From the Palace towers we watched the red sun rise, heard the first gun, and waited minute after minute until the silence became agony. Then came a sudden blaze from a thousand guns, the Palace reeled under the crash, and over the ruins of central London went up a cloud of dust. Of the German forces, thirty-one thousand men are supposed to have perished in that cloud, fifteen thousand escaped in panic flight, a hundred and four thousand prisoners were released starving into the hungry Russian lines. Our Lady was pleased to dine that night with the Bodyguard. The tables, for lack of room elsewhere, had been set in the guardroom upon the alabaster stairs, and in her Majesty's honour we twined garlands of rose and laurel about the lamps, brought out the gold plate, and used some of that old, gracious pageantry which graced the bygone times. Outside, the guns were firing a salute, the bells of London pealed for victory, and our trumpets pealed as we rose to drink to the Queen. Then Sir Myles Strangford came, attended by his staff, and from the upper stairway read the report of our triumph. "A hundred and fourteen thousand stand of arms, the German siege train, Woolwich Arsenal, three thousand wagons of military stores, twenty-two million rations----" The harsh call of a bugle cut short his words, a quick, imperative summons at the very gates of the Palace. No English bugle was sounded in such a place. When an attendant had been sent to make inquiries, Sir Myles went on reading the proclamation of victory, news that would bring comfort to the besieged, hope to all Britain. His voice was fervent in thanksgiving; a storm of cheering drowned his closing words. Standing with drawn swords we sang the National Anthem, thinking most of us of the women folk at home, our mothers and sisters in danger, and our dread sovereign Lady whom we served. Then the song died on our lips, our swords drooped, and there was silence while a vague fear gripped us at the throat. A Russian general officer had come up the stairway attended by a trooper bearing the white flag on a lance. "Gentlemen," he said, in broken English, "I have the honour--I bear a letter to her Britannic Majesty." His eyes followed ours as we directed him, and perhaps, after all, the Russians pleaded for an armistice. The Allies were ready to fly at each other's throats, there was hatred within the League more than against ourselves. And yet the Russian's bearing boded no good to us, and as our Lady read we saw her face turn grey. She beckoned the envoy to retire--told him to await her pleasure at the gates, kept silence until he was gone. "Strangford!" she cried, "Strangford! Come here!" She thrust the paper into Strangford's hand, and we saw him too grow cold before our eyes. "Madam," he groaned, "I fear this is the end."