"There is the Siberian Fleet," Margaret was gazing upwards at the vast line of battle in the eastern sky. "When the sun reddens their wings, they will destroy my fortresses, murder my people, make the Thames run blood. My place is with my people--I am their Queen, and still I shall labour for them, pray for them in that other world, leading my spirit people, my free people. Then I shall leave no children on this earth borne of my shame, descended from British Kings to be vassals of Russia. "But, oh, if only my people might be saved! Stand up again! Stand up--the sun is reddening the Russian Fleet. Stand up--look to the west--there must be ships in the west--his ships from Lyonesse! No ships! Still no ships! Let us go down and take our horses out; I shall die with my Guard to-day! I shall ride with my Guard, Beyond!" * * * * * "Fours right! Left wheel--by y'r left, march! Carry ar-r-r-ms!" The old avenue lay ahead of us, the Mall, and as we rode out slowly past the Victoria Monument, our Lady looked back, once, lifting her hand in farewell--perhaps to Miss Temple on some balcony. Our wounded were with us, all who could keep the saddle, and Lancaster, still very weak, carried the Guidon of the Regiment. The early sunlight, dappled through green leaves, caught gold and scarlet, silver and blazonry; our horses played like great babies because of the dewy freshness in the air; and so we broke to a trot, every man with his eyes set straight to the front, his hand gently on the curb, his thoughts--so far away! All round the white horizon, guns of position thundered, shells burst, and spluttering rifles kept up the long monotony of battle, white dust went up, and rolling smoke, flame, and the souls of men. A shell burst close beside us as we swung through St. James' Palace into Pall Mall, another, as we entered Waterloo Place, struck the Crimean Monument just ahead; but we breasted the hill in lower Regent Street between dead shuttered buildings all asleep, as though it were Sunday morning in times of peace. We crossed the circus set round with familiar theatres, and hotels, their porches still bearing torn playbills on the columns, their cornices and domes just caught by the morning light. A falling shell scattered the rear ranks and burst. Ambrose was killed, O'Hagan wounded, Joubert, the Transvaaller, was unhorsed. Drawing his sword, he saluted her Majesty, then set the point to his neck, drove the blade home, and fell. We rode on through the Quadrant, entering Regent Street. We were a troop of cowards, ashen white and shaken, ready to run if a dog barked. The hot blood tingling in our veins, young strength, the desires of manhood, all the powers of nature cried out within us demanding life. Why should we die!