There was just time for us to reach Hyde Park before the review, and we all three crowded into a hansom and sped away. Thousands surrounded the reviewing field, and it was only with difficulty that we found our way through. Our card of invitation worked wonders, however, and with that marvellous command of crowds which the London police possess, we finally came through and found ourselves at the reviewing stand, just as the band announced the coming of the troops. The Foot Guards first, with that strange downthrust of the foot, relic of the marching step of many decades ago, then the Scots, and then regiment after regiment, till the whole field was covered with the pride of Britain’s troops in their most gorgeous panoply of war. The King, in field marshal’s uniform, stood at the centre. What thoughts must have racked his brain as he stood there silent, erect, immobile! What visions of the long line of English sovereigns! What memories of the thousands of reviews of centuries past, when Britain’s soldiers left for wars of conquest, or returned, bearing new laurels, offering new lands to the great island empire! The music ceased. As if by one accord, the ensigns of the regiments, bearing the old flags, torn by shot and shell, revealing in golden scroll the record of British prowess, came to the front and centre. Then, in one long line, forward came the colors. The King saluted, and they turned and formed a compact mass of brilliant color on the right. I heard a whispered question and answer. “What is to be done with the colors?” “They are to go to the Abbey for a chapel of the flags.”