"How shocking," said the curate. "Hope," he continued, "is dead, and our prayers break upon the brazen echoing heavens. Who would have supposed that the world would die so hard?" "Don't preach," said the barrister, "it makes me sick." The curate looked up with a vacant stare at the towering heights of the Abbey. From far away came the rumble of the organ, for this was the time for the early Celebration. By the calendar it was Monday, the Twelfth Day of the Terror. "I think I could have hoped," the parson wiped a tear away with his torn sleeve, "only there's always such a crowd at the Government food shops. The men trample the women and children to death, and that takes away one's appetite." "Yes, we're savages now," said the barrister, "we've shed our infernal skin of gentility." He looked away towards the street arab. The lad was rejoicing on the verge of success, but rejoiced too early, for the pigeon flew clear of the snare. Then the lad cursed. "I watched all night," said the curate, "by the Palace. Our poor little Queen works hard." The other was cynical. "Does she?" "D'you know," said the other, "that Ulster is dead?" "No such luck." "But it's true. A woman stabbed him. Really." "How do you know?" "I crept into the porch, and there were two gentlemen of the Bodyguard, talking. They turned me away into the rain. D'you know there was something going on. All night I saw ships and private yachts, hundreds of them, reporting at the Palace towers. The air was black with them coming and going." "It may be," muttered the lawyer. "Ulster dead!" "Once," the curate went on bubbling with news, "a Guardsman rode out with his servant, and the orderly stopped behind to tighten a girth. I helped him. D'you know I smelt bread and real cold beef in his wallet. He told me that the trades unions have proclaimed a Republic--yes, at Manchester. Then I asked him for some of the meat, and he was so rude." "The Republic proclaimed already? Then Ulster must be dead. My friend, do you realize what this means? The Republic? It means that the Territorials have revolted, five hundred thousand men in arms against the Government." "We have the Fleet." The curate lifted his head and answered proudly. "The Fleet, Mr. Parson? And when the Republicans seize the power station, when they cut off the whole supply of electric force--what becomes of your Fleet? Answer me that!" "Oh, but my dear man, really, don't y'know, we have Malta, Gibraltar, and the Newfoundland station. They can all flash electric power to our ships."