"Stop," cried our Lady, "I can't bear it, Branscombe!"
Then looking out through the red gloom of that unearthly day, we saw an immense crowd surging down the Mall. At first we thought the people were fugitives, but as they drew nearer, by their torches and weapons, the hags who led them and the song they screamed, "The Marseillaise," we knew them for outlaws and gaol-delivered felons.
Once more it had broken loose, that bloody and horrible beast mob of anarchy and chaos, but now with hands lifted against our Lady's life. Falling back upon the portico of the Palace, she sent a dozen men to barricade the alabaster stairs, and at all costs we must gain them time to do their work lest the Palace be sacked and thousands of our sick murdered in their beds. Her Majesty stood with her back against the fluted shaft of a column, bullets splashing all round her against the marble, while with an imperious gesture she demanded silence.
"Do you want to die?" she cried to the thieves. "The Russians are slaughtering—they are coming here—they may come at any moment. Will you die with me?"
The leaders of the mob drew back amazed, then thrust their spokesman forward, who touched his cap, asking quite respectfully for the treasure in the Palace lest it fall into the hands of the enemy.
"If there's anything left," cried Margaret, "you're welcome. My Guardsmen will bring whatever there is to you here, for I'd rather you shared it than my enemies—on one condition, that you stay here outside. I will not have my hospital disturbed."
"Who brought us to this pass!" screamed a shrill hag. "Kill her! Kill her!"
"We're the people," shouted a man behind the hag. "We'll 'ave our rights!"
"You shall have your rights," said Branscombe, running him through the body.
Then beastly words were used, the man who first had spoken implored her Majesty to escape, lead spattered against the columns, and the mob charged. Driven back step by step, we fought with clubbed carbines, covering her Majesty's retreat. The leaders were felled, the thieves behind them stumbling and pushed forward, went down under the heavy wave of that attack, which hurled us, whether we liked or no, into the Palace. We made a stand behind the main doors, a second stand behind the beginnings of a barricade; and there we opened fire for the first time. Nothing could live before that fusilade, yet the rush drove in through the open doors a writhing mass of frantic, shrieking men, hurled by the pressure of their fellows, screaming for mercy under the very muzzles of our guns. There could be no mercy.
We hardly knew what happened; supposedly some other gate was breached into the Palace, for suddenly a concentrated fire of rifles poured into us from behind. Looking up the stairs, we saw that the guardroom above us was full of rioters, firing down from the side galleries and the stairhead. To stay was to be butchered at the doors, and so we charged the stairs, cleaved our passage through the guardroom, and on the upper stairway, those who were left of us turned again to fight.
A clergyman led the next onrush of the mob, a poor, gaunt curate, unarmed, screaming like a woman.
"Rats—red rats," was his cry. "Away rats—know you not that I am Julius Caesar! Rats! red rats!"
He fell, poor madman, with so many of his fellows that the stairs ran blood, and our assailants, reeling before our fire, made barricades of the dead to fight from cover. Only when we had spent our last cartridge dared they charge again, led now by an old grey fanatic, waving a banner looted from some church, and screaming of Babylon and the Scarlet Woman. A bullet from his following gave him peace.
And then we had only our swords, our good straight swords, making a fence of steel about our Lady's life. Her life? It sounds a little inconsistent, but it was our turn first. We hoped for our Lady a nobler death, in a greater quarrel than this fight with thieves—that is, we ought to have so reasoned had there been time. It is only after the fight that one has leisure to invent all the good reasons. For the time we guarded her Majesty just because we loved her; fought for her, not with reasoning but with sheer hard steel.
The surgeons came with their long knives, and stood with us shoulder to shoulder for the defence of their wards; all sick and wounded men able to stand joined us with crutch or stick to fight for the Queen; the ladies, driven from their nursing, came to die with us, and many a Palace servant and stray civilian. So went the fight reeling along the corridor and into the rooms of state—a long, hard, desperate defence against overwhelming numbers. The horror of that battle was for the sick, thrown over in their cots, the dying trampled under, the helpless nursing sisters, and those of us who fell.
Pretty things have been said about the Guard, but the word "Heroic" is strangely misapplied to us who thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. We were having a good fight, free from all doubts and misgivings; for being to all intents and purposes already dead, we had nothing left to be alarmed about. But her Majesty, covering Trooper Browne when he was hurt, and engaging three assailants to her lone sword—that was heroic.
How that great stormy spirit rose in danger! She had never seemed to us so royal as when, wounded and bleeding, she rallied us in the throne room, looked about her laughing, and said she would not retreat another inch. She mounted the dais, sat in the chair of state, and laying the red sword across her knees, looked down at her enemies.
Tenuous wreaths of smoke hung midway up the columns, and blurred the golden vault. The mob was dispersed after pillage, save for a few maniacs still running on our swords. On every side the floor was covered with long rows of beds, the air was filled with wailing, screams and groans, and through the deep gloom one could see the stunted felons of the slums, cursing and shrieking as they fought over their plunder. Plate, robes, gems, porcelain, bronzes, the gifts of kings, and trophies of great campaigns, were fought for by the rabble, snatched from hand to hand, or shattered on the pavement. Drunk with wine from the cellars, mad with bloodshed, fighting among themselves, murdering at random, these obscene robbers forgot to attack the Guard. We were dressing each other's wounds, rescuing women from outrage, contriving a barricade to shelter our refugees; and in her throne our Lady awaited the end.
We scarcely could see the further columns now, so dense the gloom, so heavy the rolling smoke. Far on our right down the east corridor, bright flames swept nearer and nearer, lighting the hall at last with a crimson glare, and like sunset clouds rolled the red smoke above.
So the end came. We heard a bugle call, clear notes soaring above all the tumult, sweet music for us who waited—the "Advance." We left our work on the barricading about the dais, clasped hands one with another, said "Good-bye." The Russian bugles called; one, then another, and a third far off. Her Majesty cried to her surgeons and able-bodied men to withdraw with the refugees, to hoist a white flag and stand aside from death under the shelter of the colonnades. We forced a swift obedience, we of the Guard.
And coming back we heard our Lady scream! She had half risen, one knee on the seat of the throne, her eyes dilated with horror, set on the east corridor. There under the flames, it seemed from the very midst of the flames, Miss Temple came, walking slowly, as though in a dream. She reached out her arms to us—her hands had been cut off at the wrists—her grey hair streamed with blood, her gown of black brocade was torn away at the breast. As she entered the throne-room the robbers fell shrinking back on either side, opening a lane through the beds to give her passage. Death was in her face, as tenderly we led her to the Queen, and then at Margaret's feet she found rest. Her Majesty was crying.
Saluting the throne as we passed, we formed before the dais, measured each man his distance, and made ready. Lancaster, badly wounded and barely able to stand, planted the Guidon on our Lady's right, our lance-borne pennant charged with the royal arms, half seen through low-rolling flame-hued smoke, glowing with golden and scarlet blazonry.
Already the rioters in their thousands were being swept headlong as though by a whirlwind through the chambers of state, their flight converging in the throne-room, and, for one wild moment threatening to roll insensate over our last defence. Like a rock in mid torrent we split the rush in two, then free to breathe again wiped the blood from our swords and waited. Through the red gloom, we could see battalions of Russian seamen clearing a space with their bayonets on the further side of the hall. Opposite, an Admiral attended by his staff advanced midway to the throne and halted. On either side of this group of officers, the battalions, far back against the columns, halted, grounded arms with a crash, and unfixed bayonets. Their rifles clattered to the "ready," the "present," then with a deafening roar and a blaze of flame, delivered one volley. The floor was littered with the broken cots of the hospitals, with heaps of plunder, and with piles of the dead. We were alone with our enemy, and in a momentary silence heard the sharp crackle of advancing flames, felt the furnace heat, and saw the red glare deepen on drifting wreaths of smoke.
The bugles were sounding the English general salute, and as the Admiral advanced at the head of his staff, we could do no less than respond to that courtesy with our swords. We looked at the Admiral's face, and he was the man we had expelled in disgrace from the Palace, his Imperial Highness the Grand Duke Alexander.
Our Lady never moved, nor would we draw aside one inch to give him passage. Dymoke was facing him on the right, Branscombe on the left, when at last he spoke to the Queen.
"Your Majesty," he said, "I have come to renew my suit, attended by half a million of your devoted admirers."
Our Lady never stirred.
"I might," he continued, "have expected a more courteous reception for the Emperor of All the Russias. Yes, my brother, Nicholas, is with the saints, and I am Father of the Russians. My heroic adversary, I have come to offer you the Russian throne in exchange for the British."
"Sir," said Margaret, "my kingdom is all red flame, my people are the dead, and I will not leave this throne. Of you I can ask nothing for myself, but for my Guardsmen here, and for some poor fugitives yonder—if you have not already murdered them, I ask life."
"Madam," cried Branscombe, "you ask too much! I speak for the whole Corps of the Guard!"
"Death!" cried Lancaster, and Browne called "Death!" and all the rest echoed "Death!" "Death!"
"Your Majesty," said Alexander, "I will provide for the refugees. To these gallant gentlemen I offer commissions in my Imperial Guards; to you, madam, the throne of my Empire and my devoted love."
Margaret looked down straight into his eyes. "You have a strange way, sir, in revealing your love. How many thousands, and hundreds of thousands of my people have you slaughtered this day in cold blood—my helpless citizens, women, little children, the sick in their beds, the wounded, the dying! You drunken libertine, you pitiless coward, you butcher of women, I commend you to the Eternal, the Everlasting Justice. No liberal and justly governed realm was ever abandoned by Almighty God, and to Him I appeal now, to His ordeal of battle."
"At last," cried Dymoke, hoarsely, as drawing off his gauntlet, he struck the Russian Emperor in the face.
"Your Majesty!" Alexander drew back, almost choked with rage. "I shall avenge this outrage!"
"Avenge! Avenge!" cried Dymoke. "I am Hereditary Champion of England. Draw, I say, draw!"
"I do not fight with servants. Stand back, sir!"
"With servants, you cur? My ancestors were Champions of England while yours gnawed horse bones round a camp fire. Draw!"
"Harold Dymoke," said our Lady. "No man shall slight you as my Champion. I dub you knight, I give you the Duchy of Gloucester, I create you a Prince of the United Kingdom. Prince Harold of Gloucester, strike that man again!"
Several Russian officers sprang forward attempting to save their master, who had scarcely time to draw, so swift, so furious the assault. Dymoke disarmed the first, ran the second through, and before he could disengage, was like to be killed when Branscombe intervened. Now fat Branscombe was instructor to the Guard, had once been the first swordsman in Europe, but even he was scarcely safe against six blades at once, and must have fallen, but that Hylton struck in vigorously. Dymoke was with the Emperor now.
The engagement was general and greatly to our liking—twenty-four Queen's Blackguards against fifty Russians. Our middle-aged opponents knew nothing of swordcraft, their tailor's swords buckled, they were laced up in full-dress uniforms. We cut their line of retreat, flicked the swords from their plump fingers, or, point to throat, forced them to surrender. What could they hope against our youth, our perfect training, our deadly skill at fence, our shirts of mail? We knew that their massed battalions dared not fire, the Emperor was dead, the General Staff was captured.
How can one trace a sequence through that wild confusion which followed? Even while we compelled our prisoners on pain of death to retire their battalions from the Palace, we saw the Russian seamen breaking ranks. The captured officers yelled at them in vain, we could gain nothing by killing our hostages, as the seamen rushed on us brandishing their rifles, hundreds to one against our scattered groups. No reach of sword could give us a fighting chance against such bludgeons as the seamen used, nor had we time to rally round the Queen. Taken flank, front, and rear, each for himself, we measured our short blades against the sledgehammer blows, and some of us won back to the steps of the dais—and some to the ranks of the Guard beyond the Gates of Death.
Comparing one with another the memories of that last tremendous struggle for existence, some of us have recalled a series of explosions which made the pavement reel beneath our feet, and more than one of the great onyx columns crash down in ruin on the attacking force. The timbering of the golden dome was all aflame above us littering red-hot wreckage through the smoke. It was a beam of this burning timber which slew Dymoke, and we heard him calling on Sydney before he died.
Some of us also have remembrance that with noble courtesy the disarmed officers of the General Staff were attempting to save us from their men. But, for the writer of this history, one recollection only is engraved forever upon a sorely bewildered brain. It is the picture of our Lady standing before her throne. All round her upon the steps of the dais, the swords of her Guardsmen whispered and sang, red gleaming blades, thrusting or slashing, resonant against dark steel of whistling rifles. Above her the emblazoned Guidon drooped in the coiling vapours, at her feet lay Lancaster, his dead face wonderful in its perfect rest. Her hands were on the hilt of her sword, the cloak was drawn about her, ruddy gold and red streamed her hair in the fierce light. Her face was lifted in prayer, radiant with an unearthly beauty, and fearless, and at peace.
And the fight raged on as though there never could be an end.
How strange the end was! One saw a Russian seaman, his bronzed face glowing with fury, his rifle whirling for the blow—then somehow that rifle was blown to pieces in mid-air; and the bandolier across the man's shoulder changed to a bolt of lightning; and his body dismembered, disrupted, gone. Then one looked out across the hall to find it empty, save for the group of Russian officers—while the floor seemed a sea of blood. A voice cried, "Margaret! Margaret!" We saw a single man, a great, grim, bloodstained man, looming gigantic in the flame-light, come running towards the dais, his arms stretched out; and in a reeling, heaving vault of blood and flame, John Brand lifting the Queen in his arms.
Margaret was saved!
Margaret stirred in her sleep, and with a tremulous sigh wakened. Her fingers touched cool, white linen, creased still where the folds had been, faintly scented from sprays of lavender. She saw one ray of sunlight level through soft gloom, and golden motes danced therein like fairies. Above swung rose-silk curtains swaying ever so gently to a ship's motion, and wonder dawned in her eyes.
Her armour was gone, her dripping sword, the air of flame, the sea of blood, the roar of battle—all gone like a bad dream. She reached out her right hand, and thrust it softly, quivering at the touch, against a man's rough hair.
The man was kneeling by the bed, his face buried in the white coverlet, his dark hair streaked with silver, and his great, strong arms stretched out as though to guard her even in her dreams. Of dull stained gold, was his rough shirt of mail, torn, ragged, bloody; then he lifted his head and she saw the grave majesty of his face. Again her hand went out groping until her uncertain fingers touched him—and he was real!
"The everlasting life," she whispered.
And he answered: "It is everlasting Love." And then the passion leapt into his eyes. "Love me," he cried. "Love me! Love me, Margaret!"
She thrust the palm of her hand against his mouth.
"Afterwards—but this is the Earth, and so I've got to die. Oh save me, Brand," she cried. "I can't die, now! I can't die! How can I die now! And yet—must I not lead my people on the Other Side, ride with my Guard yonder?" Her head fell wearily, and her eyes closed. "It is all well—you were true to me."
He clutched her hand and kissed it passionately. "Margaret! Margaret! You shall not die!"
"The Palace rocks," she muttered, "like a ship. It was only a little wound, but my neck throbs, and with the daybreak—will it hurt much, Brand, will it be worse than a wound, this death?"
"Margaret, you live, England is saved! Don't you hear, Margaret, can't you understand, I have destroyed the Russian Fleet, I have swept away the armies, delivered London, crushed the League! Oh, love me a little, Margaret, just a little. I have waited so long, and fought so hard for love."
"Give me some wine—I can't understand all at once. Give me a little wine."
He brought a glass of wine, and she, sitting up in bed, made him share with her. The level sun rays shining on her face welcomed a delicate flush of her returning strength, and made her hair an aureole of glory. Then, looking full into the light—
"I never thought," said Margaret, reverently, "that I should see the sunset."
"It is the sunrise," he answered.
"The sunrise?"
"Yes."
"Where are we? Not in my Palace?"
"The Palace was burned yesterday. This is your Majesty's flagship, theCoronation," Brand crossed to the open port, and, looking out, "There, is the Strait of Dover," he said, "and the sun has just risen, turning the North Sea into a field of silver. Above there are little clouds like petals of roses, and all round us the seagulls. Cannot you hear them, Margaret?"
"Where is the Siberian Fleet?"
"I have destroyed the Siberian Fleet. The Russian Emperor lay dead at your Majesty's feet, and the officers of his General Staff are prisoners in this ship. The Russian Army has surrendered."
"And the French Army, and the German?"
"Surrendered as prisoners of war. I have blown up all their magazines, their ammunition trains to the last cartridge. Their commanders-in-chief are prisoners on board theVirgin."
"And my people are saved!"
Brand came to the bedside, and there kneeling down, kissed our Lady's hand.
"Oh, love me," he whispered, "just a little!"
"And you are alive!" The blood raced in her veins, her heart was crying out for him. "I saw you in a little ship all alone, dying, I thought; and underneath there were rivers and lakes, and forests streaming by."
"You saw me, then?"
"In a dream, yes."
"Only love dreams like that. You love me, Margaret."
"I love my country, you were the one hope left, and I saw you dying. Tell me how you come to be alive."
"Rivers, and lakes, and forest," answered Brand. "You did not see the mountains, then? Great, big mountains came up against the west, higher and higher, alp piled on alp, precipice on precipice, mile on mile of ice barring the ship's way. They were the Alps of St. Elias. Oh, Margaret—say you love me before I go on."
"What did you do when the ship came to the mountains?"
"She was running right at them, a hundred miles an hour, I couldn't stir hand or foot, and I was being whirled helpless against an enormous cliff."
Margaret gripped his hand. "Yes! Go on!"
"Then you do love me? Only love grips like that."
"Don't I love all my brothers of the Guard? You wear the dress of my brothers. Please, go on."
"At the last instant something gave me strength—the thought that the Queen must be saved. I clutched at the levers, I got control of the ship, swung upwards grazing a hanging cornice of green ice, then turning in long circles slowly down, drove my ship into a pineclad slope, and, I think, fainted. When I came to again I was lying beside a camp fire under the shadow of the woods, and far aloft, right up in the full glory of the day, one great white mountain shone against the sky. Some dozen or so of men were sitting round the fire, and I heard them in fierce argument. Several maintained that by my dress I must be an officer of her Majesty's Bodyguard, others by portraits they had seen in the newspapers, by my ship theExperiment, and by documents found with me, swore that I was Brand. Then one—a man dressed in deerskin, who seemed to have authority—said that he knew well I was one of the Queen's Blackguards. He knew all about it—had not the last mail brought a letter from his brother newly appointed to that very regiment?
"There was something familiar in the man's face, and presently when he came over to render me some small service, I said I knew his brother, Trooper Browne."
"How strange!"
"Such small coincidences have changed the history of the world. Mr. Browne told me that I had been lying in the camp for more than a week, delirious and raving of the Queen. He and his partners were mining rubies—they shall not lack rubies while I live. They were like women in their gentleness, and in their care I gained strength day by day until at last I was able to sit with them by the camp fire, to tell them of the Queen's desperate peril. I need not tell you they were loyal men—they were Canadians and burning to serve with me. Then the day came when I had strength to climb the hill path to where I had left my ship. The miners brought up provisions from the camp, and, crowded on board theExperiment, we sailed, fourteen men—not many for the conquest of the world."
"But with your terrible etheric power!"
Brand laughed. "TheExperimentwas not so very terrible. For armament we had three shotguns, eight axes, a sword, and our pistols—that is until we raided a town and got some rifles. Our next necessity was a modern etheric ship able to ram, to defend herself, and to destroy explosives. We found theRevengeat Denver, in charge of state officials who had the audacity to deny my ownership. After a fight, we got possession, only to find ourselves in a steel prison with neither food nor water. The crew of theRevengehad been dispersed, her engines were disabled, we were attacked by federal troops, and on the fourth day when we were half dead with thirst and hunger, a battery of artillery opened fire. There were only eight of us left when we got theRevengeafloat. She was riddled with shell fire, her splintered sides gaping open, her cabins all in flames, and the shells were screaming past. She rolled till we thought she would turn over, the engines were rocking loose in their bed, she fluttered once as though she were foundering, and my men came about me waiting for the end. I told them of the oldRevenge, and how Sir Richard Greville fought a great Spanish Fleet, his courage against their galleons—and how he died breathing the name of his Queen. Could we not fight the newRevengefor Margaret? They sang the National Anthem while I was testing for strains, and they stopped the singing to cheer when I said theRevengewould live.
"Denver will never forget theRevenge. I held the city to ransom. The officials must find me my own seamen and engineers, provisions, water, yes, and salute your Union Jack, or I swore I'd not leave one man alive in their streets. They did not know I was helpless."
Margaret's eyes were growing moist as she listened, and when she turned away her head lest he should see her—
"Don't turn away," he cried, "I can hardly hear myself speak for this roaring sound in my ears. I've gone stark, staring mad with love, and I can't bear it if you turn away."
"You must not talk like that," said Margaret, and her white hand stole out within his reach. "Go on, sir," she added stiffly, and he went on.
"We found this ship, theCoronation, at Chicago, and the wreck of theRevengefought a squadron of electric battleships before we captured our prize. With theCoronationI reduced Chicago to terms, then, manned and equipped, set out to find me a fleet. Ship after ship I found in the American cities, captured, manned, provisioned, and drilled them for war. I wonder I ever lived through that delay, knowing that the League had invaded England, that London was besieged, that any moment news might come—that I was too late." He pressed the back of her hand against his lips. "I had command of the air, and nineteen etheric ships of the line when at last I left America. At Lyonesse I embarked ten thousand men, advanced on London, and saw the Royal Standard still floating above the towers of the Palace. I destroyed the Siberian Fleet; didn't you hear the explosion of their battleships, my royal salute to the Flag? And then with a landing party I entered the Palace at last, groping through the smoke and the darkness, trying to find the throne-room, wild with fright lest I should be too late. Oh, say that you love me, Margaret!"
"I am your prisoner," she answered, softly.
"Prisoner of war."
"Prisoner of love," he cried.
"Prisoner of love," she looked into his eyes. "I was such a prisoner long, long ago. What else, do you think, kept me alive, save that I hoped you would come back again. Indeed, I do love you. Go, dear, or I shall cry."
So Brand was sent away knowing that he had conquered all the world, and that the world is the shadow of God, being made of love.
* * * * *
A chair of state was set in the saloon of theCoronation, a guard of honour drew up to receive her Majesty, then entered the masters and engineers of Brand's etheric fleet, the seven Canadian frontiersmen, and the seventeen men who remained of the Queen's Blackguards. Two of these, Trooper Hylton and Trooper Browne, being badly wounded, were borne in on stretchers. Then her Majesty entered, wearing the uniform of the Guard for the last time, and the American led her to her seat.
Brand presented his officers and the Canadians, and then our Lady spoke to us.
"Officers of the Fleet, and you, gentlemen, from the Province of Yukon, and you, my dear brothers of the Guard—we have been down into the valley of the Shadow of Death, and we have come back to the living World, humbled by the pitiful compassion which has spared us. Our Empire was threatened with dishonour, with enslavement and vassalage to Russia—and millions of our people have given their lives to save us from that shame. Millions have died to save our English freedom, and I speak for all our dead when I say that never while the earth endures shall our Liberty be threatened again. We are given the mastery of the air, and we will use that mastery to make sure that no earthly power shall ever rise up again against our freedom, or against our British peace. For you, whose valour has saved our fallen Empire, I bear such love and gratitude—oh, how can I find words of thankfulness! I am beggared of love, bankrupt in gratitude, because I never can pay my debts to you. My life shall be the proof that Margaret does not forget, but for the present I beg you hear me by deputy."
So the Queen ceased, and when much noise and waving of swords had ended, the Master, standing at her right hand began to read these words:—
"Master Mariners of the Etheric Fleet, her Imperial Majesty has been pleased to grant to your ships, the white Ensign, and every honour becoming vessels of war. Your Commodore takes flag rank as Admiral of the Fleet. Commanding officers take rank as Captains, First Engineers as Fleet Engineers; and to your officers and seamen, is given their equivalent naval rank with pay and pension dating from the time of first entry on board an etheric ship, and arrears in full of all the pay which would have been earned in the Imperial Navy.
"Admiral Watson is created a peer of the United Kingdom, and the Captains and Fleet Engineers will receive the honour of knighthood.
"To the gentlemen of the Yukon contingent: Her Majesty bestows upon Frederick Browne, a peerage, and creates the rest of you knights. Funds will be granted for the proper maintenance of these dignities.
"To the lords and gentlemen of the Guard: Those of you who engaged as servant orderlies, will receive the honour of knighthood and funds for the maintenance of your dignities. Those who engaged as troopers of the Guard, her Majesty desires to speak to you, stand forward!"
Out of two hundred gentlemen of the Guard, many were on detached service, but there stood forward: Sergeant Branscombe, Corporal du Plessis, Corporal de la Rey, Troopers Lord Ludford, Sir Marshall Poynte, George St. Leven, Patrick Burke, and Alexander Barrie; Trooper Browne and Trooper Hylton were wounded.
"My brothers," said our Lady, "beyond all accidents of rank and sorrow we have been so drawn one to another in perfect trust and faith, that I am sister to you rather than Queen. I thought once, that being made Queen I must give up everything that was dear to me, no longer be able to trust a friend, but always live separate, lonely and miserable. But when in my bitter need you were still loyal, and when my weakness leaned upon your strength, I learned that where love is there can be no solitude. So even in our last extremity, when we fought side by side, while we prayed for death, it was your love which kept my faith alive and gave me some poor courage. I was almost worthy at last to be your comrade—and we are comrades still."
Our Lady never knew how the words burnt. Ours was no brotherhood or comradeship, we were not creatures of wood or stone, passionless, but made of flesh and blood which did her worship, for we were men, and she a woman beyond any accident of rank or sorrow. So our great Sovereign Lady spoke to us, and we, with cast down eyes and shame in our hearts, made ready to do her obedience.
"I have no rewards to offer you, my brothers, you never worked for reward, and you would ask of me nothing but the glory of serving the Empire. You shall serve as my hands serve me, you shall be my hands bearing my whole authority each in your province, you shall be treated as I am treated, with every observance due to kings, you are created Viceroys, you are given power to use my signature, to execute my justice. You are each granted one or more of these etheric ships under your sole command. Each in your province, you will take such Lyonesse ships as you can find, man and equip them for purposes of state.
"Sergeant Branscombe, I make you Viceroy of Russia, to conquer the Russian Empire, capture the head of the Government and bring him prisoner to me, disarm all troops, destroy all vessels of war, blow up all arsenals and report to me.
"Corporal du Plessis, you have heard what I said to the Viceroy of Russia, I create you Viceroy of Germany. Capture the Emperor, disarm his Empire, and report to me.
"Corporal de la Rey, I create you Viceroy of France. Capture the President, disarm the Republic, and report to me.
"Trooper, Lord Ludford, I create you my Viceroy in the New World. Go to the President of the United States and, with all delicacy and courtesy, offer him our sympathy and help. With his consent, destroy the enemies of the Republic, and deliver their leaders to him as prisoners of war. Send help to the Viceroy of Canada.
"Trooper, Sir Marshall Poynte, I create you Viceroy of the Mediterranean States. Destroy all hostile armaments and restore the British peace.
"Trooper St. Leven, I create you Viceroy of Delhi. You will find India in flames from end to end, and our Government in desperate need. Crush down all insurrection, punish the rebels and mutineers, and where mercy would seem like weakness, make our justice terrible enough to ensure against any fear for our people. You will find Prince Ali of Haidar reigning at Delhi. Hang him and make proclamation that he is punished as a Russian spy. The Russian invasion you will turn back. You will in all else obey the orders of the Viceroy of India.
"Trooper Burke, I create you Viceroy of the China Seas. Destroy all hostile armaments, and restore peace throughout your jurisdiction.
"Trooper Barrie, I create you Viceroy of Africa. Subdue all forces hostile to our Empire, annexing their territories, and restoring our peace.
"Trooper Browne and Trooper Hylton, you are both created to the rank of Viceroy, and will be commissioned as soon as your wounds are healed.
"Viceroys of the Guard, I believe in my heart that this was long ago foretold, this war of all the nations—is it not the Armageddon? And afterwards it is written, that the devil shall be chained up for a thousand years. 'There shall be no more war.' What if it be true? Peace for a thousand years, the Millennium—the reign of Christ! Did you ever notice that our flag—see, hanging here above our heads—the Union Jack—does it not bear three crosses? On Calvary there stood three crosses. You will carry this flag, my brothers, and it shall fly over all lands and seas throughout the world—the holy symbol of the last Crusade, and the founding of the New Jerusalem. It was to be no city built by human hands, but fallen from Heaven—the Planet. The length and the breadth, and the height of it are equal, for it is the round world. There shall be no night there, for the sun shines from everlasting to everlasting. This Earth is a city eternal in the heavens where the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth. My knights, I send you out upon this quest to bring peace to the whole earth. Avenge justice, but be merciful, and in wielding your power be very humble. For every act of yours, my people will hold me responsible, for every mistake I shall be judged. Do not let me be brought to judgment for any ruthless abuse of power, or any act of unchristian vengeance. I have placed my honour in your keeping.
"And when you have restored peace, your power ends, you come back to be citizens of the Empire, obedient as I am to the laws and customs of my people. I am only Queen by their election, not by any authority of my own. In this time of weakness and peril it was my duty to rule, to see that policy was marred by no divided counsels, to stand at the brunt of danger. So soon as there is peace and safety, I shall deliver back my sovereignty into the hands of those who gave it to me, to the great, free Electorate, my masters, my judges, my kings whom I serve. If they are pleased with me I am still Queen, but not of my own right, only in their love. The only throne of Britain is in the hearts of the British, the only sceptre is the defence of Liberty.
"These are the terms of your service—and so, my dear brothers, I commend you to God's keeping."
When she had said that, our Lady rose from the throne and her face became radiant with a new loveliness and glory such as we had never dreamed of. She had forgotten us, her servants, and men-at-arms, and with a great royal gesture, reached out her right hand to Brand, Master of Lyonesse. She never said a word, but stood looking down upon him, as kneeling, he took her hand in his, and pressed his lips to her fingers with a reverent kiss.
London, 18th June, 2045
Her Imperial Majesty has been graciously pleased to sanction the publication of this work, and to me is entrusted the preparing of a brief epilogue.
I am the Trooper Hylton mentioned in the closing chapter, and first knew the author in those far-away times sixty-five years ago—when we were cadets together at the school of arms. I remember Browne as a shy, awkward, dreamy lad, remarkable for his stature—he stood six foot four—with rapidly maturing, already gigantic strength, and a physical perfection marred by the almost grotesque uncouthness of his face.
A swordsman, second perhaps only to Branscombe, a horseman not rivalled in his time, Browne's career was marred by hopeless failure in scholarship.
The "big boy," as he describes himself, was, on the surface, cold and distant, yet desperately eager to win friendship; but there again his life was marred by that shyness which seemed like icy reserve repelling the kindly approaches of men who cared to know him. Behind that barrier he suffered.
So he came to the Palace bringing with him the very atmosphere of arctic Canada, great, lonely, remote, uncomely, savage. Because of his training as a cowboy, the silence, the solitude of his early life, he lacked the faculty of easy speech, but he had the deepest, grandest qualities of manhood. And at the moment he joined her Majesty's Bodyguard he made his first friendship with no less a man than Sydney, the Magnificent. The two were friends inseparable, and thus in this book we have our first real insight into the events which led to the Terror.
It is supposed that before the great Marquess went to meet his death, he commended Browne to her Majesty's special care. The whole corps of the Guard was indignant at the promotion of this young recruit to the securing of our Lady's safety during the night watches, but the Canadian giant justified even that unusual honour. No less than four times he saved the Queen's life, either from the attacks of assassins, or in actual battle. In the fight on the alabaster stairs, there is no doubt that his incomparable strength, address and valour rescued, not only her Majesty, but her whole escort from massacre, and his lone charge which cleared the upper stairway for our retreat, will go down to history as one of the mightiest deeds in human annals.
His book ends with the creation of the Viceroys of the Guard, and her Majesty's betrothal to Lyonesse; and there is no mention of that winter day when all the presidents and sovereign rulers of the world assembled in St. George's Chapel at Windsor. Browne was then sufficiently recovered from his wounds to attend the solemn service of the Eucharist. He was then a Viceroy of the Guard, and Marquess of Yukon, had been invested with the Garter and in response to a petition of Parliament, granted the Victoria Cross for valour.
But her Imperial Majesty never set any limits to her gratitude towards those who have served her well, and for this Canadian hero she reserved even greater honours. In the celebration of the Eucharist, Brand knelt at her right hand, the Marquess of Yukon on her left, and he was made to stand beside her to receive the surrendered swords of her triumphant Viceroys, all of which, with his own, he laid down before the altar. The emperors, kings, presidents, and reigning sovereigns then one by one broke their swords, and laid the fragments upon the altar, just at the foot of the cross.
At the last came Margaret, attended by Brand, and by Yukon. Kneeling before the table, she made humble presentation of an unbroken sword, then rising, confronted the assembled sovereigns.
"In token," she said, "that I desire unbroken peace, I have dedicated this unbroken sword to the solemn service of the King of kings. In token that the nations need have no fear, I sheathe the sword for ever; and give the sacred trust to this, my servant, Viceroy of the Air."
The giant, kneeling at her feet, received the sheathed sword of the Millennial Peace.
"And I do now deliver into his keeping the Etheric Fleet, charging him never to shed human blood, except at the command of the Great Council of Nations to vindicate the Divine Justice upon any people who shall lift rebellious hands against mankind."
For twenty years this first of the Viceroys of the Air remained in custody of the sheathed sword, a lonely man, and a silent, greatly loved, and greatly suffering.
His wounds, which in one of lesser strength must have proved mortal, bred in his shattered body malignant growths, of which, aged and weary, he died in his forty-fifth year. To Branscombe he passed on the Trust of the Sword; and it was in the bed from which he never afterwards rose that he wrote his book, "The Chariot of the Sun," telling the story of his hopeless and unspoken love for the woman he had so valiantly served.
After his death, in the year 2005, the manuscript was found under seal, addressed to her Majesty, and has not been published until the passions of that time were stilled, and the Terror remains only as a memory seen through the mists of sixty-five fruitful years.
Last winter, our august and venerable sovereign caused the work to be read aloud to her children and grandchildren, and it is on the plea of the young princes that the story is now given to publication. To the people of the golden age it will seem a very quaint, funny old document, which is concerned with such obsolete virtues as unselfish love, faith, honour, and manliness.
HYLTON,Viceroy of the Air.
THE END
PRINTED BYWILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,LONDON AND BECCLES.