He is entering now. Preceded by the band of the White Regiment of the Women’s Volunteer Companies, playing a march triumphant, he passes through the giant portals. His head is bared, and he is mounted on a milk-white horse, which he sits with grace and ease. As he does so the sun shines down on his dark auburn hair, lighting it up with the tints of old-gold that play amidst the curls which nestle on his high, white brow, while the sapphire light in his glorious eyes shoots forth with a gleam of triumph as he surveys the magnificent scene. He is dressed in the White Guard Regiment uniform of the Women’s Volunteer Companies, of which he is Commander-in-Chief; but the regiment itself is his own especial one. It was the first which he established four and a half years ago, when he first took the matter in hand. The idea has prospered since then, and the women enrolled in all the companies of the Volunteer force number 200,000. It is a fitting uniform for the occasion, one which he has done well to don; for the first business of to-day’s ceremonial will be the march past of the “picked” of the companies of these 200,000. He has ridden round the broad, spacious horse-ride followed by one or two especial friends, conspicuous amongst whom is the Duke of Ravensdale. The cheering is deafening; it never ceases for a moment. It swells and swells again, like the mighty midocean waves, that bear onwards in their wild career to break on the lone sea-shore. And now he has dismounted, and, with his friends, has taken his place on the evergreen flower-decked platform. Even as he does so his dark sapphire eyes are raised aloft, and sweep with their dreamy gaze the thousands that throng that vast Hall of Liberty, as if seeking amidst the multitude one especial form. It is even so; and as they roam the sea of faces, all turned to his, they are suddenly brought to a standstill. The anxious, searching look within them dies away, giving place to one of calm contentment and repose, for Speranza is there. The mother’s eyes are fixed upon her child. Through the filmy distance of space cannot Gloria perceive this well? For a moment, one brief moment, the hero of the hour is Gloriana de Lara, in the next, he is Hector D’Estrange. The audience is still cheering,—it seems as though it will never cease,—but he has raised his hand, and like magic a great silence falls. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, and the clear, exquisite voice thrills through the huge building, “I shall have a few words to say to you before I declare the Hall of Liberty open, but first we will witness the march past of the representatives of all the companies of the Women’s Volunteer force of which I have the honour to be Commander-in-Chief.”