XIX

THE TALE OF THE DUN HORSE

Now for the tale of the Dun Horse, and Lancaster's great ride from Lyonesse.

There was no electric power for travel either by airship, road, or rail. It was hard without money to buy petrol for a car, or drive one over the broken roads, of districts where there was fighting. A big bay mare brought Lancaster through Cornwall, and fell dead at his farm near Tiverton in Devon, the place where the dun horse lived.

Oregon's colour was like the tawny, sunscorched grass of the great American Desert from whence he came. Such lion-coloured hide had hidden his ancestors from the ranging tigers, three hundred thousand years ago when the world was young. Down the back and across withers and shoulders ran dark brown stripes—the famous endurance lines, making the figure of the cross. This, again was a cast-back to a Zebra-striped ancestry of a hundred thousand generations gone. He stood fifteen hands, a pony like Alexander's Bucephalus or Napoleon's grey Marengo. His eyes were mad, his ears vicious, his hoofs hard as iron, his gait a rolling lope, tail and mane all streaming gold, his neck august, his pride untameable. It stirs one's blood to remember Oregon.

The dawn was breaking when Lancaster saddled the dun stallion; and that was the third day of the gale, and burning of London, the Fifteenth of the Terror.

In all their rainwashed length, the roads showed scarcely any sign of traffic, but Oregon shied at many a car lying abandoned by the wayside, at the skeletons of cattle slaughtered and stripped to the last ounce of meat by bands of starving outlaws from the towns, sometimes at some poor shapeless heap in the ditch which had to be passed at full speed. Trees had been blown down across the causeway, branches and leafage littered by the gale. That which was fallen lay. In the hollow lands the road was washed out or flooded, the newly mown hay lay swamped in the sodden fields, and the young crops beaten flat. The farmers were roughly fortified—every place where there was food had become a stronghold, and the live-stock driven out to pasture went always under an armed guard for fear of marauders. In these days, the folk knew why their old and long-neglected churches had been so built upon high ground, with such defensible towers to carry balefires, and loopholed belfries for alarm bells. The village churches returned to their ancient use as forts of refuge both for body and spirit. That is why Lancaster found the village streets abandoned, and the streets of the market towns a solitude.

The ages had rolled back, from the twentieth century even to the tenth; once again upon the lawless highways the robber bands were out to pillage and burn. Once again all honest men went armed, the farms were strongholds, the churches forts of refuge. Once again an English knight rode a war-horse of the ancient kind, wore the old chain mail, fought with a lone sword, and dared all for a lost cause.

Have the red roses of Lancaster ever failed from the thorns of our gardens? Has the royal blood ceased to throb in English hearts? The ancient roots are still alive to-day, through decades of centuries the time-honoured chivalry of this dear realm flowers perennial from the ancient soil. The English archers, the English mariners, the English engineers—time changes the instruments, not the English hand. And that the heir apparent of the Imperial Throne rode three hundred miles in forty hours, is testimony that England is England still beyond the accident of the centuries.

Lancaster had been badly hurt in the fight with the Gigantic, and now, after eleven days of neglect, the wrench and bad contusions on his near shoulder made him delirious with pain.

Ranges of hills to cross, and floods to ford, by dip and curve, by tortuous-winding vales, field, woodland, park, and moor, the road went swinging on. There were cathedral cities by the way, great country seats, commons of golden gorse, old road-side inns, orchard-screened villages. The young Prince saw nothing but the course, felt nothing but his pain, knew nought but his errand, his mission to the Queen. Wet to the skin he felt no cold or any discomfort from the lashing rain, but in his fever and delirium, dreamed, talked to himself, crooned songs, or followed imaginary hounds. He could not remember afterwards how he found the way, where he had baited Oregon, where fed or rested.

It was sunset when he cantered down through Reading, the dun horse reeling—and forty miles to go. Red shone the glare through a gap in the wind-torn clouds, red was the glow on mire-stained horse and man, red on the sky to eastward where London lay. Two hours later he had traversed the outer suburbs and entered Windsor. Still was the red glow lingering in the east. He was passed through the castle gate and in the outer ward he rested Oregon. The Governor held his stirrup when he left, the Governor's wife gave him a stirrup cup, the poor knights of Windsor—seventeen old men, sending their message of love to Margaret.

So Lancaster crossed the Thames and entered London. The dun horse kept his splendid rolling lope, but drooped his head and jarred his rider now—with yet another twenty miles to go. The elms of Eton were swaying overhead, there were the playing fields, yonder the school—and Lancaster's heart was singing. As Oregon splashed by, he waved his helmet—a red gleam caught the silver. He turned into a long, dark avenue, villas on either hand, screened by young plane trees—lightless, desolate. Then followed mile after mile of town more lonely than the fields; street after street, dead, silent, horrible, and always the red glow quickened in the east. Was it the dawn already, the dawn breaking on an abandoned world?

Out of the vague night ahead, massed roofs went up stark to the flushed red jagged driving clouds, when a man started out of the shadows close ahead—an old grey man in a priest's cassock, brandishing a red-edged crucifix. Oregon shied; then, under lash of spurs, reared up pawing the air.

"Beware!" shrieked the priest. "Beware! Babylon is fallen—Babylon the Great is fallen—is fallen! The scarlet whore reigns yonder, and vengeance descends from Heaven on her crimes. You're riding headlong to destruction! Back!"

The trooper lashed his horse with the flat of his sword, and far away behind him heard the cry, "Babylon is fallen—is fallen!"

The pools were red, the mire was red, the wide street red as blood under an immensity of glowing, rolling smoke, and ever in front the near horizons lifted against great heaps of flame. Down a bye-street to the left a house burned furiously, but the pavement in front of it was empty. Hollow echoes rang to the horse's tramp, but the vacant silence ahead showed never a sign of man. Was the lost capital wholly abandoned?

Here a row of shops had been sacked, their wares thrown wide across the roadway. Beyond, the street was blocked with acres of ruins, and circling round back ways to find a passage, Lancaster heard gun shots, saw the flicker of torches; then, turning a corner, came suddenly upon a blood-stained drunken mob plundering houses. Spoil was scattered everywhere; dead men and drunk sprawled on the litter; tables were spread upon the pavement; orators were wrangling over their wine—a Republican court in session for the trial of three gentlewomen, who stood in drenched night-robes lashed together with ropes.

Lancaster charged that court, rode the judges under, cut them down, forgot his message to the Queen, forgot the saving of the gentlewomen, vaguely supposed that the fight was a dream to be enjoyed, and went on slaughtering. He was surrounded, he was attacked on all sides; men were firing upon him from the houses on all sides—then something struck off his helmet, blinding his eyes, and Oregon, maddened with the burning pain of a torch against his flank, broke away screaming at a headlong gallop.

* * * * *

The empty street reached away between gaunt, enormous ruins under a sky of flame and roaring thunder, when Lancaster reined Oregon to a walk, borne slowly forward by a hurricane of wind; wiped the blood from his eyes, and, looking about him, knew that this was Knightsbridge. A body of cavalry swung down through the gates of the park, wheeled half-right, and broke to a trot directly athwart his course, their silver armour glowing with ruby light—a squadron of the Guard.

* * * * *

"Let death seize upon them, and let them go down quick into hell. For wickedness is in their dwellings."

Miss Temple was reading at our Lady's bedside, and her voice went on slowly, monotonously through the terrible minatory Psalms.

"Break their teeth, O God, in their mouths. Break out the great teeth of the young lions."

"Dear me," said Margaret, in her pillows; "how dreadfully uncomfortable."

"Not asleep yet?" asked the old woman, reproachfully.

"Not asleep yet"; Margaret uttered a quivering sigh. "Please, dearest, draw all the curtains back. If I could see the windows, I wouldn't think I was in the grave—that would be better."

Miss Temple laid her Bible reverently aside; then moving slowly across the room, drew back the curtains. The wreck of Whitehall had shattered all the glass, and now the windows were filled with oiled paper. The scarlet glare of the night shone fiercely in, the wind of the fire roared like a storm at sea. Miss Temple came back to her place, and our Lady reached out one shaking hand to feel a little comfort from her touch.

"Dearest," she whispered, "do you believe in ghosts?"

"We are forbidden," answered the governess, "to have any dealings with the departed."

"Hush, dearest; there's no need to be rude to these poor spirits, wrenched so suddenly from their bodies, taken all by surprise, shy at appearing undressed as it were, and they come here to see if their Queen cares. They come and go all night long, my dead; and they would think me so heartless if they found me asleep. I must not speak to them—that would be wrong—but they may hear me telling you that I care—I care—I care, and they will tell all the dead that I care."

"Child," said Miss Temple, fearfully, "don't think of such things. It's horrible."

"That they should die, and I not even mourn? You wouldn't have me a coward, dearest, would you? If I didn't care, if I didn't mourn, why all these millions of the dead would come to haunt me, to accuse me. Am I not guilty of their blood!"

"You saved the honour of England."

"And at what a price! What is the honour of England! It's like some awful heathen god, whose altar runs with blood, the blood of innocent men, and women like you and me, and little children. How can you talk of our honour! I wish—how I wish—if I had only known. If it were all to do again I'd let Ulster sell us body and soul to Russia, drag our honour in the mud, set up our shame where every one could see, and call the shame salvation. Yes, I would rather marry Alexander, or be torn to pieces, or burned at the stake, than pay the price of honour."

When Miss Temple needed guidance, it was her custom to open her Bible, take a passage at random, and then with fiendish ingenuity twist the text into agreement with her own views. From the most unpromising materials she got the most surprising results. Now the pages fell apart in II. Samuel, and when her eye lit upon "Elhanan the son of Dodo," with a small local directory to follow, she felt rather ill-used. Turning resentfully, she came upon the pedigree in I. Chronicles. She had to fall back on general principles, and flashed her indignant eyes on Margaret.

Margaret was asleep. All curled up, her dear head resting on one outstretched arm, fairily delicate she lay at peace. The lines of sorrow were smoothed away, her eyes—a moment ago so big, so dark with horror—were veiled now with the eyelids of a child. Down through the lurid shadow of the room, flamelight played and flickered, glowed on the ivory pallor of her skin, and made a dainty mimicry of health. She seemed the Margaret of other days, Queen of the May, our Lady of the Spring, before love kindled and grief aged her heart.

Hush! The child sleeps, and the woman must wake to pain.

If you would know the measure of a woman, judge not by her virtues, neither by her sins—God will judge these. How much did she love? How much did men worship her? The love that men bore to Helen, Cleopatra, Guinevere, illumine the history of nations, as it changed the rhythm of their times. How have men worshipped Elizabeth, and Victoria, and Margaret, each in her time, the Queen of all men's love? The conquerors laid Empires at their feet. The holy ideal of chivalric worship inspired the noblest literature, the highest art and the profoundest learning. Whole eras are illuminated by the glamour and the glory of such unselfish homage, that could bind men together, sweeten the common life, sanctify duty, and make death a rite.

Hush! England sleeps! The spirits of the slain, hovering in the flamelight and the lurid green-grey shadows, are pleading to God that He will have compassion on the Queen.

With savage satisfaction, Miss Temple watched. Margaret asleep at last! For a minute, for two minutes, then our Lady's voice rang loud through the room.

"Lyonesse!" she cried. "Lyonesse!" And starting broad awake, lifted herself in the bed, her gaunt face beaded with sweat, her dark eyes staring broad awake. Then she fell back with a moan, and clutched at Miss Temple's hands, and held them fast.

"Oh, why did you let me sleep?" she whispered. "I fought so hard to keep awake."

"You must have sleep or you'll lose your senses, child."

"I dared not sleep," said Margaret, trembling, "lest I should see him dead!"

"Margaret, these fancies are dangerous."

"This is the fourth time, dearest. He was in a little ship, so small you could have put it in this room, and far down underneath, river, and lake, and forest streaming past. He was all alone, the blood-stained bandage loose about his head, and he lay in his harness dead, except for his eyes. Only his eyes were alive watching me, speaking to me."

Miss Temple read the rest in Margaret's eyes, and turned her face away lest the Queen should see.

Even as the desert hungers for the rain, so Margaret craved for Brand. She could not tell Miss Temple that she loved him; the wise old governess pretended not to know, and thus the secret was shared by two sweet women with delicate reticence and understanding, marred by no words while every word would hurt.

"Dearest," our Lady whispered, "did you ever love?"

"Love!" Miss Temple's eyes went red. "What's love to me? Is this a time to think of love—to talk of love? Get to your prayers, child, this is no time for love."

But our Lady urged her again. "Dearest, were you ever in love?"

"In Heaven," Miss Temple was angry, "there's neither marrying nor giving in marriage. The sun will be darkened, the moon shall not give her light, the powers of Heaven shall be shaken, the earth shall quake, the mountains shall fall, the heavens shall roll away like a scroll before the great and terrible day of the Lord. This is a time for fasting, vigils, humiliation, prayer, not for profane thoughts of love."

Margaret lay back among the pillows, releasing Miss Temple's hand.

"I'm tired," she said, "so tired."

Then of a sudden she started up alert, listening intently, her eyes upon the door, at which the old lady grumbled, asking what was the matter.

"Don't you hear?"

"The roar of fire, child, there's nothing else."

"But I hear somebody coming—hush—listen."

"The fall of some building perhaps."

"There's somebody coming for me. I tell you somebody is coming—from Lyonesse—from him. Hark! There are footsteps."

"Trooper Browne in the corridor. Be still, child; lie down and rest."

But indeed there were footsteps, sounds of scuffling, of men disputing, and then the throwing open of a door. Through the length of the suite of rooms, Browne's voice rang out in warning.

"Madam," he shouted, "I could not hold him back!"

Men were trampling heavily through the rooms; even as her Majesty came down from the bed, the door of her chamber burst open—a man came reeling in, a trooper of the Guard, although his silver armour, rusted black, was drenched and stained with rain and mire, his face a mask of blood. He shouted hoarsely at the sight of her, then two Guardsmen following caught him in their arms, but he, struggling violently, broke away from them and fell at her very feet insensible.

Her Majesty knelt down beside the man, and full of pity lifted his bleeding head.

Sergeant Branscombe, standing at the salute, begged for the Queen's forgiveness.

"Madam," he pleaded, "we could not hold him back."

But she, in her white robe kneeling beside the man, pressed her small hands upon the spurting wound.

"Who is he?" she asked, "Oh, surely not—my cousin, Lancaster! He will die! He will die!"

"He is alive," Miss Temple's hands pressed hard upon his breast. "Quick, Sergeant Branscombe, water. You, trooper, bring the surgeon. What's this?" She found a strip of paper under the gorget. "A letter! Margaret, this is from Lyonesse!"

And Margaret read the message.

"In five days more I'll come with my ships.
                                                                    "JOHN BRAND."

XX

VICTORY

"In five days more I'll come with my ships."

Five days had passed since Brand's promise reached the Queen, it was the twenty-first of the Terror, and the master was not come.

Trooper Browne had been on duty all night, slept through the morning, and now at two in the afternoon came hungry to the mess-room for luncheon. The tables were gone since daybreak, surgeons and nurses had taken possession, the pavement, the aisles, even the triforium gallery, were crowded with the beds of the sick and the dying taken from the streets. In the ante-chamber he found some biscuits, and with these and a glass of water fled to the guard-room.

That beautiful gallery was at least unchanged, its precious columns of azurite and malachite reflected in the polished slabs of the floor. The alabaster stairs came up from the portico, and went on to the chambers of state, now turned into hospital wards and Government offices. One man was on guard, Sergeant Jack Branscombe, fat, lazy old Jack sole garrison of the Palace, and him Browne relieved that he might get his breakfast. So the trooper sat on a bench eating biscuits, and watched the endless procession of sufferers being carried past upon the stairway.

One man on guard! Of the two hundred gentlemen-at-arms, and their two hundred orderlies, only seventy were left—all as brothers now—to ride with her Majesty. She would come back with her riders at four o'clock, tired out, and here on the table stood a gold cup, and a flagon of wine left by Miss Temple, for our Lady's refreshment.

Stealthily Browne lifted the cup, and pressed his lips against the rim. Even as he did that a little chuckle sounded close at his elbow—so startlingly like our Lady's laugh that he set down the cup in haste.

"Caught red-handed," said Tom of Lancaster, and sitting down on the bench, laid a white hand on Browne's knee. "My dear Browne, you must not poison her cup, even with kisses."

Browne grinned nervously. "Good morning, sir," he said, his eyes on Lancaster's deathly white face, "the doctor said you'd be in bed for months."

"Doctor's a fool," said Lancaster, then very faintly added—"Give me some of that wine."

Browne drank the water in his glass, and filled it with wine from the flagon.

"Here, sir."

"Drop that 'sir,'" said the young Prince, then with a sigh as he set down the empty glass, "How is she to-day?"

"Slept heartily these four nights, so Miss Temple says. She looks herself again since you came, Prince, with your message."

"Prince! I wish you fellows would drop that rot, and let me be a trooper. My name's Tom, and I'm as good as any man in the crowd. So the message cheered her up?"

"Saved her reason, I think."

"Browne," the Prince turned round with a short, sharp laugh, "you're in love with her. Bah, you flush like a girl—of course, you're in love with her. So am I, man, and the rest of the fellows are just as bad or worse. What's the use of trying to hide what hurts. Does it make the thing hurt less? She's not for us.

"She and Brand are in love, and by my honour, Browne, I'm glad, yes glad. That man is royal, the real thing, which I'm not. By our Lady, if you'd seen him fight the Gigantic!

"And all that time in the cave, six mortal days while he lay raving mad with his wound, he called to her: 'Margaret! Margaret!' Look what he was before, and what he's fallen to because he was loyal."

"In love with him," said Browne, under his breath.

"Of course she is, I saw them part. Didn't she burst into tears, so that she had to run away."

"The message," Browne's voice was broken now; "it saved her reason. I thought——"

"The message," said Lancaster, "I forged that message."

"Forged it?"

"Of course. How could I come to her without a message? That's what Brand would have written if he could. Do you think it was easy for me bringing that message?"

"I'd never have dared," said Browne, humbly. "Fancy lying to her!"

"Well, I'm her cousin, you know, and you'd have dared all right if you had been there. He was conscious, the fever gone—awful weak, of course, and he couldn't have written a letter to save his life. I did it out of my own head, too, and I hate writing letters. That night I climbed the cliff, and at the top found a young fisherman asleep. The man was in hiding, a criminal, I suppose; but he helped me, and we got Brand up with ropes. Neither of us knew that Ulster was dead, or that the royal yacht was out searching for Brand, or that Lyonesse was retaken for the Queen. I found out all that afterwards.

"All we knew was that Brand must escape from England; and he told me to search for a shed, close by where his cottage used to stand. Inside the shed we found a little old ship, the first one that Brand's father ever built, the mother of the Fleet."

"What, the Experiment? I've read about that."

"Yes, the Experiment; she was in perfect order, and we got her alive within the hour. I begged Brand to take the fisherman or me, but he would have neither of us. The fisherman must search for Miss Brand, he said, and take her a message. I must go to the Queen. Then he began to get delirious."

"You let him go like that!"

"He cheated me—said I could come with him, but first I must coil up the rope—he wanted the rope. While I was coiling up the rope the port clanged home, the ship rose with a whirr, drawing up a hurricane of dust and stones. I was dragged off my feet into the air, then fell nearly over the edge of the cliff. He was gone!"

"To his death," said Browne.

"Who knows?"

"And she believes that message!"

"I had to confess to some one," said Lancaster, dolefully. "Hello, here's old Branscombe. What's the trouble, Jack?"

"Thought you'd gone back to bed, sir."

"Bed be damned," said Lancaster, cheerfully. "Why that bereaved smile? More bad news?"

Fat Jack sat down panting, leaning his hands on his sword.

"Bad news? Well, sir, that's hardly the word, we're a little nearer the end, perhaps." He watched the long procession of the sick—borne one by one on stretchers up the stairway. "I'd rather the end came quick."

"Oh, go and be an angel," said Lancaster, scornfully. "Go and croak at the moon, Jack, weep to the clouds all alone on a damp battlement. We've had more fun and adventure this last month."

Browne laughed heartily.

"Well," old Branscombe smiled at the two lads; "I suppose I'm a fool," he wheezed. "Just now I was talking with one of our wounded men—Bill Sothern. He saw the whole Republican army in camp, two hundred and fifty thousand men at least, the pick of the Midland counties, well fed, in fine condition, and our poor half-starved troops, what can they do? How could our Lady so much as offer battle. The thing was hopeless—she was right to decline. Well, to-day, the Republican colours are flying on Hampstead Hill. To-morrow, their flag will be hoisted here."

"Come," said Lancaster, "cheer us up—go on, Jack."

"I wonder"—Jack grunted, looking steadily at the Prince. "You, sir, may be pleased. I'm of a different make. The French and German armies landed yesterday, covering the coast from Dungeness to Portsmouth—half a million men, with two hundred ships of the line to sweep our army away as they advance."

"Anything more?" asked Tom of Lancaster.

"The Russian Fleet has appeared off the coast of Essex."

Lancaster was whistling softly. "'Three blind mice—three blind mice; see how they run.' Well, Jack, I'll lay you three to one in anything you like on Margaret."

"In my country," said Browne, yawning, "the sun goes down in the fall of the year and never comes up again. The Arctic Sea is all shifting ice pack, the land all white drifts, and you think the night is never going to end. Yet it does; the sun comes up in the spring, and the mosquito season begins. Perhaps things will come out all right even in this England."

"Perhaps," answered Branscombe. "How long is it, Browne, since you joined the Guard—you're only a recruit, eh?"

"Thirty-one days and thirty-one nights," said Browne, "and it feels like thirty-one years. Another month of your London will make me a doddering old patriarch."

"Another month?" Branscombe rose and walked away with a sigh.

"Another month!" echoed young Lancaster.

"Why, gentlemen," came a voice from the upper stairway. "Are the Queen's Blackguards so far gone as that? All out of curl, no swagger—like a covey of widows?"

Lancaster turned with an acid smile to the civilian.

"Who the deuce are you?"

"I have the honour," said the civilian grinning, "to be her Majesty's Chief Poisoner."

Lancaster whispered to Browne. "Another bounder come to cheer me up. Well," he turned to the civilian. "Tell us all the bad news, there's still room for a fourth invading army from the west."

The Chief Poisoner lighted a cigarette, sat down, crossed his legs and chuckled.

"Don't mind me," said the Prince.

"What!" the civilian started to his feet. "I beg your Royal Highness—I mean, sir—I didn't——"

"Sit down," said the Prince. "Tell lies, we need amusing. Proceed, my Lord Chief Poisoner."

"Oh—ah—well, sir," the Poisoner smiled and writhed. "I have good news, sir, and at last I'm at liberty to speak. I had the honour to hear you mention, sir, the armies of the invasion."

"Yes, sir."

"They can't march on London without roads and railways, and they depend, sir, more or less on the country for supplies—of water, for instance."

"Water?"

"The first of all necessities. The Franco-German forces, as you know, sir, have landed on the coast of Kent, Sussex, and Hampshire. Now in these three counties, her Majesty has called out the Territorials, and ordered them to retreat on London sweeping the whole population before them, driving the live-stock in to feed the capital, burning all provisions and ricks that couldn't be moved. The railways have been mined, and the roads blocked with felled timber and mines. Yesterday I had the honour to direct the poisoning of every well, pond, and running stream. Her Majesty sends word advising the enemy that she will supply pure water when the troops lay down their arms."

"But they can march across?"

"Yes, sir, they can march across without transport or artillery, or food, or water, to attack the fortified positions on the north downs. Meanwhile the live-stock and provisions are restoring life and hope to the armies and citizens in London."

"You mean to say," cried Lancaster, "that the Queen has done all that in five days?"

"It's seven days since her Majesty seized the Government."

"How about the Russian landing in Essex?"

"I'm not at liberty to speak as yet."

"I see," Lancaster had both hands to his bandaged head. "But there are still the enemy's Fleets."

Browne chuckled.

"Hello," Lancaster flashed round on him. "Who told you to laugh?"

"Something," said Browne, "about eagles and bones out of the Bible—wish I could remember what Miss Temple did say. She reviewed them yesterday."

"Miss Temple held a review? Well, I'll be boiled!"

"No," Browne was irritable, "our Lady, of course, reviewed the What-d'ye-call-um's ships—Brand's ships—eleven of them."

"You're dreaming, Browne."

"It's no dream," said Browne. "Our Lady has kept the crews alive in gaol; she's got the squadron together, reviewed them yesterday, and she's going to send them against the enemy's fleets. They've got some sort of vibrations for touching off explosives, but none of their captains ever heard of these vibrations, and Brand is the only man who knows the secret. That seems to trouble our Lady."

"Vibrations be damned," said Lancaster, hotly. "I know all about etheric ships. Wasn't I in the Mary Rose when we rammed the Gigantic? Brand's ships are rams, and they'll go through an electric battleship like a shell through a paper balloon. Eleven rams like that could wipe out all the electric fleets of Europe. Why with the fleets destroyed and the country impassable——"

Browne yelped with delight.

"Here," cried Lancaster, "Jack Branscombe, you old fool. I'll bet you every horse in my stables, bar Sharon and the Dun—against your spotted dog, our Lady wins the game!"

Branscombe had been listening at the stairhead, now he rolled over to Lancaster.

"I can't," he panted. "I can't bet against our Lady."

"That the League don't capture London—my horses against your beastly spotted cur."

"Your horses are a scandalous lot of crocks, and I wouldn't have them at a gift; but done, sir! and I hope you'll win my dog."

"And so do I!"

The voice, our Lady's voice, came thrilling clear from the head of the lower stairway, at which the three Guardsmen sprang to attention, and the civilian bolted. So her Majesty came forward attended by her retinue of the Guard, and wearing her uniform as its captain.

Branscombe provided her a seat, Browne, kneeling, presented the cup of wine, the escort, breaking ranks, piled arms and awaited her pleasure.

"There," she said, laughing. "I'm tired enough to love my home. Stand forward, Sergeant Branscombe," said our Lady, and her eyes twinkled, for she dearly loved a jest. "You are charged with betting one spotted dog against your sovereign."

Branscombe prayed for the pavement to swallow him.

"I had no more," he stammered.

"One spotted dog or fifty, the same crime, Sergeant. I condemn you to quarter on your shield of arms a spotted dog proper bearing the legend: 'I am Lancaster's.' And you, Tom of Lancaster, get to bed, and behave yourself on pain of a severe course of mustard plasters—off with you! Gentlemen," she raised her cup, "I pledge the Guard."

We heard a trumpet blown outside the gates, and at the sound our Lady let the cup fall, watching it roll slowly across the floor.

"Go down," she said, "Gentlemen of 'B' squadron—receive this visitor—pay him all possible honour, and bring him here."

A dozen men, those of "B" squadron, parted from the rest, saluted, formed, and marched clattering down the long stairs. The procession of the sick and their bearers ceased. Then one could only hear the impatient horses stamping in the porch. We looked at our Lady, and saw that she was afraid.

"I want to warn you, gentlemen," she said faintly. "That trumpet was blown for the President of the British Republic—yes, the Republic. He has come to receive my surrender."

"Kill him! Kill him!" cried some, and every man in the chamber was moved to break away from the Queen's discipline.

"Gentlemen," said our Lady. "President O'Brien comes under flag of truce. If you are offended now, you will be furious when you hear his demands, and if you love me, you will stand quite still, except to salute him at his entrance. I warn you the slightest hostile movement may ruin me. My envoys have failed to treat with this man, my letters met with an insulting reply, and he holds North London in overwhelming force. Ah, here he comes. Don't be uneasy, I assure you I'm not going to surrender."

The President, attended by his staff, conducted by our troopers, came to the stairhead and there stood surveying our Lady and her war-stained Guard.

"Where is this woman?" he demanded hoarsely.

And in answer, Margaret rose to make him welcome, met him half-way across the chamber, and frankly offered her hand.

"What," she asked gently, "will you not shake hands?"

General O'Brien lifted his eyes until they were level with her brave sad face.

"Won't you shake hands?" she said, "you come to me in my utmost need." Then addressing his retinue, "I am so glad to welcome friends."

"This is all nonsense, madam. I am not a friend."

"That," answered our Lady, "is incredible. You are doing yourself injustice. My enemies are Russians, Germans, French, not British. You could not possibly be leagued with my enemies. I have sent my messengers to welcome your reinforcements, cleared the northern suburbs to quarter your troops, begged for your counsel as to meeting the Russian advance, and now you come pretending enmity."

"I pretend nothing, madam. I come as President of the British Republic to occupy this Palace."

Margaret laughed at him. "My dear good man, I can't spare room for another cot, even for you. This hospital is jammed to the very doors with my poor guests, the sick. See through that archway"—she pointed to the entrance of the mess-room—"in that one ward there are seven hundred cases of typhus. Come, General O'Brien, I'm badly in need of ambulance, and you must help me."

"I will take charge of that," said the President, brusquely. "Meanwhile, madam, a special train is waiting to take you with your following to Balmoral."

Our Lady turned away from him, crossed to her chair and sat down. She rested her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands, and looked up at this President thoughtfully.

"And so, General O'Brien," she said at last, "you want to sit in my throne, my most comfortless throne."

"I want no throne," answered General O'Brien, "I have come to put an end to this disastrous monarchy. I have no time for delay."

"And who are you?" Margaret lifted her proud head. "Who are you?"

"I command the armies of the Republic—three hundred thousand men."

"And I," said her Majesty, "command the nation, the feudatories, the colonies, the seas, the air—the British Empire. I am chosen by my people their anointed sovereign, guardian of their liberty, Defender of their Faith. The throne is not yours, General, or mine. It belongs to the people who make the laws, and we are their servants—their servants, General. When we have conquered the League, I will ask my people what kind of Government they want, who they will have as their President or their Sovereign. I will obey their orders, but, by God, not yours!"

"You propose to fight my armies?"

"No, I would not have one of my people hurt in such a quarrel. I have half a million men, to fight Russia, France, and Germany—not one to spare for you."

"What do you propose?"

A man had come to the head of the upper stairway, Sir Myles Strangford, Secretary for War.

"Where is the Queen?" he cried. "Gentlemen of the Guard, where is the Queen? I have great news—victory! victory! Our squadron of etheric rams has met the Franco-German fleets. Victory! Victory!"

How the Guard cheered!

Then her Majesty sent for Sir Myles, and he was brought to her.

"Tell me," she said, laughing as he kissed her hand, "who is this General O'Brien? He claims to be the President of some Republic."

Sir Myles looked up towards General O'Brien and laughed also.

"Does he offer, madam, to meet the etheric rams in battle?"

"Woman," cried General O'Brien, "I am not here to be insulted—surrender, or I shall take this Palace by assault."

"You would assault a hospital!"

Margaret rose from her seat, went over to the President, and, slowly drawing her sword—

"You would assault a hospital!" The sword whirled above her head, and with the flat of the blade, she struck heavily upon his shoulder. "Sir George O'Brien," she cried, "are you my knight, or are you my enemy? Take your choice."

"What do you mean?" he retorted in fury.

"I mean that you are knighted in my service, and commissioned Lieutenant-General to meet the Russian invasion, or that you draw your sword, Mr. O'Brien, and fight."

"This is an outrage!"

"Take it as an outrage, Mr. George O'Brien, rebel. It's easy enough to assault hospitals, easy enough to send brave men to their death. You have three hundred thousand soldiers, I half a million; but I cannot spare one life in either army—I can spare you. What's that sword at your side? Is it only an ornament? Have you no courage beyond assaulting hospitals? Draw, you coward, and fight!"

Here, Dymoke, as Champion of England, demanded leave to engage, but our Lady waved him aside, being in no mood for interference. As to General O'Brien, he was not so eager.

"I cannot possibly fight you. This is madness!"

"Sir, choose your own weapons, broadsword or rapier; I value my life less than I value yours. There's no room for both of us in the world. Draw, or I'll kill you. Draw, I say, draw!"

"I do not fight with women."

"A man then! Gentlemen of the Bodyguard, he demands a man! Choose your antagonist, sir, for fight you shall!"

"I refuse to fight!"

"Then," said one of the Generals of the staff, "I serve under no coward. I am a gentleman, your Majesty," he crossed to her rear. "I am at your Majesty's service."

In another minute President O'Brien stood alone, his staff gone over to the Queen.

"I accept the inevitable," he said, angrily. "I accept the position of Lieutenant-General in your Majesty's service."

"This coward," Margaret turned upon the Generals, pointing with her sword to the late President, "this coward proposes to serve in my armies. I send no cowards against my gallant enemies of the League. Which of you gentlemen holds highest rank in the Republican forces?"

General McNeill saluted.

"'Tis to you, then, sir, I shall entrust my campaign against Russia. You will consult with Sir Myles Strangford and receive my commands through him. As to this coward here, I entrust him to your custody as a prisoner. I order you to have him thrashed for cowardice in presence of the army he was unfit to lead."

The Republic was at an end.

Mr. Dymoke was furious. "What's the use," he said afterwards. "What's the use of being Hereditary Champion of England if I can't have somebody to kill? I was cheated out of my fight with Prince Ali, and here's the Queen herself getting in front of my rights."

He was to have his killing.

XXI

THE QUEEN'S RETREAT

From the time our Lady's actual reign began, we saw the ruined land stir into being. For money she gave us "Queen's promises," that is to say, the old coins of the realm, which her Majesty vowed to redeem at their former value. With these coins, after she made proclamation on the thirteenth of the Terror, wages were earned and paid, the traffic moved again, shops opened for trade, and factories went to work. It was all done in a timid way at first, then with more confidence, and at last in full flood of recovery.

For those still out of work, her Majesty founded the Administration of Hope. To the municipal councils she granted powers for seizure of provisions, employment of workers, and service of rations to them and to their families. So the dead were buried, the streets and roads were cleared, ships were discharged, the markets stocked with produce from the shires, and London was fortified.

She founded the Administration of Succour, opening pawnshops for the loan of money, hospitals for the sick, camps for the destitute, and a service of military transport.

So daily, hourly, the Queen's dominion spread until the three kingdoms rang from end to end with feverish industry and courageous life.

It was all so gallantly done, and so hopeless. Nothing but the instant peril of invasion could have bound the people together while they were starving. The dying realm lived by her surgery, was healed, was saved, but then the price must be paid—and three armies were marching against the Capital. Our Lady's flotilla of rams shattered their covering fleets—but even etheric vessels could not charge battleships of the line without being injured; caught in the bursting magazines, they were racked to pieces. The fleets of the League were destroyed, but of the three rams which survived not one could float again.

Four shires, Kent, Sussex, Hampshire, and Essex, were laid waste, changed into desert where all the water was poisonous, but the armies of the invasion were only delayed until they could add tanks to their transport. Then the armies came against the outer defences of London—a web of hedges, ditches and canals, a labyrinth of suburbs which swallowed brigade after brigade, and sent back only wreckage of lost regiments. Our Imperial army was—ever since the beginning of the Twentieth Century—an army of marksmen—sharp-shooters who mowed down the poor conscripts of Europe, even as the swaths of wheat fell at the harvesting.

Behind her chain of fortresses our Lady was arming her people for defensive war; mines, mills, and factories, villages and towns sent their contingents of men to be drilled in her camps; the Midlands seethed with preparation of arms, and explosives; and every weapon capable of use added a man's strength to the great defence.

As Margaret called in her outposts, garrison troops came in daily from Halifax, Bermuda, Gibraltar, and were sent with their guns to the front.

France and Germany called up their fleet reserves, but the Mediterranean Squadron dealt with the French above Rouen, and turning eastward, caught the Germans in Hanover.

So the battle raged for weeks, over land and sea, but the vortex of this dread Armageddon was Margaret's Capital. The French army was in the outer southern suburbs, the Russians held the northern suburbs, the Germans were in the east, and the marshals of the invasion slowly mile by mile forced their way to the westward, closing down upon London. Another week would see the Metropolis surrounded, and the siege commenced. We knew that the end was near.

It was the bombardment of the East End which brought the council of war to plead with her Majesty for the desperate policy of retreat. They begged her to withdraw westward, to evacuate London, and, laying the land waste, fall back upon the Midlands.

"Fall back!" said Margaret bitterly. "Gentlemen, I cannot understand your military terms, but if that means run—I won't!"

"Madam," Lord Fortescue had a valued gift of persuasion. "We want to run away, leading the enemy inland until we catch him in a trap."

"That sounds well," said our Lady, pursing her lips doubtfully. "Are the traps always far inland?"

"Madam, if we are caught here in London, it means surrender."

"London, then, is a trap?"

"A perfect death-trap."

"A perfect death-trap." Margaret repeated the words doubtfully; then, like a flash—"If any army is caught in London, it means surrender!"

"Good gracious, madam!" exclaimed the Commander-in-Chief.

"Let me feel my way—perhaps it is nonsense. A million people are being shelled—murdered in the East End. Suppose we clear the East End—here, see on this map—from Stratford say, to Aldgate. I could send the women and children to Windsor Forest—they need a holiday, poor things. Any way we could spare that district to the Germans. Then there's the City and this West-Central district up to Charing Cross—a heap of ruins. We could spare all that to the Germans—enough room for them to lose their whole army. They would rush in to capture our main positions on the Hampstead and Sydenham Hills. They would find themselves in a low valley blocked with ruins, under the fire of a thousand guns, every line of escape blocked by our barricades, the river on their left too broad to swim. Then they would try to get back to their camps—and find their camps fortified with their own guns against them!"

"Madam!"

"My lord, have these Germans any mercy on my poor women and children? I want to capture their army."

"We couldn't possibly feed two hundred thousand prisoners."

"I want no prisoners, I want rifles for my reserves, Lord Fortescue, rifles and powder, and all the provisions in the German camps. As to the——"

"Madam," said Strangford, "a couple of hundred thousand German prisoners sent as a present into the hungry Russian lines might,—well, Russia loves Germany none too well as it is."

But Lord Fortescue objected, protesting that "London was full of foreign spies, and that we could never conceal our preparations."

"Permit me, madam," cried Strangford, eagerly. "My dear Lord Fortescue, here we have the complete plans for the evacuation of London. I could get the papers sold privately to the French, and we could so shape our preparations as to make the Allies believe we were in full retreat to the Midlands. Afterwards we shall have both Russians and Germans accusing the French of treachery. We shall split the League!"

There is no need to tell again the story of our Lady's stratagem. During the five days of its preparation, the armies of the League closing down through the western suburbs, cut off all hope of retreat, all chance of succour. No help could reach us from the outer world, and lost in the valley of death, we could send no word to salve the fear of England, or to restrain despair. So much we lost.

Then came the thirty-ninth of the Terror, when the German forces, a hundred and fifty thousand strong, marched into the capital.

From the Palace towers we watched the red sun rise, heard the first gun, and waited minute after minute until the silence became agony. Then came a sudden blaze from a thousand guns, the Palace reeled under the crash, and over the ruins of central London went up a cloud of dust. Of the German forces, thirty-one thousand men are supposed to have perished in that cloud, fifteen thousand escaped in panic flight, a hundred and four thousand prisoners were released starving into the hungry Russian lines.

Our Lady was pleased to dine that night with the Bodyguard. The tables, for lack of room elsewhere, had been set in the guardroom upon the alabaster stairs, and in her Majesty's honour we twined garlands of rose and laurel about the lamps, brought out the gold plate, and used some of that old, gracious pageantry which graced the bygone times. Outside, the guns were firing a salute, the bells of London pealed for victory, and our trumpets pealed as we rose to drink to the Queen. Then Sir Myles Strangford came, attended by his staff, and from the upper stairway read the report of our triumph.

"A hundred and fourteen thousand stand of arms, the German siege train, Woolwich Arsenal, three thousand wagons of military stores, twenty-two million rations——"

The harsh call of a bugle cut short his words, a quick, imperative summons at the very gates of the Palace. No English bugle was sounded in such a place.

When an attendant had been sent to make inquiries, Sir Myles went on reading the proclamation of victory, news that would bring comfort to the besieged, hope to all Britain. His voice was fervent in thanksgiving; a storm of cheering drowned his closing words. Standing with drawn swords we sang the National Anthem, thinking most of us of the women folk at home, our mothers and sisters in danger, and our dread sovereign Lady whom we served. Then the song died on our lips, our swords drooped, and there was silence while a vague fear gripped us at the throat.

A Russian general officer had come up the stairway attended by a trooper bearing the white flag on a lance.

"Gentlemen," he said, in broken English, "I have the honour—I bear a letter to her Britannic Majesty."

His eyes followed ours as we directed him, and perhaps, after all, the Russians pleaded for an armistice. The Allies were ready to fly at each other's throats, there was hatred within the League more than against ourselves. And yet the Russian's bearing boded no good to us, and as our Lady read we saw her face turn grey.

She beckoned the envoy to retire—told him to await her pleasure at the gates, kept silence until he was gone.

"Strangford!" she cried, "Strangford! Come here!"

She thrust the paper into Strangford's hand, and we saw him too grow cold before our eyes.

"Madam," he groaned, "I fear this is the end."

"Gentlemen," our Lady lay back in her chair very faint and ill. "Gentlemen of the Guard, you who have never failed me—never failed me," she started up, a new thought lighting her face. "You're the only men in the Empire who have not failed me. I appeal to you—I want ships—I want a squadron of ships. Help me! help me!"

Not a man moved, for how could we find her ships? We had given our yachts, those who had them, and had not failed her when our lives were needed—but ships! At the beginning the Channel Fleet was lost, but the fleets of the League were destroyed by etheric rams. The reserve fleets of France and Germany had been defeated by the Mediterranean Squadron. Victorious in a hundred aerial fights, the ships which remained to England were on guard, lest the French and Germans attempt a last attack. We dared not withdraw one cruiser lest our enemies take the air again—and that meant ruin. There was no squadron left even for the Queen's most vital need—or else the siege of London had been impossible. There were no ships.

A slow tear trickled down our Lady's face.

"We dared to hope," she said, "to hold out until Mr. Brand comes back—as he will come back! Oh, must he come too late?"

That was the most piteous thing of all, that our Lady still believed Brand would come back.

Sergeant Dymoke went to the Queen, and, bending his knee—

"Madam," he cried, "we are ready to go on fighting."

"How can we fight?" said Margaret angrily. "What can we do against the Siberian Fleet? Can we ride horses upon the clouds, charge nineteen battleships of the line with rifles, float up our fortress guns to fight the stars?"

And all the bells of London were pealing for victory!

XXII

THE LAST BATTLE

Mars burned on the horizon; the six stars of Orion, the seven misty Pleiads, the eight suns of the Bear, and all the lamps of Heaven were shining steadfast. Suns spin their course, the constellations change, and all things pass, but yet eternal gleams the Milky Way spanning the night from everlasting unto everlasting—the perfect arch of God's restraining hand. We may lie down to rest in utter faith, for, with the failing glory of our day, the night reveals His visible providence. But those who cannot sleep most need His comfort, and our Lady Margaret kept vigil that last night.

From the high solitude of her tower, she watched the passing stars until the black ruins of the city loomed ragged against white dawn light. Ashen grey were the ruins of Mayfair to the north; gaunt and gigantic wrecks of Belgravia's palaces went up in white against the velvet west. The day was breaking—the last day of all. Mist lay beneath where all the Palace slept, and in the gardens the waking doves crooned softly. Far off in the south, trains rumbled at some junction of the rails; a car whirred in the Palace Road; an aerial yacht slid past in the western gloom, and London was alive.

The sun would come up presently; how few of all the thousands asleep in the Palace were destined to see him set! The trooper who stood by the parapet watching the pale light climb the eastern sky prayed with a boy's fervour that the sun might never rise. "Jehovah of the Thunders, Lord God of Battles, don't let that sun rise! Have pity; destroy the earth, hurl us away into the night, but don't let the sun rise upon Margaret's death—the end of human liberty, and all the glory of manhood that was England! Oh, stay the sun! Have mercy and stay the sun!"

The trooper knelt down, and, reaching out his arms towards the east, begged the Almighty Father to stay the sun.

Our Lady's voice broke in upon his silence. "Browne," she called, "Browne, come here to me, I need you."

He came, standing at the salute.

"Look to the west," said Margaret. "The light is growing—look to the west and tell me—are there any ships?"

He looked into the violet gloom, hung like a funeral curtain over the west, then his arm fell to his side, but he dared not answer.

"The armistice," said Margaret, "ends when the sun comes up—the three days' armistice—they would not give me more. Not just in the west, Browne," said our Lady, gently, "a little to the southward, look again. Lyonesse is a little south of west, above the copper beech tree down in the garden."

But still Browne answered nothing.

"Are you short-sighted, Browne?" asked Margaret, patiently, knowing that he was noted for long sight. "Or is the sky still dark over to westward?"

But he answered nothing.

"Or are you crying, Browne?"

The man threw himself suddenly at her feet and there lay until the dawn light found our Lady's face.

"If it were all to do again," she said; "and I knew what must come, seeing the future clearer than the past, and judging as God judges even to the end of Destiny—I wonder—should I have let my country be betrayed? Vassalage to Russia! No, I think not. Ulster betrayed me, and in that treason was the seed of all. Now we must reap where Ulster sowed the seed. I could not keep back the harvest, nor can we stop the sun from rising. It is not the rising of the sun which gives the signal to the Russian Fleet. The sun stands still in heaven—it is the earth that sets—man's world going down into this vassalage, into this Russian night.

"They wanted me to surrender, to lay down my arms, my crown, my kingdom, my religion; my Ministers and my Generals, all with one voice begged me to save my people, by surrender. They asked me to make my people subjects of Russia—they called that serving my people! I would rather they died free, and took their freedom into the life to come, going to their Master rich with honour—and not afterwards beggarly, and ashamed, whining like slaves.

"There is the Siberian Fleet," Margaret was gazing upwards at the vast line of battle in the eastern sky. "When the sun reddens their wings, they will destroy my fortresses, murder my people, make the Thames run blood. My place is with my people—I am their Queen, and still I shall labour for them, pray for them in that other world, leading my spirit people, my free people. Then I shall leave no children on this earth borne of my shame, descended from British Kings to be vassals of Russia.

"But, oh, if only my people might be saved! Stand up again! Stand up—the sun is reddening the Russian Fleet. Stand up—look to the west—there must be ships in the west—his ships from Lyonesse! No ships! Still no ships! Let us go down and take our horses out; I shall die with my Guard to-day! I shall ride with my Guard, Beyond!"

* * * * *

"Fours right! Left wheel—by y'r left, march! Carry ar-r-r-ms!"

The old avenue lay ahead of us, the Mall, and as we rode out slowly past the Victoria Monument, our Lady looked back, once, lifting her hand in farewell—perhaps to Miss Temple on some balcony. Our wounded were with us, all who could keep the saddle, and Lancaster, still very weak, carried the Guidon of the Regiment. The early sunlight, dappled through green leaves, caught gold and scarlet, silver and blazonry; our horses played like great babies because of the dewy freshness in the air; and so we broke to a trot, every man with his eyes set straight to the front, his hand gently on the curb, his thoughts—so far away!

All round the white horizon, guns of position thundered, shells burst, and spluttering rifles kept up the long monotony of battle, white dust went up, and rolling smoke, flame, and the souls of men.

A shell burst close beside us as we swung through St. James' Palace into Pall Mall, another, as we entered Waterloo Place, struck the Crimean Monument just ahead; but we breasted the hill in lower Regent Street between dead shuttered buildings all asleep, as though it were Sunday morning in times of peace.

We crossed the circus set round with familiar theatres, and hotels, their porches still bearing torn playbills on the columns, their cornices and domes just caught by the morning light.

A falling shell scattered the rear ranks and burst. Ambrose was killed, O'Hagan wounded, Joubert, the Transvaaller, was unhorsed. Drawing his sword, he saluted her Majesty, then set the point to his neck, drove the blade home, and fell. We rode on through the Quadrant, entering Regent Street.

We were a troop of cowards, ashen white and shaken, ready to run if a dog barked. The hot blood tingling in our veins, young strength, the desires of manhood, all the powers of nature cried out within us demanding life. Why should we die!

The elder empires died, and England's time was come. She should fall gloriously as became her life, still great, still mighty, before age sapped her strength, before decay rotted her honour. Nations born of her loins should pass her freedom on to distant ages, and teach their royal posterity of peoples the discipline and speech of the English race.

Our part was not in her death but in the living future—why should we die?

But Margaret led us on.

The sparrows fluttered about our horses' feet, a mist rose on the pavement, and above, the warm light glowed on the high pavilions, colonnades, and roofs crowning the cliff-like walls on either hand.

How empty the street was! Grave bronze statues looked down as we rode by, there were the sparrows fluttering, a cyclist was coming up behind, and an old woman venturing across our front, very much frightened at our trampling.

In an instant all was changed. A cluster of cars came whirling down from the north, killing the woman under their ruthless wheels, and as they passed, the occupants yelled and beckoned. The cyclist had come up abreast shouting to her Majesty some message from the Palace, but we could not listen.

A man came running out of Oxford Street, then three others and a score behind him, as a shell struck the ground in front of that first man. We saw him shrink away looking back, then fearing the shell less, try to jump clear of it. The shell burst flinging his body against a lamp-post, but the other men came on at the head of a roaring crowd blocking the thoroughfare from wall to wall. There were soldiers among them, their rifles thrown away, civilians mad with fright trampling down the weak, cars rocking from side to side as their wheels rolled over the fallen, police carried helpless in the flood. Fresh crowds poured out from byways on the right, and the main tide of panic came roaring down. We galloped into line to beat the crowd back, yelled to the police to help us with barricades, but all these men were changed to beasts in their terror, shells burst in their midst, and the great rush swept us away.

We rallied about our Lady gradually, cut through the tide and reformed in Conduit Street. On our west lay the ruins of Mayfair, on our east the ruins of Soho, and between no human power could stem that cataract of headlong maniac flight. A shell burst on a roof above our heads scattering ruins of brick-work in our midst; so, sorely reduced and driven from our shelter, we kept together as best we might through street after street on fire, and alleys blocked with men.

The smoke hung like a canopy above, and ashes fell like snow through the red gloom. Poisonous vapours spread from bursting shells, low on the ground but rising inch by inch until with taut rein we held up our horses' heads, and swaths of people, strangled by that mist, perished around us. Our way was barred by falling masonry, by sheets of flame; then we were lost in the darkness all alone, and turning a corner found ourselves in the Mall.

So Russia dealt with our defenceless crowds, murdering in cold blood from the decks of her battleships. The Grand Duke Alexander was in command, and thus he came to pay his court to the Queen.

Slowly we rode along the avenue, thirty-eight left of us out of all the Guard. And having seen so many kinds of death, we were fastidious, not caring to fight our own poor countrymen, or to be any longer jostled through the streets, or butchered by the Russians without a blow returned. Our Lady suggested that we should ride out to the southern lines, but we demurred, having an easy tolerance rather than respect for the French. Neither would she enter the Palace lest the sick and the wounded be disturbed in their beds. It was better to wait in the open. As to our horses we unsaddled the dear beasts for the last time, and because there was no need for them to die—since they had done no wrong—we turned them into the Green Park.

Our Lady sat upon the base of the Victoria Monument, and we, drawing away to a little distance, tried to be quiet lest we intrude upon her thoughts. But we could not help looking to see that she was safe, to behold her face, perhaps for the last time, or wonder if we might make her seat more comfortable. Then Lancaster whispered that she must be lonely, thinking herself deserted. So one by one with awkward pretences, we came about the balustrade where she sat, attempted to make conversation, to tell her stories, trying to win her laughter for the last time. They were such tame stories, fell so flat, and none of us could remember which she would like best. At last we made fat Branscombe sing—he had led the Palace choir.

"Abide with me, fast falls the eventide,
The darkness deepens, Lord with me abide,
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, Lord abide with me.

"Swift to its close, ebbs out life's little day,
Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away——"