming into power, we now find ourselves conquered. It only remains for them now to make terms of peace as honourable to themselves as the unfortunate circumstances will admit. Let the country itself judge their actions in the light of events of to-day, and let the blood of the poor murdered women and children of London be upon their heads. (Shame.) To resist further is useless. Our military organisation is in chaos, our miserably weak army is defeated, and in flight. I declare to this House that we should sue at this very moment for peace—a dishonourable peace though it be; but the bitter truth is too plain—England is conquered!”

As he sat down amid the “hear, hears” and loud applause of the Opposition there rose a keen-faced, dark-haired, clean-shaven man of thirty-seven or so. He was Gerald Graham, younger son of an aristocratic house, the Yorkshire Grahams, who sat for North-East Rutland. He was a man of brilliant attainments at Oxford, a splendid orator, a distinguished writer and traveller, whose keen brown eye, lithe upright figure, quick activity, and smart appearance rendered him a born leader of men. For the past five years he had been marked out as a “coming man.”

As a soldier he had seen hard service in the Boer War, being mentioned twice in despatches; as an explorer he had led a party through the heart of the Congo and fought his way back to civilisation through an unexplored land with valiant bravery that had saved the lives of his companions. He was a man who never sought notoriety. He hated to be lionised in society, refused the shoals of cards of invitation which poured in upon him, and stuck to his Parliamentary duties, and keeping faith with his constituents to the very letter.

As he stood up silent for a moment, gazing around him fearlessly, he presented a striking figure, and in his navy serge suit he possessed the unmistakable cut of the smart, well-groomed Englishman who was also a man of note.

The House always listened to him, for he never spoke without he had something of importance to say. And the instant he was up a silence fell.

“Mr. Speaker,” he said, in a clear, ringing voice, “I entirely disagree with my honourable friend the member for West Bude. England is not conquered! She is not beaten!”

The great hall rang with loud and vociferous cheers from both sides of the House. Then, when quiet was restored by the Speaker’s stentorian “Order-r-r! Order!” he continued—

“London may be invested and bombarded. She may even be sacked, but Englishmen will still fight for their homes, and fight valiantly. If we have a demand for indemnity, let us refuse to pay it. Let us civilians—let the civilians in every corner of England—arm themselves and unite to drive out the invader! (Loud cheers.) I contend, Mr. Speaker, that there are millions of able-bodied men in this country who, if properly organised, will be able to gradually exterminate the enemy. Organisation is all that is required. Our vast population will rise against the Germans, and before the tide of popular indignation and desperate resistance the power of the invader must soon be swept away. Do not let us sit calmly here in security, and acknowledge that we are beaten. Remember, we have at this moment to uphold the ancient tradition of the British race, the honour of our forefathers, who have never been conquered. Shall we acknowledge ourselves conquered in this the twentieth century?”

“No!” rose from hundreds of voices, for the House was now carried away by young Graham’s enthusiasm.

“Then let us organise!” he urged. “Let us fight on. Let every man who can use a sword or gun come forward, and we will commence hostilities against the Kaiser’s forces that shall either result in their total extermination or in the power of England being extinguished. Englishmen will die hard. I myself will, with the consent of this House, head the movement, for I know that in the country we have millions who will follow me and will be equally ready to die for our country if necessary. Let us withdraw this statement that we are conquered. The real, earnest fight is now to commence,” he shouted, his voice ringing clearly through the hall. “Let us bear our part, each one of us. If we organise and unite, we shall drive the Kaiser’s hordes into the sea. They shall sue us for peace, and be made to pay us an indemnity, instead of us paying one to them. I will lead!” he shouted; “who will follow me?”

In London the Lord Mayor’s patriotic proclamations were now obliterated by a huge bill bearing the German Imperial arms, the text of which told its own grim tale. It is reproduced on next page, and at its side was printed a translation in German text.

In the meantime the news of the fall of London was being circulated by the Germans to every town throughout the kingdom, their despatches being embellished by lurid descriptions of the appalling losses inflicted upon the English. In Manchester, a great poster, headed by the German Imperial arms, was posted up on the Town Hall, the Exchange, and other places, in which Von Kronhelm announced the occupation of London; while in Leeds, Bradford, Stockport, and Sheffield, similarly worded official announcements were also posted. The Press in all towns occupied by the Germans had been suppressed, papers only appearing in order to publish the enemy’s orders. Therefore, this official intelligence was circulated by proclamation, calculated to impress upon the inhabitants of the country how utterly powerless they were.

While Von Kronhelm sat in that large sombre room in the War Office, with his telegraph instrument to Potsdam ever ticking, and the wireless telegraphy constantly in operation, he wondered, and still wondered, why the English made no response to his demands. He was in London. He had carried out his Emperor’s instructions to the letter, he had received the Imperial thanks, and he held all the gold coin he could discover in London as security. Yet, without some reply from the British Government, his position was an insecure one. Even his thousand and one spies who had served him so well ever since he had placed foot upon English soil could tell him nothing. The deliberations of the House of Commons at Bristol were a secret.

In Bristol the hot, fevered night had given place to a gloriously sunny morning, with a blue and cloudless