"If they had warning, yes; but all the telegraphs are cut. I tell you the power stations will be captured this very day, and nothing can save the Fleet. I wonder--when the London guardships founder, why, we may get some food from the wrecks! Yes, food! And the London Unionists, too--they'll be revolting to-day--they'll attack the departments of State. Parson, I know a house not far from here, with five barrels of flour. There'll be no police to-day--come on, let's rob that house!' "Rob a house?" said the curate, wistfully. "Oh, but I'm in Holy Orders, don't y'know." Then rolling over exhausted, "My dear friend," he whispered, "couldn't you bring me just a little flour?" "I might," the barrister sneered, "and I might not. All right, go off to sleep, don't mind me." He looked round. "Hello, the boy's got that pigeon!" The barrister scrambled to his feet. "The little brute!" He looked at the curate, who seemed to be asleep, then at the street arab who was sucking the pigeon's blood. He felt the parson's clothes for tobacco, but his eyes were on the lad who had captured food. Staggering with weakness he went for the street arab, drawing a knife from his pocket. The lad crouched unheeding, tearing the bird apart. The barrister, staring dreadfully about him, stole upon the lad, his knife ready, his lips twitching, his teeth set. Then a rifle shot rang out from one of the barricaded windows of St. Stephen's Palace, the barrister leaped into the air, and fell doubled up upon the pavement, his limbs relaxed, his mouth wide open, One of his legs gave a last twitch and he lay quite still. The street arab had run away. Then from a distance came the steady tramp of marching men, and the curate seemed to wake at the sound from a spell of sleep. He rose upon his hands and knees, he tried to stand up, but he had not the strength. He looked at the Palace, and just opposite to him was a door which led into the purlieus of the House of Lords. He crawled across the pavement, lifted himself wearily up the low steps, and banged with a stone against the door. Nearer and nearer came the tramp of men. "Help!" screamed the curate. "The Republicans! Save me! Save me!" * * * * * In the Council Chamber at the Queen's Palace, my Lord Protector's Ministers were assembled. The Duke of Ulster had warned them, the Princess Margaret summoned them. Our Lady was to render her submission, to repudiate the treason of John Brand. Then upon a flourish of trumpets, entered, not his Grace of Ulster, but her Imperial Majesty attended by a hundred gentlemen-at-arms. Amid the consternation of Ulster's Ministers it was the First Lord of the Admiralty who dared to come forward barring our Lady's passage to the throne. Waving his hands towards the foot of the table, "Madam," he cried, "the place for the Princess Margaret is here."