Her Majesty leaned forward. "Lord Roderic Scott," she cried, "reach forward your right hand and touch that key! Mr. Jesmond, take the knife and drive it into that man's flesh until he obeys me. Now, Roderic Scott, reach out your right hand, and lay it on the key! and may God have mercy on your soul!" * * * * * And the river rushed in upon the site of Whitehall. XVIII THE QUEEN'S MADNESS This poor history book! It set out to chronicle the affairs of all mankind, and has only room for one woman. So a boy goes forth into the world strong, careless, jubilant, thinking the Earth, the lights of Heaven, the dark of Space, all made on purpose to be a playground for him. But an old man looks back with his wan smile of memory, and sees that the sun, moon, and stars made but an aureole for one mighty love. Let the old man maunder a little at the heads of the chapters--you may be an old fool, too, before you have turned the last sad page in the dear Book of Life. Except for some who foully revile Brand, the learned historians lay all the blame on Margaret. Learning has chilled the blood in their sluggish veins, conceit of their knowledge given them scaly hides, and their blind logic made them sinuous, these bookworms, who with exuding venom have fastened their poisonous teeth on Margaret's fame. She sheltered Brand, staked crown, reputation, life upon the hazard of her faith in him. She had Prince Rupert slain, the Dictator slain, and the metropolitan chiefs of the Republic slain. The seat of treasonous revolt against her she cleansed with the waters of the Thames. Aye, and more, she reigned as no sovereign in modern times had ever dared to reign. We were lost in the night of despair, we fought in the maelstrom of Death, but the memory of that time is the memory of one white spirit, pure and strong, whom no waves of misfortune could overwhelm, or mist of anguish hide. We were men-at-arms who worshipped Margaret then, and those that are left of us are old fools now, fearful lest any venom so much as touch her robe. In these days there were two or three attempts made by insane persons upon her Majesty's life. At the petition then of the whole corps of the Bodyguard she appointed orderlies for close attendance upon her person, choosing the two nearest friends of my Lord Sydney, Sergeant Dymoke to be on duty in the day time, Trooper Browne at night. Her Majesty was pleased also to confer upon Trooper Browne the honour of Knighthood in the order of St. Michael and St. George. It was after midnight--how we missed the bells of fallen Westminster--and Trooper Sir Patrick Browne, faint with excess of pride, stood in a vain pose by the door of the private rooms. He was startled out of all his dignity when, the door opening, he found himself of a sudden face to face with her Majesty. "Hush!" our Lady pressed a finger of warning to her lips. "There," she cautiously shut the door. "I'm afraid of waking Miss Temple. Follow softly."