Tenuous wreaths of smoke hung midway up the columns, and blurred the golden vault. The mob was dispersed after pillage, save for a few maniacs still running on our swords. On every side the floor was covered with long rows of beds, the air was filled with wailing, screams and groans, and through the deep gloom one could see the stunted felons of the slums, cursing and shrieking as they fought over their plunder. Plate, robes, gems, porcelain, bronzes, the gifts of kings, and trophies of great campaigns, were fought for by the rabble, snatched from hand to hand, or shattered on the pavement. Drunk with wine from the cellars, mad with bloodshed, fighting among themselves, murdering at random, these obscene robbers forgot to attack the Guard. We were dressing each other's wounds, rescuing women from outrage, contriving a barricade to shelter our refugees; and in her throne our Lady awaited the end. We scarcely could see the further columns now, so dense the gloom, so heavy the rolling smoke. Far on our right down the east corridor, bright flames swept nearer and nearer, lighting the hall at last with a crimson glare, and like sunset clouds rolled the red smoke above. So the end came. We heard a bugle call, clear notes soaring above all the tumult, sweet music for us who waited--the "Advance." We left our work on the barricading about the dais, clasped hands one with another, said "Good-bye." The Russian bugles called; one, then another, and a third far off. Her Majesty cried to her surgeons and able-bodied men to withdraw with the refugees, to hoist a white flag and stand aside from death under the shelter of the colonnades. We forced a swift obedience, we of the Guard. And coming back we heard our Lady scream! She had half risen, one knee on the seat of the throne, her eyes dilated with horror, set on the east corridor. There under the flames, it seemed from the very midst of the flames, Miss Temple came, walking slowly, as though in a dream. She reached out her arms to us--her hands had been cut off at the wrists--her grey hair streamed with blood, her gown of black brocade was torn away at the breast. As she entered the throne-room the robbers fell shrinking back on either side, opening a lane through the beds to give her passage. Death was in her face, as tenderly we led her to the Queen, and then at Margaret's feet she found rest. Her Majesty was crying. Saluting the throne as we passed, we formed before the dais, measured each man his distance, and made ready. Lancaster, badly wounded and barely able to stand, planted the Guidon on our Lady's right, our lance-borne pennant charged with the royal arms, half seen through low-rolling flame-hued smoke, glowing with golden and scarlet blazonry.