The Duke sat down in his official chair, and under lowering brows, glared at the Minister. "Sir Myles," he said, "do you think you are entirely safe insulting me?" "Safe? Confound you, Ulster--do your worst. We'll both be ruined by midnight anyway. Brand's people have attacked us in the Commons--they've produced this damned Treaty of yours with Russia--clause by clause, and the House is furious. We've had to give them the lie that there's any such Treaty. Come down and defend yourself, man, if you want to stay in office." "Sir Myles," answered the Chancellor, "go to the Opposition with all your tribe, if you dare! Go, take your panic back to your seat in the House, and when I follow, see that I find you there. Get out of my room." The Chancellor was alone in the silence, gnawing his fingers, biting his nails to the quick. He must go to the House of Lords, he must fight, he must get the Commons pacified, the Russian Treaty accepted by Parliament--that or war with the Leagued Nations, that or the destruction of the betrayed fleets, that or invasion, conquest, the fall of the Empire, his own destruction, and never-ending infamy. What could he do in the Parliament, what threats, sacrifices, appeals--to rally his scattered forces, to stay their panic? Yes! In one flash he saw his way cleared. He rose from his place triumphant, his eyes alight with victory! The Queen's move gives checkmate to this King Brand III. A secretary crept in timidly, offering up words, then with a gasp of fear recoiled before Ulster's eyes. "A letter? Bring it here. Go." The Duke saw the superscription, and a trembling seized him, so that he sank back into his chair, for the writing was in the hand of Brand, his adversary, strong, hard, ominous. He wrenched the cover open, bent, and read, his livid face and burning eyes set on the script. And in effect the ultimatum ran: "Resign, or fight Lyonesse." He looked up, his lips quivering, his face convulsed. "I must, I must," he muttered. To resign was to face the Russian vengeance, to fight, destruction. "I must, I must!" he whispered. "I shall go to the Queen." Then throwing himself upon the desk, he buried his face in his arms. VI THE PENANCE CHAMBER There was one door in the palace which the frivolous passed on tiptoe, where the boldest paused before they ventured to knock. Miss Temple lived there, the Queen's governess, who was supposed to refresh herself daily from the Lamentations of Jeremiah, the Psalms of Imprecation, and the cheering pages of Job. If ever the Queen's ladies romped in the corridor, she would come forth denouncing the iniquities of the age, and once when a profane Guardsman blew cigarette smoke through the keyhole, Miss Temple curdled his young blood with lurid prophesy. On Monday, the 9th of June, pretty Mrs. Osbourne called. Her Jack had told her that his cousin, Miss Temple, was "a gay old puss who would tell naughty stories by the hour."