THE CHARIOT OF THE SUN _A FANTASY_ BY ROGER POCOCK LONDON CHAPMAN & HALL, LTD. 1910 _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ TALES OF WESTERN LIFE THE RULES OF THE GAME THE ARCTIC NIGHT, _Chapman & Hall_ THE BLACKGUARD, _Chapman & Hall_ ROTTENNESS A FRONTIERSMAN (AUTOBIOGRAPHY), _Gay & Hancock_ CURLY, _Gay & Hancock_ SWORD AND DRAGON, _Hodder & Stoughton_ THE FRONTIERSMAN'S POCKET BOOK (EDITED), _John Murray._ CONTENTS Prologue I. Chancellor of the Empire II. The Master of Lyonesse III. Our Lady the Queen IV. The Coronation V. The Gathering Storm VI. The Penance Chamber VII. The Taming of Lyonesse VIII. The Mother of Parliaments IX. The Royal Prerogative X. The Dawn of the Terror XI. The World-Storm XII. The Third Day XIII. The Queen's Messenger XIV. The Story of the Ships XV. Cast Out of Heaven XVI. The Queen's Days XVII. Her Majesty in Council XVIII. The Queen's Madness XIX. The Tale of the Dun Horse XX. Victory XXI. The Queen's Retreat XXII. The Last Battle XXIII. Prisoner of Love Epilogue PROLOGUE LONDON, December 31st, 2000. This is the story of the World-Storm. Leaders in every field of thought have described the events of the year 1980, but we who have come aged and shaken out of that chaos, know well that the half was not told. The World-Storm was a human affair, and human events are ever based on love. For the love of woman a man gives all the labour of his life, or in the loss or lack of love will cast his life away. For the love of women men have built cities, or burned them, won thrones or lost them, have staked things present and the things to come. This is the story, then, of a man's love for a woman. And if the life of a man is a love tale, so is the life of a nation, which ends when the people cease to love their country. And so is the life of mankind, which will end when the love of God dies out from the human heart. Life is a plant which has its roots in love. Reading over many histories of the World-Storm, by divines, by students, and admirals of the air, the whole of which have failed to reach down to the truth: I think that these eminent exact thinkers were mostly dry at the roots. Only a lover can write history. We set sweet Margaret on the Imperial Throne, we prayed for her, and all the millions of our prayers like subtle spirits wrought upon her soul creating her a queen. We looked again, and behold she was august, inspired, beautiful, terrible--England! Who but a lover could write of such a queen? To me, a plain man who has loved, it is given that I should tell of that transfiguration, and how the lovely child, translated by our prayers moved through the darkness.