A few days later news flew round the parish that Ladysmith had actually been relieved; the authority vouched for being no less than that of her Majesty the Queen. The baker brought the news to Riverton. His eyes appeared ready to jump from his head with excitement as he made the announcement. “You’ll be hearin’ bells a-ringin’ to-night,” he said. “Ah, they be runnin’ up flags all over the place a’ready. And they do say as they be a-goin’ to ’luminate.” “Flags!” ejaculated Mrs. Stuckhey. “I must get a flag at once. I’ll start so soon as I’ve a-had my tea. I wish I’d a-got it afore; but my son—him that’s the only soldier here, you know, baker—he did say when he last wrote as they was but startin’ to relieve Ladysmith.” “I can scarce believe as the noos be true,” observed pessimistic Mrs. Woolridge. “I wouldn’t be in too great a hurry to get that flag if I was you.” “Well, I should think the Queen ought to know,” retorted her neighbour with spirit. “I’m a-goin’ to get it, anyhow.” “I’ll go along with ’ee, my dear,” cried Mrs. Blanchard, who was always ready for an outing. “I can’t afford no flags myself, but I’m sure I wish ’ee well, an’ am pleased at your son’s success. I’ve only got to give the childern their tea, and clean me a bit, and put on bonnet and shawl, and I’ll be ready.” The baker’s cart jolted away and the two women hastened indoors. It took Mrs. Blanchard some time to complete her preparations, and it was past six o’clock by the time they reached the little town. The market-place presented an unusually gay appearance: bunting floated from the church tower, the Corn Exchange, and all the principal buildings; rows of light were already appearing in many of the windows; groups of people stood about, laughing, talking, singing; many of them cheered as newcomers arrived upon the scene and were told the news. Mrs. Stuckhey and her friend, having purchased the flag, attached themselves to one of the groups in question, and heard how the tidings had first come “down the line,” and how, subsequently, a telegram had arrived at the Royal George. Mrs. Stuckhey was in the act of expatiating on the information conveyed in her son’s letter when, with a mighty clang, the bells rang out. “They’re at it,” cried a man, detaching himself from the knot of people the better to flourish his hat. “Three cheers for Buller and White. Hip—hip—hip—” “Hurray!” roared the crowd. Cling, cling, clang! chimed the bells. Then all at once, no one knew how, the merry-making ceased, the cheerful jangling came to an end, the ringers loosing the ropes so suddenly that the bells continued to swing for some little time longer, sending forth occasional slow faint notes of most funereal sound. As anxious glances sought the church tower the flag was seen to have disappeared; moreover, it was observed that the kindred trophy which had proudly surmounted the Corn Exchange was being hauled down. What had happened—what was wrong?