Then a herald, lifting up his voice, made proclamation that the Champion of England challenged in single combat to the death, any who should dare dispute the right of Margaret to the British Throne. When the proclamation had been made, the Champion rode forward, and taking the steel gauntlet from his hand, he flung it ringing upon the pavement. Even as he gave the challenge, the lightning blazed behind him, the roof was shaken with a crash of thunder, men sprang to their feet, and women screamed aloud, while with roar of wind, hissing rain, shaft upon shaft of lightning, and peal after peal of thunder, the dreadful elements took up the challenge. Amazed and appalled, the Queen and her nobles sat for the most part silent, but some few fled aimlessly from the tables, rushing here and there in panic. Nobody noticed in that confusion that a trooper, in the armour of the Guard, picked up the Champion's gauntlet from the floor. By that act he challenged Margaret's accession, and accepted the gage of battle with the Queen's Champion. Dymoke bent forward in the saddle, trying to see through the gloom. "Who are you?" he cried. "Damn you! Let see me your face." A blaze of lightning revealed to him the face of Prince Ali. "You fool," he cried; "do you challenge our Lady's right?" "Don't talk nonsense," said Ali, laughing. "Here," he presented the gauntlet with a gesture of mock humility, "you can't leave this lying about." The Champion seized the gauntlet, and with it struck Prince Ali across the face. The Indian drew back, his eyes gleaming out of the darkness. "Afterwards," he said. "Afterwards. You have challenged Heaven, and your God has answered you." V THE GATHERING STORM It was evening, and the sweet cool dusk brought many tired Londoners to the Mall. From the Victoria Monument to Trafalgar Square extended that old avenue where garlands of lamps festooned the trees, fountains sprayed liquid air to cool the gardens, cafés set out their tables and seats upon the gravel, and a military band provided music. At one of the tables a journeyman carpenter was at ease with ale and a pipe; and looking about for a seat came a grey old soldier, an Anglo-Indian colonel, lately retired. When the artisan made room and found a chair, the old man gruffly thanked him and sat down. "A warm night, sir?" "Ugh!" grunted the Colonel. "Where's that confounded waiter? Warm! Would you like a frost?" "Big crowd to-night, sir," ventured the carpenter. "Disgusting babel. Ur-r-r! In my time one came here for peace and quiet. I hate mixed crowds." "The modern democracy," observed the carpenter, his eyes twinkling amusement. "In the old days my father could not have sat here chattering sociably with your father, sir." "I didn't come here to jabber, curse you, sir!" said the Colonel. "Surely," he leaned forward, "I ought to know that old frump with the cloak---- "Lord Fortescue?"