It never enters these men’s minds to depreciate her deeds, to belittle her acts, because she is a woman. Their reason tells them that she understands their wants, that her great heart is in sympathy with their needs, that she has sought to help them when in power, and that now her enemies have got the upper hand, all their loyalty and devotion is needed to support the cause, which she has told them lies at the root of all future social reform, which means progress, comfort, and happiness for the toiling millions. But there is a sound of many horses’ feet coming towards them, and all eyes are turned in the direction whence the sounds come. The ever-increasing crowd sways to and fro, expectant and anxious, instinctively apprehending what is to come. “Form up, guards!” Flora Desmond’s voice is heard shouting. “Close round her, and defend her with your lives. It is not we who seek to spill blood, but if our rulers will have it so, then let it be. We will show them that woman is not the helpless coward they imagine. If necessary, we will fight to save her. Retreat in good order on Montragee House.” They close round her, obedient to the order. The movement is executed silently but swiftly, and with an exactitude which speaks volumes for the discipline of the White Guards. “Shade of Whyte-Melville,” could ye arise now, you would behold your prophecy an accomplished fact, for the Amazons, whom you predicted, if rendered amenable to discipline, could conquer the world, are before you there. The sounds have assumed shape, and a troop of Horse Guards Blue, hastily turned out to support the arm of the law, are in view now. The horses have been ridden at a good pace, for the foam studs their black shining coats. At the word of command the troopers rein up. The position is a difficult one. Between them and the White Guards a dense, impenetrable crowd is surging. To charge that crowd means death to many, yet it can only be compassed in this manner. The order which the officer in command has received is, however, specific. It is to disperse the crowd, to give every assistance to the police, and to recapture the prisoner at any cost. It is a soldier’s duty to obey superior orders, nor question the why or wherefore. It is no part of a soldier’s duty to use his own discretion. “His not to reason why, His but to do and die.” So at least thinks Colonel Jack Delamere, as his quick eye takes in the scene. Duty is a strange thing. It nerves the heart not only to physical but to moral deeds of courage. Surely it is no insignificant act of the latter which draws from that gallant officer the command to obey an order which he loathes, for, apart from all other considerations, Jack Delamere loves Flora Desmond, and knowing her as he does, he is aware that the order will probably mean death to the being for whom he would willingly sacrifice his own life.