Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We promised to write to each other."

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

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

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

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

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

"Sydney, this isn't London."

"May I look round?"

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

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

"Who has you watched?"

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

"My dear fellow, your father----"

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

"What do you know of my father?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I would not have him butchered."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brand turned away his face.

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

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

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

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

"There's some mistake," he said.

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

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

Brand was silent.

"He has divulged the Formula of the Fleets!"

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

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

"Have you proof?" asked the American.

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

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

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

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

Lord Sydney produced the Draft, which the master read.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lord Sydney, you forget yourself."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Will they fight me?" he said.

"But the allies will declare war!"

"Am I not Lyonesse!"

"You cannot fight three nations."

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

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

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

III

OUR LADY THE QUEEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My dear MacNeill, what business?"

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

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

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

"Allah, el Allah!"

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

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

"Very old." Prince Ali smiled.

"Holy?"

"As my Faith."

"Won't keep out the wet?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Surely you have proved it more than once."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I must repeat my question, Maharajah."

"I'll have your life for this!"

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

"By Azrael----"

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

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

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

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

"A rookie?"

"My name is Browne, sir, and I----"

"Fresh from the incubator?"

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

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

Prince Ali bowed stiffly and walked away.

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

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

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

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

"Don't you drink wine or----"

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

"I don't play, though."

"Are you a decent aerial yachtsman?"

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

"A savage?"

"I'm from the province of Yukon."

"Where on earth is that?"

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

"In the Arctic?"

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

"A what?"

"Cowboy."

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

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

"But cows!"

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

"What are pelts?"

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

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

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

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

"A recruit, sir."

The boy went trembling and presented his letter.

"Hum--Mr. Browne?"

The boy blushed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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