"Gentlemen," our Lady lay back in her chair very faint and ill. "Gentlemen of the Guard, you who have never failed me--never failed me," she started up, a new thought lighting her face. "You're the only men in the Empire who have not failed me. I appeal to you--I want ships--I want a squadron of ships. Help me! help me!" Not a man moved, for how could we find her ships? We had given our yachts, those who had them, and had not failed her when our lives were needed--but ships! At the beginning the Channel Fleet was lost, but the fleets of the League were destroyed by etheric rams. The reserve fleets of France and Germany had been defeated by the Mediterranean Squadron. Victorious in a hundred aerial fights, the ships which remained to England were on guard, lest the French and Germans attempt a last attack. We dared not withdraw one cruiser lest our enemies take the air again--and that meant ruin. There was no squadron left even for the Queen's most vital need--or else the siege of London had been impossible. There were no ships. A slow tear trickled down our Lady's face. "We dared to hope," she said, "to hold out until Mr. Brand comes back--as he will come back! Oh, must he come too late?" That was the most piteous thing of all, that our Lady still believed Brand would come back. Sergeant Dymoke went to the Queen, and, bending his knee-- "Madam," he cried, "we are ready to go on fighting." "How can we fight?" said Margaret angrily. "What can we do against the Siberian Fleet? Can we ride horses upon the clouds, charge nineteen battleships of the line with rifles, float up our fortress guns to fight the stars?" And all the bells of London were pealing for victory! XXII THE LAST BATTLE Mars burned on the horizon; the six stars of Orion, the seven misty Pleiads, the eight suns of the Bear, and all the lamps of Heaven were shining steadfast. Suns spin their course, the constellations change, and all things pass, but yet eternal gleams the Milky Way spanning the night from everlasting unto everlasting--the perfect arch of God's restraining hand. We may lie down to rest in utter faith, for, with the failing glory of our day, the night reveals His visible providence. But those who cannot sleep most need His comfort, and our Lady Margaret kept vigil that last night. From the high solitude of her tower, she watched the passing stars until the black ruins of the city loomed ragged against white dawn light. Ashen grey were the ruins of Mayfair to the north; gaunt and gigantic wrecks of Belgravia's palaces went up in white against the velvet west. The day was breaking--the last day of all. Mist lay beneath where all the Palace slept, and in the gardens the waking doves crooned softly. Far off in the south, trains rumbled at some junction of the rails; a car whirred in the Palace Road; an aerial yacht slid past in the western gloom, and London was alive.