"Nothing to fear," our Lady muttered to herself. "Nothing to fear. Then, my lord, are these Republicans mad? The Departments impregnable, the power station impregnable, the ships expected; on these conditions the Republicans would never dare to attack. They would not dare to attack unless they knew the Fleet could be destroyed. They expect to capture the power station; they're sure of it--they stake their lives on that. Are you sure, Lord Mendip, of this power station?" "There's no stronger fortress in Europe." "My lord, is any fortress proof against treachery? These rebels have staked their lives that the place will be betrayed to them. Call up the officer commanding." The old lord, with tremulous fingers, signalled by aerograph, but there was no answer. Again and again he called, but there was no answer. "Madam," he said, "I fear----" The aerograph began to be disturbed; a rush of signals hummed from its armature. "Position mined--rebels in possession. Ground the Fleet!--Ground the Fleet!--Ground the Fleet!" "Oh, quick!" cried Margaret, in agony. "Order the ships to ground!" The First Lord, poor Mendip, had fallen back in his chair, his white face convulsed, his fingers twitching and pulling in frenzy at the key of his instrument. Our Lady rushed to his side, seized the aerograph from him, begged him to dictate the orders to the ships. And all the while, the old man striving for utterance, the rest of the Ministers frantic to hear him speak, the gun-fire quickened in the distance, and some one was thundering for admittance outside the door of the room. "He's dying!" Margaret's voice broke to a wail of misery. "Oh, who knows the cypher of the Fleet? We'll be too late--too late!" The door burst open, an officer of the Bodyguard broke headlong into the room. "Madam," he yelled, "the ships--the destroyers of the patrol are foundering!" Lord Mendip's head had fallen back, his fingers were tearing at his breast, his eyes were glazing. Then his arms fell limp, and the change passed over his face, and the jaw dropped. Our Lady bent and kissed the still dead face, then reaching out her hand beckoned the living. "Kneel, gentlemen," she said in a low, awed voice. "Pray for the passing Fleet, for ninety thousand men called by their God." So they all knelt, our Lady, the adjutant of the Guard, the Ministers of State, while outside, the crash of musketry, the roar of guns thundered the requiem of the English Fleet. Presently the body of the old lord slipped down and fell before Margaret's knees. Shrinking away, she went back to her place upon the throne. Some of the Ministers were moving to take away the body, but our Lady checked them. "No," she said, "do not take it away, but lay it there before us upon the table." They laid the frail body upon the table, paying some reverent offices, closing the eyelids, folding the hands. Shrinking from that presence, dreading, fearing it, our Lady lifted her reluctant eyes.