At the top of the lane, a little group of Army officers in khaki service dress, who were standing on a strip of grass beside the hedge on the right, sprang smartly to attention, and saluted, as the car swept past them. Mechanically, the King raised his hand to his cap. A moment later, as the car rushed out on to the Great North Road, he realized, with a start, that this salute, and his acknowledgment of it, marked, definitely, his return to duty. Alfred, the sailor, was indeed dead. It was--the King--who had raised his hand to his cap. Instinctively, he had resumed his place in the procession. It had been just as Judith had said. The shadow thrown by his Royal rank had been waiting for him there in the lane, behind him-- "That was battalion headquarters, the Coldstreams, Colonel Varney Wilson in command," the Duke explained. "It is they who have been responsible for your safety, during the last twenty-four hours, sir." The King nodded; but made no other reply. The Duke shot one of his shrewd, penetrating glances at the King. Then the old statesman leant far back in his corner in the luxuriously upholstered car. He did not speak again. The King was grateful to the Duke for his silence, and for the ready understanding of his mood which that silence implied. "When an action speaks for itself, why use words? They will probably be the wrong words." That was Uncle Bond! He was going back to duty. That was quite enough at the moment. He did not want to talk about it-- The car rushed on up the broad, empty, sunlit road. Although it was still so early in the day, the cattle were already lying under the green shade of the trees, in the fields. The hedges on either side of the road were white with the blossoms of the wild rose. Overhead the sky was a luminous blue, unflecked by cloud-- This was Paradise that he was rushing through. This was Paradise that he was leaving. Would he ever return? Perhaps he would. But never with his old recklessness, never with his old lightness of heart. So much had happened. He had been through so much. He had changed. There was a heaviness of thought, a deadness of feeling, within him, now, which he had never known before. It was as if he had lost something, lost some part of himself, which he would never be able to recover. Was it his youth? The car swept on, smoothly, inexorably, without a check, at a high speed-- Was his real life beginning now? Uncle Bond again! Had he been living in a dream? Had he not often felt that he was living in a dream? a wild, grotesque, nightmare dream? But that had always been at the palace. Here, in Paradise, it had seemed to him that he was in touch with reality. And now, Paradise itself, and all that had happened there, seemed a dream. High time to awake out of sleep? He would be glad to awake. He would be glad to touch the real. But would he ever awake?