e wail of the Funeral March, the
flash of suddenly whitened faces turned one way to greet Her as She
passed, borne to Her rest upon a gun-carriage, as fitting an aged warrior
Queen; drawn to her wedded couch within the tomb by the willing, faithful
hands of her sons of the twin Services, who shall forget, that heard and
witnessed?

Who shall forget?

The Royal Standard draped across the satin-white, gold-fringed pall, where
on rich crimson cushions rested the Three Emblems of Sovereignty. The
dignified, kingly figure of a man, no longer young, bowed with sorrow
under the Imperial heritage, preceding the splendid sombre company of
crowned heads; the blaze of uniforms and orders, the clank of sword and
bridle, the potent ring of steel on steel, the sumptuously-trapped,
shining horses pacing slowly, drawing the mourning-carriages of State,
their closed windows, frosted with chilly fog, yielding scant glimpses of
well-known faces. One most beloved, most lovely, and no less so in sorrow
than in joy. "_Did you see her?_" the women asked of one another, as the
pageant passed and vanished, and one good soul, all breathless from the
crush, gasped as she straightened her battered bonnet and twitched her
trodden skirt: "There never was a better than the blessed soul that's
gone, but there couldn't be a sweeter nor a beautifuller Queen than the
one she leaves behind her!"

The last wail of the Funeral March having died away into silence, the last
cannon-shot gone booming out, down came the foggy dusk on bereaved London.
A chill rime settled on the swaying laurel wreaths, and on the folds of
the fluttering purple draperies at the close of the dismal day. The shops
were shut, and many of the restaurants, but the windows of the Clubs
gleamed radiantly down Piccadilly, and every refreshment-bar and
public-house was thronged to bursting. Noon changed to evening, and
evening lengthened into night, and the pavements began to be crowded. The
Flesh Bazaar was being held in Piccadilly, and all up Regent Street and
all down the Haymarket the chaffering went on for bodies and for souls.

A deadly physical and mental lassitude weighed on Saxham. His soul was
sick with the long, hopeless struggle. He would end it. He would die, and
take away the shadow from Lynette's pure life, and leave her free. His
will devised to her everything he possessed, leaving her untrammelled. Let
her learn to love once more, let her marry a better man, and be happ