ea of cities came on with their banners like
breakers, and swallowed Notting Hill for ever. The battle was not
over, for not one of Wayne's men would surrender, and it lasted till
sundown, and long after. But it was decided; the story of Notting Hill
was ended.

When Turnbull saw it, he ceased a moment from fighting, and looked
round him. The evening sunlight struck his face; it looked like a
child's.

"I have had my youth," he said. Then, snatching an axe from a man, he
dashed into the thick of the spears of Shepherd's Bush, and died
somewhere far in the depths of their reeling ranks. Then the battle
roared on; every man of Notting Hill was slain before night.

Wayne was standing by a tree alone after the battle. Several men
approached him with axes. One struck at him. His foot seemed partly to
slip; but he flung his hand out, and steadied himself against the
tree.

Barker sprang after him, sword in hand, and shaking with excitement.

"How large now, my lord," he cried, "is the Empire of Notting Hill?"

Wayne smiled in the gathering dark.

"Always as large as this," he said, and swept his sword round in a
semicircle of silver.

Barker dropped, wounded in the neck; and Wilson sprang over his body
like a tiger-cat, rushing at Wayne. At the same moment there came
behind the Lord of the Red Lion a cry and a flare of yellow, and a
mass of the West Kensington halberdiers ploughed up the slope,
knee-deep in grass, bearing the yellow banner of the city before them,
and shouting aloud.

At the same second Wilson went down under Wayne's sword, seemingly
smashed like a fly. The great sword rose again like a bird, but Wilson
seemed to rise with it, and, his sword being broken, sprang at Wayne's
throat like a dog. The foremost of the yellow halberdiers had reached
the tree and swung his axe above the struggling Wayne. With a curse
the King whirled up his own halberd, and dashed the blade in the man's
face. He reeled and rolled down the slope, just as the furious Wilson
was flung on his back again. And again he was on his feet, and again
at Wayne's throat. Then he was flung again, but this time laughing
triumphantly. Grasped in his hand was the red and yellow favour that
Wayne wore as Provost of Notting Hill. He had torn it from the place
where it had been carried for twenty-five years.

With a shout the West Kensington men closed round Wayne, the great
yellow banner flapping over his head.

"Where is your favour now,