The mother of Parliaments was in session, that venerable and most majestic court which struck the fetters from our slavery and made us free. Here was the serfcreated citizen, here we gained liberty of Faith, freedom of utterance, freedom of education, freedom of commerce. And here Brand cut the last shackle of all our chains, and gave us the free finance.
There is no need to repeat his words. He had mankind for audience, and those words will never be forgotten.
Consider, then, what he did:
He moved to save the Empire from Ulster's treason.
For the confounding of the Leagued Nations, and to take our enemies at unawares, he hastened the fall of gold.
To be exact, at three days' notice, he offered ounce ingots of fine gold at a penny each to be sold by the Bank of Lyonesse in every large town throughout the world.
He promised to accept British money at full value, giving in exchange the Labour currency as used in America and at Lyonesse.
This Labour money may be defined as a currency based on the security of public lands, all value of land being created to the labours of the community. With the increase of public revenues from State land, the taxes are gradually remitted.
Mr. Brand further opened two thousand shops in the Kingdom where food was offered for Lyonesse currency.
And to strengthen the credit of his enemies in power, he gave us his private estates, worth more than three hundred million pounds.
A sound swept through the chamber like a sob, as the great merchant received from an attendant a roll of parchment, and in silence bent down laying the gift at the feet of his hearers.
"It is the beginning," he said.
He was standing before a single rail of brass, the Bar of the Commons. In front of him extended the open gangway to the table bearing the mace, and above sat the Speaker in his chair of office. On either side rose the close-packed benches back to the walls, aloft were the crowded galleries.
The wavering factions were won for Lyonesse, the Labour party waited exultant, and a division then would have wrecked the administration, saved the Empire. Still the hard-stricken Ministers were silent, and all men in strained attention, breathing deep, fastened keen eyes upon the American's face.
"Let no man blame me for the Fall of Gold. Through the treachery of one of my servants the monopoly has fallen from my hands, the barriers are shattered, and the world goes on. We are in the presence of forces irresistible, powers beyond control. Against this hour of danger I have provided money, credit, food to strengthen the hands of the Government, to sustain the life of the Empire.
"But I must warn you, and beg you to hear my warning, that any attempt to withhold these things from the people will result in overwhelming disaster."
Then in an awful silence the leader of the Government rose from his place upon the Treasury bench.
"Do we understand, Mr. Speaker," he said, angrily, "that Mr. Brand threatens the Imperial Government?"
"No," answered Brand; "I warn."
Sir Jonas Mempes raised his hand, stilling the disquietude of the House.
"Mr. Speaker," he turned to address the chair. "We are warned, sir, by this gentleman that he is about to debase and degrade the coinage which bears the image and superscription of her Imperial Majesty, and which also bears a statement of value to which is pledged the good faith of this Government. The Queen and her lieges are invited to assuage their defaulted honour with a currency bearing the countenance and superscription of Mr. John Brand.
"Whose is this image and superscription? That of Mr. John Brand, citizen and merchant. Render, therefore, unto Mr. John Brand the things which belong to Caesar!
"I do not deny, sir, the undoubted right of any citizen and merchant to sell fine gold, or to issue promises to pay, whether stamped upon metal or paper, or the skins of beasts. But if we find such commerce doing treason to the sovereignty of our Lady, the Queen, with dishonour and ruin to her lieges, I claim that this Parliament has the higher undoubted right of restraining that commerce by force.
"I will render to Margaret, Queen and Empress, the things which belong to my sovereign, but this august commonwealth of nations, this British Empire is not to be ruled by any broker of money, or any merchant of gold.
"Sir, I understand that Mr. Brand warns us that he is about to seize control of the public moneys. Now, the whole function of Government consists in the maintenance of public credit, the collection of revenues, and the application of funds to the uses of the community. Such function, vested once in the singular puissance of kings, has become the heritage of the electorate, the Divine right of the people. The maintenance of that right unimpaired either by kings, armies, traitors, or mobs is the special and peculiar function of the House of Commons. To interfere with, or to threaten that right is felony. Mr. Brand is either our King, or he is accused out of his own mouth of high treason.
"Sir, it is within the constitutional rights of the House to authorise the Speaker in the committal of Mr. Brand to the Clock Tower, but I submit that this gentleman is here of his own free will, and stands with his rights untarnished as in some sort our guest.
"Again, the House of Commons may take legal proceedings through the Attorney-General, but I submit, sir, that this is a case in which the whole Parliament must as one man confound a perilous conspiracy, or be lacking in its duty to mankind."
The sullen mutterings of the Opposition had grown now to a roar which drowned the Speaker's voice.
"I observe," said Sir Jonas at last, "that Mr. Brand is still present as a guest of the House."
Loud shouts rang out from beneath the galleries, members started to their feet.
"Order!" cried the Speaker. "Order! Sergeant-at-Arms, conduct Mr. Brand to the doors!"
Then far above the tumult and confusion of the House, the voice of Sir Jonas Mempes rang out his challenge.
"On behalf of the Government, I beg leave, Mr. Speaker, to give notice of a bill attainting Mr. John Brand of High Treason!"
* * * * * *
Slowly the American walked, attended by the officers of the House, across the deserted lobby, along the empty corridor, then into Westminster Hall, and down the broad stairway, until the tumult died away in the far distance, till only the stone flags answered to his tread, and the walls echoed. His way was lined with statues, pale ghostly effigies of Kings and Statesmen, their triumphs all forgotten, their griefs assuaged, their sins, their penances, their burning passions stilled. Many of these had been arraigned, attainted, slain, or fretted themselves to death, or died in harness, builders of England, architects of her Freedom, forerunners of her Peace.
So he came to the doors and passed out into the sweet air of the evening, refreshed and humbled. Perhaps, in his zeal for the Queen, he had dealt rather too abruptly with the Commons.
This man was but thirty years old. With reverend age such as ours, and our maturer wisdom, he would not have dared to mount that perilous Chariot of the Sun, or threatened senates, or laid impatient hands on grave affairs. It was not his fault that we were falling into Russian vassalage, or that his disloyal servant shattered the standard of gold; he lacked the benefit of our sage advice, and if he greatly dared, he suffered for his audacity in trying to rescue the Empire by affronting the Commons.
Some day his statue will be joined to that white avenue of the mighty dead who set the landmarks on the way of life. That night, whatever its cost to the master of Lyonesse, we entered the region of Etheric Power, and the beginning of a more spacious age. For so rolls the ordered motion of our race from height to height up the great way towards Heaven. The fences are breaking down, the barriers are conquered, and our horizon broadens as we climb. We hope that the walls of Time and Space shall melt, the skies be torn asunder like a scroll, and when we win to the last heights of human destiny, we shall stand upon white summits, we shall behold the Infinite.
Rose flush of evening on the Abbey spires, cool bloom of dusk on that long range of palaces housing the departments of State, violet splendour of countless lamps, and Whitehall seething with traffic, so Brand saw Westminster on that last day of peace. Quiet in mind, a little tired, he strolled up Whitehall, taking the western pavement, touching his hat when men saluted him. He thought of Margaret, the Queen, and the memory of her face was very pleasant. He had just passed the narrow entry of Downing Street when he heard a sudden sharp fusillade of gunshots, and looking back noticed the instant gathering of a crowd. He went on very anxious at heart, thinking of Sydney. He was abreast of the old Admiralty porch when he heard behind him the clatter of a horse charging up the street at full gallop. He paused, turned, went out upon the causeway, and stood waiting full in the lamplight. The horse, coal black, came tearing down upon him, the rider, a gentleman of the Guard, his helmet and armour shining like Sirius, greeting him with a shout of recognition, waving something in the air, a package of documents, the Russian papers! The black horse reared to the bit, the rider sprang from the saddle.
"Well met," he cried; "Mr. Brand, these are from Trooper Sydney. Take my horse, escape!"
Brand took the package of papers, which reeked of blood.
"Is he dead?"
"Captured, sir, and Colonel Anderson shot. I'm going to join Lord Sydney!"
"Tell me your name."
"Browne."
The trooper glanced towards the advancing police.
"Mount, sir. Ride for your life!"
Brand swung to the saddle. "Where's the Queen?" he asked.
"At the Opera." The trooper snatched a white glove from his helmet. "Send this to our Lady."
"Thank you," said Brand, "I'll tell her how you served." And so broke away at a gallop.
The trooper, drawing his sword, turned upon the police, and delayed them with the formalities of his surrender.
If Brand knew that his formal attainder was pending in the Commons, he did not know that the Chancellor had ordered his summary arrest.
The horse carried him to the Opera House, and from the portico he found his way up the main stairway into the foyer. There, at the ante-room of the royal box, an equerry was in attendance who conveyed his word to her Majesty.
"A Queen's messenger desires audience, and sends this white glove as a token."
Police officers had entered the box office below; Brand heard them on the stairs; and orders were shouted in the very foyer before the equerry returned.
"For the Queen's sake," he begged, "be quick!"
"Her Majesty will grant you audience."
Brand dashed past him into the ante-room. "Now," he said, "guard that door."
He found himself alone in a small, dark chamber, the very walls trembling with the crash of triumphal music, and loud voices from the corridor behind were already demanding admission. Then curtains were drawn asunder, and Margaret herself stood in the opening, against the glare of the auditorium, a glory of light shining as a halo about her, kindling the diamonds of her tiara. Her face was in shadow, her eyes big and dark as they searched the gloom of the place, until they fastened upon him.
"Mr. Brand? How dare you! You a Queen's messenger?"
With a gesture of rage, Brand flung the Russian papers upon the table between them.
"By right of blood!" he answered. "In the attempt to bring those papers to you, Colonel Anderson gave his life, Lord Sydney and Trooper Browne their liberty—and I am Queen's messenger in their place."
Margaret, with trembling hands, turned on the lights, and, moved by an impulse of horror, shrank back from the blood-stained papers; then, startled by a noise in the corridors—
"What's that?" she cried.
"Don't be frightened," he answered quietly. "It's only the police."
"What do they want?"
"Only me, don't trouble yourself. Here,"—he took the Russian papers, and wrenched off the blood-stained cover—"read," he said sternly.
Wonderstruck at his daring, confused by the glitter of his eyes, humbled by the prescience of some great calamity, Margaret sank down into a chair, while Brand spread the papers before her. She was dazed at first, understanding nothing of what she read. Presently she became absorbed, scanning page after page in feverish eagerness. Then, in deadly rage thrusting the papers aside, she rose confronting Brand.
"You accused our Chancellor, you slandered him, you insulted your sovereign with falsehoods about our administration, you were expelled from our palace in disgrace." She clutched her throat, hardly able to speak. "And you come back—with these—infamous slanders!"
"I have come back, woman, with the proofs for which Colonel Anderson gave his life-blood and two gallant gentlemen their liberty."
"But you have accused our Chancellor!"
"Not I." Brand pointed downwards at the papers. "These in his own hand accuse the man who has sold your honour."
"My honour? You mention my honour? Understand this, and tell all who care to hear, that it has pleased us to take for our Consort His Imperial Highness, the Grand Duke Alexander of Russia, whose sword will deal with questions concerning our honour. Now go!"
Brand bent forward across the table and stared into the Queen's eyes.
"I go," he said, "to Sydney and Browne in prison, and on to Colonel Anderson in Hades, bearing the Queen's message that by her orders, Ulster betrayed the Formula of the Fleets."
"The Formula of the Fleets? What do you mean?"
"I mean that if you are moved neither by absolute proof of Ulster's treason, nor by the blood of your servants, then you are partner with him, you share his guilt, for you betray your people."
Then Margaret quailed before his eyes, shrank back from him and turned away her face.
"Oh, I can't, I can't!" She looked up at him, convulsed with terror, her arms thrust out in protest. "I can't believe. He couldn't betray me like that! Betrayed! Betrayed!"
"Yes," answered Brand; "betrayed."
"But the Formula of the Fleets? Prove your words. On your peril prove everything you say—who charges our Chancellor with divulging the Formula of the Fleets?"
"His own son brings the charge. I have Lord Sydney's word."
"Lord Sydney's word! And that is more than proof. But how shall I know that you come from Sydney?"
"That glove!" said Brand. "How else should I have that glove?"
"And yet!" Margaret wrenched a letter from within her dress. "Since yesterday I have kept this with me to read, to study." There was hope in her voice, a flash in her eyes again. "You wrote this to the Chancellor. How can you speak of treason; you, who wrote this?" She flung the letter across the table. "Read!"
"My letter to the Chancellor? Why, this. My letter was short—that's not my signature!" He held the paper against the light. "The paper—how does it come to bear this water-mark, the Imperial cypher, 'M.R.I.'? The water-mark in mine is 'Lyonesse.' Is Lord Ulster insane? Does he suppose that I—a business man, would send such a letter as that, and keep no certified copy?" He opened his pocket-book, and produced a copy sworn before witnesses. "Let these be compared!"
Intently Margaret studied both the water-marks, and the texts of these two documents. Then, without a word, crossed to an armchair over against the curtains, and there lay back with closed eyes, thinking.
"Mr. Brand," she said at last, wearily, "you and my Chancellor charge one another with treason. You spoke of Sydney—what part has he in it?"
"He came to me," Brand answered, "a month ago, gave me these papers, begged me to save the Queen, and delivered his own father into my hands for punishment."
"Go on."
"Without any proofs against him, I had to attack the Chancellor at once. There was no time to lose. Without any proofs, I attempted yesterday to warn the Queen of her peril, and was driven out from her presence. Without any proofs, I was compelled to-night to face the House of Commons. A Bill is being passed attainting me of High Treason."
"How did you get back these papers?"
"Yesterday Lord Sydney begged the Queen to sign an order commanding Colonel Anderson to obey him."
With a little startled movement, Margaret looked up.
"How did you know that?"
"I sent Lord Sydney."
"Proof upon proof," she muttered. "Please go on."
"By the Queen's command, Colonel Anderson stole these papers from the Chancellor's office. He was shot down, Sydney was captured, Browne surrendered. By accident the message passed to me."
"And the police are waiting outside that door for you?"
"I am an outlaw," Brand laughed, "and here in sanctuary."
For a long time her Majesty remained silent, while the ante-room shook with the tremor of music, and the glow from the stage shone softly between the curtains.
The performance was an oratorio based by Mr. Stevenson upon the Divine Comedy of Dante, but in accordance with a usage still new in 1980 both vocalists and chorus stood in the wings of the proscenium, supported by the orchestra, and a concealed cathedral organ. For the oratorio was rendered in the music of colour upon a screen, and Stevenson's "Inferno" is notable for the dim, awful beauty of its opening numbers, and for passages of terrible splendour. For an hour there was no word spoken in the ante-room, while the light changed and glowed between the curtains, and the great chorus swelled and rolled from the proscenium.
At last, with a little sigh, Margaret looked up. "Tell me, Mr. Brand, what shall I do?"
"Who am I," said Brand, with reverence, "that I should dare give counsel to the Queen?"
"At the risk of your life you came to warn me."
"That the Chancellor has committed treason; that I am a rebel in open revolt, that war has been waged to-night, blood has been shed. This very house is guarded by my yacht."
Margaret was silent.
"How shall I dare advise the Queen?" said Brand. "I have come to offer my life and all the strength of Lyonesse to defend my sovereign and my adopted country. I dare not advise, but weigh the facts, Queen Margaret, and let me hold the scales. As head of the State you must decide for England. There is no compromise, no middle way. Denounce the Chancellor of Treason, or commit me a rebel to prison."
Margaret leaned forward, her hands resting upon the arms of the chair, her eyes full of wonder.
"And you will submit?"
"Am I not the Queen's servant?"
"But they'll kill you."
"Should I care to live?"
His manner was changed, the roughness was all gone, as after a storm the ocean is at rest, deep, quiet, fathomless. His eyes seemed to smile, and his voice was low and reverent.
"Perhaps I am wrong, but I should not live to see this country a vassal of Russia. My people at Lyonesse and I have always worked for England, and we all have a certain pride in working well. Set that aside, my life is not the weight in either scale of the Queen's judgment. Who will serve England best, Ulster or Brand, the traitor or—the rebel?"
"What if I refuse," said the Queen, proudly, "to treat you as a rebel? What if I, the Queen, share the guilt of rebellion with you, and place myself at the head of this revolt?"
"There will be civil war," Brand answered coldly, dispassionately, "the most terrible war in all the annals of the world."
From Margaret's neck there hung a cross of diamonds, a thing of pitiless white splendour. The Queen pressed the sharp stones of it against her forehead.
"You," she said, "are ready to die for England, and I—and I—and I have sold my body to this Alexander of Russia. Death would be such a little thing compared with that. If you give yourself up, and I give myself up, there'll be no civil war."
"There'll be no war," he answered thoughtfully. "No war if the people accept the shame of peace."
"They will think as we do," said the Queen. "The men like you, the women like me. The same blood runs in them—and they'd cry out for war." Margaret laughed nervously, and dropping the cross, bent forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her face in her hands. "To think for the people—to live for the people, I was drilled to that, to be married for the people with a thing that one could not touch with the end of a glove. Ugh!" She shivered. "For the people, and I hate them! Yes, hate them. I wouldn't mind dying for them, but to live for them like that is horrible!
"I shall never forget that night when mother told me. Nobody will ever know what she suffered bravely, quietly, hopelessly, wearing what she called her crown of thorns. And then one night she took me on her knee—a poor, little, scraggy thing I was, all arms and legs. How she cried—and I was crying too. She told me that after her I must be brave and wear the crown of thorns, and I nearly cried my head off. Yes"—Margaret's voice broke with a little whimper—"and I didn't know then all that it meant."
She brushed away a tear with her gloved hand, then looked up.
"I wonder," she said abruptly, "why I told you—you of all men. Forget what I said, do you hear?—forget that I whined like a sick child—forget, I say! No, don't speak to me." Then in low, awed tones, "I've got to think for the people." The horror rushed in upon her senses, and feeling as one does in the presence of the dead, in overwhelming sorrow: "I am the Queen," she said, "and I must hold the scales, must judge for the people. I can't, I daren't. Oh, what am I that I should judge for the people? A little while ago I was playing with dolls, on Monday rode with my Guard, on Tuesday danced, and to-day I have to judge between you and Ulster, between life and death, between war and peace!"
But to Brand it seemed a dispensation of heaven that the fate of mankind was not at the mercy either of a treacherous politician, or of a master of industry, stained with the vices of the world, blunted and brutalized by lifelong struggle. This child, in her innocence and her purity, could only see the great plain issue between right and wrong.
Margaret looked up into his face. "And I must make up my mind?" she asked.
The whole fate of the world hung in the balance, and he answered gently—
"Yes."
A burst of triumphant music filled the theatre, and then the clatter of applause, and, in the silence afterwards, from some far distance of the streets, a sound, a confused murmur growing to a dull, ominous roar.
"Hark," whispered the Queen, "what is that?"
And Brand answered, "That is the beginning of the storm."
A hum of conversation in the house drowned out the sound, the auditorium was flooded with electric light, men moved from their places to rest in the interlude, and standing at the curtains Brand looked down out upon the golden tiers garlanded with roses, and throngs of women waving their slow fans.
Outside in the streets men were shouting, but he could not hear what they cried, amid the gusts and eddies of the gathering uproar. A crowd had surrounded the building now, turbulent, yelling. Gentlemen from the audience who had strolled out to the stairways returned to the tiers with blanched faces. Some bade their women put on their cloaks to leave, many brought newspapers, and were assailed with questioning. The tidings of the night spread on from tier to tier, an orator began shouting from the gallery and had to be removed; even in the grand tier a woman screamed.
In haste the management had the lights turned down while organ, orchestra and chorus took up the measure of the oratorio, but not even the seven Hells of Dante could still that audience, or drown the sullen, vengeful roar of the crowds outside. Many who tried to leave the theatre came back unable to face the tumult of the streets. The management began cautiously to withdraw the audience by way of the iron doors and the stage, while the performance dragged on amid tumult and growing panic.
Only once in that hour Margaret spoke. "Are you not afraid?"
Brand smiled and shook his head. "Not even a little."
"I see the Queen's face," he said, "I hear the Queen's voice, and my world has narrowed down to these four walls. Presently the Chancellor will come, and the Queen will give her judgment." He laughed a little, looking down at her from his place by the curtains. "Outside these walls of life there is another broader world than this. The storm has broken here, there are no storms yonder, in that other broader world where we shall serve. Here you are the mightiest of all earthly sovereigns, and I your servant ready when you need me. But there we shall have hands to grasp the stars, feet to tread the orbit of the sun, and greater strength to serve for greater ends. You hold life in your right hand, death in your left hand, Margaret, and presently you will judge whether I serve weakly here, or strongly in the hereafter. Why should I be afraid?"
"You've given me back my courage," said Margaret, humbly. "I shall not be afraid."
It was then that the equerry came announcing the Chancellor and two Ministers of State who desired audience.
"Let them come," said Margaret, and when the doors had closed, she told Mr. Brand to wait in the royal box. "Leave me," she said, and with a smile held out her hand to him. "Whether it is life, Mr. Brand, or death, you will know that I tried to do right?"
"I am your servant," he answered, "in life or death," and bending down he kissed our Lady's hand.
Margaret was alone when Ulster came, standing before the table, while all about the small, dark, silent room swept the roar of the great panic. The two Ministers bowed low as they entered her presence, but her eyes were upon the Chancellor, so, instead of bending his head, he looked at her wondering, and laid a roll of parchment upon the table. Then he drew back from before her stare, and bowed profoundly.
"Your Majesty," he muttered.
"You may speak."
Before her staring eyes the Chancellor stammered, "My colleagues and I—and I have begged this audience, madam, on business of most desperate urgency."
"What is this business?"
"It is the will of the Parliament that Mr. John Brand be attainted of treason felony. A Bill has been passed, and requires only the royal fiat.La Reine le veult?"
"My Lords," the Queen spoke slowly, monotonously, staring all the time into the Chancellor's eyes; "I send this matter back to an Imperial Parliament which has had no time to think."
"Is it possible," cried the Chancellor, indignant, "that your Majesty sets the whole Empire at defiance?"
"Is that a threat?"
"No threat," he answered, furiously; "but a reminder that the Royal Prerogative fell on the scaffold of King Charles the First. Under the guidance of her Ministers, the Queen will not expose herself to deposition."
"My Lords,"—her Majesty turned upon the attendant Ministers—"you have heard me say that this Bill concerning Mr. Brand must be again considered before we make it an Act of Parliament. You have heard my Chancellor threaten deposition, even death, as though the Queen could be bullied with the blustering of so pitiful a coward. As a woman I demand your protection from this man, as your Sovereign we command you to obey."
The Chancellor tried to interfere.
"Silence," cried Margaret. "Silence! I, the Queen, am speaking, and I, not the Parliament, am England. My Lords, I charge this man, my subject, with being a paid spy and agent of Russia. He has attempted to imprison Mr. Brand because he is loyal and has come to my defence. He has betrayed the Formula of my Fleets. I command you to seize the Duke of Ulster, and to hold him as my prisoner. You shall disobey me at your peril. Arrest that man!"
But these Ministers, supposing Margaret to be insane, backed slowly out from her presence.
We have been slow to anger with our kings, grateful if they were not altogether bad, tolerant through much evil. One very shifty exponent of Heaven's grace we killed, but, indeed, we were sorry afterwards, made him a statue, mourned for him, dubbed him the Martyr, and set up the son in his place, who was seven times worse.
And even when we, the Democracy, took the burden of Government on ourselves we did not grudge our allegiance, supplies, apparel, and dignity of state to the princes of Britain. English or foreign, good, or bad, or infamous, we loved them as much as ever. We were not unmindful of the leaders who fought and bled for England long ago, but rather we upheld in gratitude and loving memory the ancient symbols of dead power. Crown, sceptre, throne, were reverenced on bended knees, by a people who, being kings, had become regal, both in might and in their courtesy.
There cannot be two sovereignties in this realm. When her Majesty attempted to wield in very deed the royal power, she found that the iron sceptre of her fathers had withered to a reed, and in her hands broke. She was no longer Queen.
At midnight Parliament knew nothing of Ulster's treason, knew nothing of Brand's purport to strike the Leagued Powers down before they had time to attack. These lords and gentlemen of the Imperial Council, the Peers, and the Commons, waiting for the Chancellor's return with the royal assent, were loyal men representing the whole federation of the Empire, in honour bound to maintain the sovereignty of the people. But they saw that with the Imperial currency discredited by Brand, and Lyonesse money discredited by Government, the sun would rise upon conditions of general panic.
It was no time for polite remonstrances, threats, or the slow processes of law. Brand had taken sanctuary with the Queen; and in her presence, or in her house, he could not be arrested while she reigned. At all hazards he must be captured, and, if only for that necessity, the Queen who gave him shelter must be deposed.
All the powers of the Imperial Council and the Parliament were instantly called to aid. The new day broke upon an Interregnum with His Grace of Ulster as Lord Protector of the Commonwealth. Margaret was called upon to abdicate, her Palace was invested, and demand made at the gates for delivery of her person.
Brand was attainted, his possessions were sequestrated, a reward offered for his capture. It was made a penal offence to circulate Lyonesse money or to trade in specie. A moratorium accorded grace to debtors. The day was made a Bank Holiday.
But in the main issue the Government failed to effect entry of the Palace, or to procure the body of John Brand.
At midnight Brand's yacht escorted Margaret to her Palace, and neither the Queen nor her servant flinched from the instant necessities of civil war. Indeed, the Duke of Ulster had scarcely reached his office in Downing Street when, like a meteor, theMary Roseswept down out of space and discharged a body of sailors and guardsmen upon the roof of the Chancellory. The building was ransacked from garrets to basement, the safe was broached, its contents secured, and nobody knows to this day how the Chancellor managed to escape.
Brand's people were in the house, and the yacht, with open gangways, lay helpless upon the roof when three electrical aerial destroyers of the Fleet pounced down to effect her capture. She sounded the recall, and gained some precious moments in parley, but still escape was impossible, for the destroyers had every weapon trained at point-blank range. The last men gained their quarters on board, the port clanged home, a bell sounded, and then in haste the destroyers opened fire. To their amazement and horror they saw the yacht for an instant poise in the moonlight, then change as they supposed into a blur of quivering vapour and totally disappear, leaving the shell-struck roof a mass of flames.
Brand said afterwards that guardsmen and sailors alike were seasick as she rose, circled round Buckingham Palace, then flashed down on Holloway Prison. "It was a near thing," he confessed, "and I almost killed one of my engineers. His heart stopped beating and the surgeon had some trouble in pulling him round." There was panic in the courtyard at Holloway, sharp explosions rang out here and there, while some cased ammunition blew the store room to pieces, raining showers of bricks into the courtyard. Despite all resistance, two prisoners were taken from the cells, and like a steel projectile, the yacht flashed homeward, delivering Sydney and Browne upon one of the Palace towers. Brand left the yacht, which drove away some destroyers and poised in the high air on guard. Until dawn, the master was at work in an office set apart for him on the frontage overlooking the Mall.
Since midnight the Palace had been ringing with the noise of preparation for war. A single breath from great artillery would sweep the fairy-fragile walls into white dust, but two hundred gentlemen of the Guard thought otherwise. In the dead of night, transport wagons were taken from the royal garage, and under escort entered the silent metropolis. Warehouses were forced, weapons, provisions and forage were taken in the Queen's name, and the supplies brought back to the Palace. There the tanks were filled, the non-combatants discharged. The outward-facing windows were barricaded to resist musketry, the re-entrants loopholed for machine carbines, the salients turned into bastions commanding the curtains, and each door guarded with a small earthwork.
On the level roof of one of the Palace towers the Queen watched the red dawn break, the red dawn of the Terror. Her ladies had been crying in the bedchamber, and she had cried too. They were all gone now save Miss Temple, the governess, who had been openly mutinous and rude to the Duke of Gloucester, Captain of the Guard. Now the Court Chaplain waited in his vestry not daring to proceed with the early service, because Miss Temple was in possession of the chapel, where she knelt protesting aloud before the Altar.
The Queen was alone upon her tower, kneeling with her arms thrown out upon the balustrade, watching the red sun light the domes and the spires of the Capital. The sun swung upwards, the little white clouds swept merrily overhead, the Palace resounded with sharp commands, the rolling of gun wheels, and the tramp of men, while sometimes through a momentary silence came the song of the birds and whispering of the trees. Margaret's head fell softly on her arm, and kneeling on the cold, white stones, she slept, and sleeping dreamed that once again she walked amid long aisles of chestnut trees in the garden at Hampton Court. She walked with the gaunt old governess hand in hand, talking of days to come, and the courtly splendour of a stainless reign. Miss Temple was to be Archbishop of Canterbury, the nation was to rest under the ancient shadow of the Holy Church, women were to be forbidden to smoke or ride cycles, bachelors were to be shut out from public office, music halls were to be entirely devoted to the meetings of missionaries. Then Mr. Brand came wandering up the avenue, his yacht at heel like a dog, and he was remarking, with a pleasant smile, that it was all quite simple with etheric power, but would she be pleased to wake up. In vain her protests, for he told her she must wake up, she must, she must wake up.
She did awake with a start to find beside her a tall lad in a canvas suit, grimy from head to foot.
"Oh, Tom," she cried, "go and wash. You, a Prince!" She yawned daintily as she rose to her feet. "You example to the British public! Oh, you disgrace!"
"A nice sort of Queen you make sleeping on the tiles like a cat. But I say, Meg, won't it be fun if they do attack! Gloucester's giving me a machine-gun, north-east salient. Oh, it's glorious!"
"Do be cautious, Tom, you know you're next to the throne."
"Keep the throne to yourself, I don't want it! Tommy of Lancaster with a crown! Bah, it doesn't look good enough. I say, won't you have some food? I'll send my servant up with a tray. You needn't come down; you'd get in our way downstairs."
"I'm very hungry," said the Queen; "but is there any food?"
"Plenty," said the Duke of Lancaster; "I'll send some up. By the way, that man from Lyonesse wants to have audience."
The Queen's face darkened and the young prince laughed.
"Ah, you see through him at last; I'm so glad. Margaret, the regiment hates him. I'll send him up and just you give him fits. If you want him shot give me first chance; now do, Meg. I'd love to riddle a man."
"Go away, go away, Tom, or I'll have you arrested for cheek."
The young prince snatched a kiss, and fled rejoicing.
Troops of the Government had already cinctured the Palace with a cordon of steel; and as the Queen waited scraps of talk came drifting up from the guarded walls, chaff of the besiegers, rallies of the besieged.
Through the dark hours fear had come to Margaret, her thought was haunted by the Master of Lyonesse, her very dreams invaded. The fear was too intangible for control, too great to fight. His presence had driven her to refuge from him on the highest tower, but even here she felt that, far above, his yacht hung on guard in the thin spaces of the air. Again and again she had fought back the tears which would come despite all her courage; but now, conscious that her face was drawn and white, and sorrow stained, and deeply lined, she found herself, woman-like, trying to be neat before the master should see her. In anger and in dread she waited for him at whose word the great world-storm had broken loose to drive her like a withered leaf whither she could not guess and dared not think. He would come with his quaint friendliness, strong and at ease, would sit upon that balustrade and swing his legs like a boy, talking of huge Powers as the counters of his game, though nations reeled under the blows he dealt and millions of men died for the words he spoke. She could hear his tread upon the stairs, could feel his rough presence as he crossed the pavement. She braced herself with an effort to face him, then turned and saw Brand as no one ever did before, haggard and ghastly, utterly broken down. He had come to her in weakness for sympathy, for comfort, and all the fierce, vindictive words which she had prepared for his confusion passed from her mind forgotten.
"It is done," he said faintly; "all done," and at the sound of his voice she shrank away in loathing. "All done,"—he sank down upon a stone seat against the balustrade—"and now the Queen may rest."
She looked across the great town southwards, and from far off came sounds of distant tumult. And then in passionate reproach she echoed—
"Rest? Stand up and see." The words came harsh from her throat. "See what you have done!"
He stood up and his slow glance went outward from sylvan parks and tree-girt palaces to long-drawn lines of bright-hued garden roofs, sky-piercing domes, and sun-gilt monuments, a valley of terraced buildings, stone-clad hills, heights overflowed, and towered heights beyond, suburbs which rivalled Babylon and Rome, and still no visible limits bounded London. Ships beat the clear air with unnumbered wings, yachts from the suburbs, aerial liners home from distant towns, and far above the grim destroyers soared. So fared the illustrious Capital of the world just at the last end of the electric age. The momentary tumult had died away.
"How quiet it is," he said, looking down to the streets; "and all the poor folk must think that the last trumpet has sounded, that this is the Day of Judgment."
"Because of your crime and mine," said the Queen, in bitterness. "Oh, why did I listen to you? Why did I attempt to save myself from the Grand Duke at such a price as this!"
"Do not be angry," he answered, resting his elbows on the balustrade. "The big clouds roll up the sky, there's lightning and thunder, a huge, tremendous roar that makes everybody frightened, the rain splashes down and smokes up, the drenched earth quivers and steams—and then we all feel much better, and the Chariot of the Sun shines high in Heaven."
She turned in coldness from him. "I have seen," she said.
"And I have seen," he answered, wearily. "So Ulster sent his troops to guard the Palace? That was thoughtful of him." He leaned heavily upon the balustrade and turned a wan face, smiling. "I have seen Ulster make me a poor man this morning. He has three hundred million sterling now to help the people through this trouble: he will save me a deal of work. I have seen him capture my transports laden with food, my stores and warehouses of provisions, my two thousand bread shops which were to open this morning. He kindly undertakes the work of feeding eighty million people for me. If a few millions go hungry now is it my fault that I gave, or Ulster's blame that he stole?"
"Only a few millions!" the Queen moaned. "Oh, horrible! horrible! Only a few millions dying of hunger because of your crime and mine."
"Nay," he answered, gently; "because Ulster has taken the food I gave to the people. But for that seizure, no man need have starved. They will understand. All night I have been busy that the world might understand. To the newspapers I have dispatched the story of what I have done. First the people will read Lord Sydney's deposition as to his father's treason, and the papers secured in proof. Then they will read in facsimile those Russian papers, showing in Ulster's writing how he betrayed his country. Next comes the story of my vengeance against a disloyal Government, my gift to a betrayed nation, and finally there is the Queen's own passionate appeal to her people."
Brand laughed a little. "Ulster set a trap, and the jaws have closed not on the Queen, not on the Queen's servant. I think I see Ulster's legs in the trap. What will the people say of this Chancellor who is an agent of Russia, who has divulged the Formula of the Fleets, torn up the British Constitution, and dared to levy war against the Queen's Majesty? By attacking me he has beggared all his capitalists. By seizing my gift he has to feed eighty million of his enemies. I think that Ulster may be safely left to the people."
"But," said the Queen, doubtfully, "the Navy and yonder troops obey the Government."
"From force of habit," Brand laughed easily, "and in the end some will side with the Lord Protector, some with their sovereign. Even if they attack I have but to give one signal to my yacht."
"And the Chancellor is caught in the trap he set for you!" Margaret's voice rang with triumph now, though her eyes were glittering with tears, as turning to Brand she seized him by the hands. "At last I understand, at last I know. Can you forgive me all my doubts? Tell me,"—she seemed to plead for his full confidence—"what shall I do?
"Wait," he said, earnestly. "For time is on the Queen's side, and every day will weaken Ulster's following. The Queen has appealed to her people and they will reply. Wait, the Queen is at war with Ulster, not with the nation, and any movement now means bloodshed. Englishmen are not so easy to rear that we should waste them."
"And we have strength to wait?"
For answer he pointed upwards to the heavens, while the Queen watched him, wondering and afraid.
"There's something supernatural here," she whispered. "Hope has come back to the earth, and only an hour ago I could see nothing but blind destruction. You have faith?"
"Faith?" He bowed his head. "Yes, faith in God most pitiful—faith in my Lady Margaret of England—faith in this country, always very great in moments of danger. We are a masterful race. Even Ulster strikes bravely in his peril, strikes out like a man and fights hard. It has given me a new faith in Englishmen to find him such a strong enemy."
The Queen looked down at the long lines of the investing troops, and the midsummer sun shone on her wavy hair. The face of Margaret at rest was surely the saddest face in all the world. Her loathing and terror of the man was gone for ever.
"We must not think," said Brand, "that Ulster is beaten yet. I feel that he has other weapons, other resources; I cannot guess where the next blow will fall, but he strikes hard, with rare confidence in his strength."
"Yesterday," she said, and there was a little quiver about her lips, "I was Queen of England."
"And to-morrow," he answered, "you will be Empress of the World."
"And yet," she went on, "I have misgivings—everything changes so quickly that I am bewildered."
"Yesterday I was my own master, at least I thought so; but now——" He looked at the Queen's face and his eyes became very bright. "Ah, yes, it is all written up on the mess-room walls—
'I swearTo reverence the Queen as if she wereMy conscience, and my conscience as the Queen.'
Oh, how the words took hold of me this morning, as I saw them written on the walls."
His face became almost beautiful as he looked at the Queen, he spoke as one inspired, and all his heart went out with the solemn words of the code of honour. He knelt at the Queen's feet, he took the Queen's hands in his, and looking up into her wondering eyes he repeated—
'To love one maiden only, cleave to herAnd worship her with years of noble deedsUntil I win her.'
"Oh, Margaret, Margaret of England, the God I worship gave me etheric power. I thought I was omnipotent, but I made mistakes, terrible blunders, thinking I could do all the work in a week. I was in such a hurry, full of a boy's pride of service, and look at the horrors I have brought upon the world with my rash haste. What is etheric power compared with the power in a woman's eyes? I don't know how it is, but I see everything so clearly now, and all my power is nothing—nothing whatever in the eyes of the Queen. I suppose I must be in love. Am I in love?"
"You mustn't," gasped the Queen, "it's not allowed. The Queen is not allowed to be a woman."
He laughed, kissing her hands as he spoke. "Not if I conquer the world and lay it at the feet of the Queen?"
"I don't know," Margaret smiled sadly. "I must ask my governess, and she will say, there are no precedents in the book of etiquette. We must be good and serve England."
"England!" he cried, gazing into the Queen's eyes. "I love you, England. Isn't that allowed?"
"Not if you put it that way, Mr. Brand. England is not a woman, but a country."
"Bounded on the east by a man's love, and on the west by a man's hope, and on the north by a man's fears, and on the south by a man's faith."
"But that's not geography, Mr. Brand. Please get up."
"I won't unless you promise to let me love England my own way."
"I can't prevent that," said Margaret, smiling.
When Brand made his declaration before the Parliament night had already fallen over Europe, and although it was still broad day in the New World, the banks and exchanges were for the most part closed.
But out beyond the Pacific another dawn had flamed along the Kamschatkan volcanoes, the rose flush glowed upon the snows of Fuji, a land breeze awakened the dreaming Eastern Isles, a level sun flashed diamonds in the surf of the Barrier Reef, and the bells of Australian cities rang their summons to work and prayer. So it was that the world-storm which gathered in Europe, broke first upon that far-off Commonwealth which stands at the gates of the Daybreak.
In Brisbane and Sydney, in Melbourne and Auckland, the people were at their breakfast-tables when the news' telephones rang the first notes of alarm, and spoke of the fall of gold. "Nothing to fear," said the average bread-winner. "Brand guarantees good money."
Next came the news that the master was chargeable with treason.
"Nothing to fear," said the average Australian. "Brand will be in gaol and the old money sound as before."
Prudent men called at the bank to withdraw their deposits. Careful housewives laid in a stock of food. There was a heavy run on all the banks, a sharp rise in the price of provisions, a reluctance to give the usual measure for gold, but still no general panic until noon.
"The Queen joins Lyonesse in open war against the Parliament."
They are of the master race, these Australasians, men who have conquered the deserts, law-loving, self-controlled, cautious, not very easily frightened, ready to lay wagers cheerfully on the issues of life and death. But the bread-winner will fight like a wild beast in defence of his wife and his children. The coinage was discredited, Brand's labour money might become waste paper.
"Get food while money still has power to buy!"
The rich besieged the banks, and prosperous people bought loads of provisions for cash, not caring what they paid. The shops of the butchers, grocers, and bakers were thronged with customers begging to be served. Still there was decency and order, a cheery confidence that the storm would pass, and the taking of heavy odds against Lyonesse.
"Brand's private yacht has defeated three destroyers."
Etheric power! These people had been familiar with Brand's ships for years, bolts of wrought steel, propelled by etheric engines, which could flash through high space at two hundred miles an hour. They were not armed, but suppose that he used them as rams against the fragile, electric battle fleets? Lord Ulster had levied war against etheric power!
Then men went mad. In the rush for food women were crushed to death, and many persons who had secured provisions, were set upon and robbed by criminals. Shops were plundered, armouries were sacked, the police were overwhelmed. Then aerial destroyers fired on the mob.
Sweeping away all values attached to money, with every hour the stress of panic spread. A coinage is only the small change of trade, but with its failure all belief in bonds and promises, all savings, all investments were dishonoured. The rich were bankrupted, the poor thrown out of work, the shops were closed, traffic was suspended, private and public credit alike were shattered. By the third day the Government of the Commonwealth had fallen, and men went armed to guard their families.
At the first motion of the storm, the Australasian bankers sent out their plea for help. The Phillipines and Japan were already appealing, and the cry of the islands awakened Asia. But there was no help. Bravely the Chinese merchants faced the crisis when their time was come, and honourably met their obligations. Malaya awakened, Burmah, India, Persia, Siberia were swept from end to end; and so in the wake of the sun the storm swept on, travelling at a thousand miles an hour, gathering momentum every moment until it fell like the crash of doom along the length of Africa, across the breadth of Europe.
The break of day found Europe under arms, the aerial fleets on patrol, troops holding the towns. The exchanges, banks, and provision stores were attacked, the doors of them sealed and under guard of sentries. No work could be done, no wage could be earned, traffic ceased, the channels of news were closed. The world-storm struck the East with a fever, a raving delirium, the West with paralysis. In Russia, Germany, and France there began from that time a condition of living death, and afterwards in many a muddy street guardsmen who visited Berlin, saw crops of grass.
On that first day the storm went roaring by leaving Europe shaken, and striking the coasts of America in the full height of its fury. However sound its finance, no nation can stand alone, and in the general bankruptcy of all the world, the great Republic fell. They say that the new metropolis on Manhattan Island is even more stupendous than that which was burned, but still in the negro states of the Mississippi, the ploughs are driven through fields of human bones, and some of the Mexican silver mines are walled up for fear of pestilence.
It is curious to remember how quiet was London on that first day of the Terror. Here was the calm tract in the centre and vortex of the cyclone.
Wisely the Parliament had declared a Bank Holiday. Places of business were closed, the traffic had an easy holiday gait, the parks were thronged, and even the public meetings were not stormy.
In the fortified Palace our Lady's servants had time to sleep after a hard night's work. Her Majesty was not seen, Mr. Brand was supposed to be transacting business in his office in the east front. Prince Ali was a prisoner in the guard-room, charged with treason. My Lord Sydney walked in the stable court with Mr. Browne. Some rumours went about that the captain of the Bodyguard, His Royal Highness the Duke of Gloucester, had a letter from the Dictator. Another rumour was spread that nearly all Mr. Brand's ships had been captured. Lying in various cities throughout the world, to receive and discharge their cargo, more than a hundred of these vessels had been arrested on behalf of the Government. Still the yacht,Mary Rose, hung glittering in the heavens like a star, and by aerial telegraph kept the master in contact with affairs.
Late in the afternoon a drenching shower of rain burst over London, with one great ringing peal of thunder.
Miss Temple would have us believe that this was the last trumpet sounding the call to judgment.
The Russian papers were now in all men's hands that they might consider her Majesty's quarrel, also Brand's proposals were known, and how his gift was withheld from reaching the people. And it was well understood that the Parliament, in fighting Brand, had caused all the money in the world to be dishonoured, so that neither the currency of the nations nor that of Lyonesse could be accepted as any measure of value. The leaders of public opinion, journals, clubs, societies, cities, fortresses, and colonies throughout the Empire were hourly declaring for the Queen.
The rich were on the Duke of Ulster's side, scouting the idea that he had betrayed us to Russia. The poor were with the Queen and Lyonesse. On the whole the fleets and armies obeyed the departments as usual; but rather than attack our Lady, or slaughter their countrymen, soldiers and sailors alike were ripe for mutiny.
Ulster was innocent until his guilt was proved; the nation wanted, even for him, fair play, a trial at law. We islanders are slow to kindle, and neither party desired civil war. So the day closed.
But with the second day, all England knew that trial at law was denied us, or even trial by battle. The deadlock remained and was forgotten. For how could any man remember that the Empire was betrayed, or so much as think of internecine war amid that beggary of the human Race? That was not to be salved by public holidays, or cured by politics, or stayed by war. The first necessity of life is food, and a merchant will not part with his good provisions for any quantity of bogus money.
At first we were all quite confused, storming the banking houses, which solemnly dealt out waste coin and waste paper to hungry customers. Or we thought to rescue our invested savings, and our stock-brokers screamed themselves hoarse trying to sell out shares in mines gone bankrupt, or the bonds of governments already fallen. We had nothing to sell but pieces of paper; we got their exact value back in scraps of paper. We began to understand that we were ruined.
There was no money. People came to the railway stations offering jewels or watches to pay their fares out of London. Then the trains stopped running, and they were rich who had yachts or carriages to make their escape to the country. From noon on the second day to the evening of the third, some thirty hours, the main roads were crowded with fugitives, and when some broken carriages blocked the way, the lanes on either side were overrun. Long afterwards the roads to the country were littered with the wreckage of that flight, in wagons overturned, in piles of broken furniture, in baggage thrown away, and household treasures, or here and there some shattered, trampled body of a man.
And the poor remained in London.
Now we had come face to face with the first law, "Adapt yourselves or die." Some of us adapted ourselves to the new conditions, but for those who failed—— A few days later one began to notice a faint, sickly smell in the streets, and when the air was still, a thin, white mist hanging above the roofs. This bred the pestilence. For there was famine such as had never been known in human annals, famine in the midst of a great abundance.
It must not be thought that there was any lack of food either in London or the provinces. Brand had seen to it.
At the beginning many families laid in stores of victuals, filled their water tanks, fortified their homes, and gallantly defended themselves by force of arms. The big employers kept their servants alive by daily issue of rations, and that long after they suspended work. The Government issued free rations for all those who were strong enough to fight their way to the depôts, and get off home again without being killed. The farmers and fishermen brought in supplies which they traded for works of art and precious merchandise, for land and houses. These men became very rich.
There was plenty of food, but after the Government fell three-fifths of the whole supply was lost by pillage and burning. The fire brigade was helpless for lack of water; the police and the troops were withdrawn, dispersed, or massacred.
We were reduced to the strangest shifts and expedients for money. Coins passed according to size and weight, as pence, halfpence and farthings. Thus, four sovereigns made an ounce, or penny, which would buy a small roll of bread. Ounces of tobacco, brass checks representing goods in storage, medals, gems, blankets, were common tokens of barter. A revolver cartridge would buy four ounces of meat.
We lacked one old resource of former troubles—horseflesh. There were a few horses owned by rich men; but motor carriages did all the traction, and one cannot eat dynamos. It was curious, too, that panic of the naturalists concerning the Zoological Gardens. Many of the animals condemned for soup—the lions and tigers, for instance, were the last surviving examples of species and orders now wholly extinct. Thousands of starved Londoners protested concerning the lions—the British Lions.
Twenty years have gone by since then, and God has touched our hair with silver in token of the eternal peace to come. And still in the deeps of the night the memory breaks into our dreams, and lifts us broad awake with a scream of horror. Yet, would we part with that dread remembrance? No, not for worlds!
How sweet it is in memory once again, to walk those old streets of the lost Capital, to see once more the faces of that time, of men brought near to Heaven in their pain, of women glorified by suffering, and little children waiting patiently for the end. We never hoped to live, we rarely cared, for hope was dead in many a smiling face. Fear was dead, too; there was nothing to be afraid of, except life. Men spoke very gently when they met, women would purse their lips and hurry on. One got so used and inured to horrors that the environment of death was no more to be thought of than the air we breathed.
One saw so many deeds of sacrifice, so many saintly and heroic actions, that these made the framework to one's thoughts of life.
So is the memory sweet of those embittered days when, grim confused wars racked all the peoples of the earth; those days of famine, pillage, massacre, of wasting pestilence, and flaming desolation. Heaven and hell were opened, but men looked upward.
On the third day the Primate called the whole nation to fasting, humiliation, and prayer. At St. Paul's Cathedral the Litany was to be read; and when the great bell began to toll his minutes over the Capital our Lady said she would attend that service.
For by this time the press had spoken in no uncertain voice. A newspaper is, indeed, like a lens, a burning glass condensing the thought of the people into one clear flame of utterance.
The clear flame had fallen upon the Lord Protector and his Parliament, the nation waited for the Queen to strike, and she did well to trust the poor who loved her.
So, dressed in deep mourning, and attended only by Miss Temple, our Lady drove out through the gates in an open carriage. She would have no bodyguard, save in the protection of the mob. The troops cheered as they opened their lines for her passage, men came uncovered, and begged leave to draw her carriage, and all through the streets she was guarded by crowds of men with a great deal of noise, but much besides of loving reverence.
An attempt to arrest our Lady would have led to grievous trouble for the Government, for the Dictator's writ had little meaning now, and for the moment it seemed that his rule was come to an end. Without attracting notice, Brand's yacht followed Margaret to St. Paul's.
He sat alone in his office behind the darkened, barricaded windows. A pocket aerograph clicked on the desk before him, message after message flashed down from the yacht by his secretaries, and at times, with the little key throbbing under his finger, he sent instructions back.
Nearly all his ships were captured now, Lyonesse had fallen, and yet he must wait, guarding the sacred person of the Queen until the time was ripe, until the nation called him to strike the Dictator down. He must be ready when the moment came, he must have the full support of the Imperial Fleets, the Armies, the departments, the people's trusted leaders, the functions of the whole administration. The new Government must date from Ulster's fall, leaving no instant of doubt, of anarchy, and, above all, this must be Margaret's Government, no froth upon the waves of revolution. There must be no cry in the streets of Brand's Dictatorship, or any mention of himself at all. His portion was with the ships and factories. But it was hard to wait while his ships were captured, his factories despoiled, his good name marred by this reluctant, torturing, agonizing silence.
He closed the instrument, and lying back in his chair, remained in thought. These three days had sprinkled his hair with silver, aged his strong face, added to the rough power of the man something of majesty, and there came into his eyes a light that had never shown until he knew the Queen. The vision of her arose before him now, her voice seemed to ring through the quiet room, and his heart went out to her in desire.
Who was he that he should dare to love this child of mail-clad Kings, this mighty Empress in whose august name the very skies were governed, and the sea, and realms and continents of men within the limits of the British Peace? He was a commoner, a tradesman, and yet no difference of rank or station, of wealth or power, eminence, faith, enlightenment, has ever set boundaries to human love. 'Tis the man and the woman who mate, not their condition. Had he not seen the evidence of love in Margaret's face? And to win her he must conquer the whole world.
But he was presently aroused from his enchantment. Already some one had knocked at the door unnoticed, and now, while with clasped hands he sat before the table, and with uplifted eyes gazed on his mental vision of the Queen, there was a visitor standing within the room. Dimly aware of some impending peril, Brand turned round to find a stranger bowing apologies, a gentleman in civilian dress, yet wearing a turban of banded green and gold, an Oriental, haughty, yet in some queer way, servile.
"You are Prince Ali?" he asked.
"At your service, yes."
"Escaped from the guard-room?"
Prince Ali put a bolder face on his intrusion, went to a chair by the wall, sat down and crossed his legs.
"Before you ring for my guards," he explained, "I have business with you."
Brand smiled at the man's audacity.
"Of course,"—his Highness lighted a cigarette—"you share our common sorrow at this grave crisis?"
"No, sir, we have nothing in common."
"I observe," the Prince laughed, "that the sea-eagle wastes few regrets over a panic of gulls."
"Am I to be one of your eagles, or one of your gulls, Prince Ali?"
"Of the gulls? No." He shrugged his shoulder. "You are King of the air, as I am of India!"
"I supposed," said Brand, gravely, "that her Majesty was Empress of India."
"Was Empress, yes. I see we understand one another."
"I think, my dear Prince, that I follow your meaning. So India finds her opportunity in this crisis? May I venture to ask if you speak on behalf of Russia?"
"I speak," said the other, haughtily, "for India. I speak for the India which has waited ever since 1857."
"For a repetition of the artillery salutes fired by the British in 1858?"
Ali's face darkened with sudden passion. "Your tact, Mr. Brand, is most English. Yes, I have the honour to speak for the India which has waited since the artillery salutes of 1858."
"And how am I to serve you?"
"I come, Mr. Brand, to the future Dictator of the world, not to ask favours, but to confer them."
"Indeed, you are too kind. Go on, sir."
"I must warn you first that Lyonesse has been captured."
"You don't say so."
"Also that all your ships are taken, save two which are homeward bound, and will be secured on their arrival. Your yacht has gone to the city to guard the ex-Queen. You are helpless in the hands of your enemies. I have come to save you."
"Indeed." Brand reached forward across the desk, and touched an electric bell. "How you escaped from the guard, I don't quite know," he said; "I have rung to inquire."
"Very good," Prince Ali laughed. "I was released and sent here by the Lord Protector's agent, the Duke of Gloucester."
"Really," said Brand, sarcastically; "any further revelations?"
"Yes. The price which Ulster pays for your body, the price he pays to Gloucester, is the throne—the throne of the Empire!"
"Anything more?"
"At all hazards I came to warn you of this trap, and you walk blindly into it. That bell condemns you to death! Quick,"—Prince Ali started to his feet—"there may be time. At the end of this corridor there's a door to the upper terrace—when your yacht comes back you can signal. I can save you yet!"