"But the coin, the sovereign, is something more than gold. It's stamped with a dreadfully hideous portrait of me, and my name, for a proof that the head wasn't meant for a crocodile." "Yes, madame, it pledges the national honour that melted down or ground to powder its precious gold remains of untarnished worth. Failing that, the coin, even with the Queen's image, is spurious." "A promise to pay," said Margaret, "and the promise keeps if I'm beggared." "To pay, madame, yes, in food or fuel, or clothes, but the question is how much? For in the great sea of commerce, the prices rise and fall; and like a post to measure the flood and the ebb, so is the changeless standard of gold recording the tides of trade. Without that index, no man could sell his labour, or buy food. If Brand strikes down the standard, the world will starve." "I understand," said Margaret. "Have you told me all?" "About this peril, madame? No, not half. The wreck of the world can hardly be put in a phrase." "I mean about Mr. Brand's letter. He threatened these terrors unless--unless what?" "Unless the Queen suspends all relations with Russia. That means war with Europe." The Queen laughed nervously. "Is Mr. Brand so wicked as all that? Shall we have him beheaded? I've got a headache, and I'd like to have somebody beheaded." "I wish it were possible," the Chancellor sighed. "Statecraft was so simple, so direct, so easy once. But now----" "Would Mr. Brand be as fierce if he had to make his threat openly in public?" "Excellent!" said Ulster. "I could call him to appear at the Bar of the Commons. But that is a last resort--a forlorn hope. There's a gentler way than that. Do you remember, madame, the old Greek myth of Una, who led a lion captive to her beauty. I cannot fight this lion----" Margaret blushed. "Turn this gentleman from his purpose. I come to the Queen to confess myself defeated, beaten, humbled, a toothless old man in a terrible mess. Ah, madame, you can hardly know as yet the mysterious power of a woman's beauty." "It sounds such utter nonsense," said Margaret, "and besides he's a monster, he hates women! Subdue this lion?" she added, thoughtfully. "Perhaps Lyonesse will do the like with me." * * * * * The Chancellor was gone, and Margaret sat alone, watching the passing shadows of white clouds, when Miss Temple came in upon her Lady's solitude, trembling lest the Queen should scold her, and hovered over her with a kiss and some whispers. "Why, of course," said Margaret, gaily. "Let him come." The governess returned leading Lord Sydney by the hand, while at the sound of the man's armour, Margaret felt a queer small thrill in her veins. "Sydney, come here." He bent upon his knee, kissed her white hand, but dared not lift his eyes to see her face.