"Content," said Lord Halifax, the bearer of a title which had become
extinct in the Saville family, and was destined to become extinct again
in that of Montague. Montague is distinct from Montagu and Montacute.
And Lord Halifax added, "Prince George has an allowance as Her Majesty's
Consort; he has another as Prince of Denmark; another as Duke of
Cumberland; another as Lord High Admiral of England and Ireland; but he
has not one as Commander-in-Chief. This is an injustice and a wrong
which must be set right, in the interest of the English people."

Then Lord Halifax passed a eulogium on the Christian religion, abused
popery, and voted the subsidy.

Lord Halifax sat down, and the Clerk resumed,--

"My Lord Christopher, Baron Barnard."

Lord Barnard, from whom were to descend the Dukes of Cleveland, rose to
answer to his name.

"Content."

He took some time in reseating himself, for he wore a lace band which
was worth showing. For all that, Lord Barnard was a worthy gentleman and
a brave officer.

While Lord Barnard was resuming his seat, the Clerk, who read by
routine, hesitated for an instant; he readjusted his spectacles, and
leaned over the register with renewed attention; then, lifting up his
head, he said,--

"My Lord Fermain Clancharlie, Baron Clancharlie and Hunkerville."

Gwynplaine arose.

"Non-content," said he.

Every face was turned towards him. Gwynplaine remained standing. The
branches of candles, placed on each side of the throne, lighted up his
features, and marked them against the darkness of the august chamber in
the relief with which a mask might show against a background of smoke.

Gwynplaine had made that effort over himself which, it may be
remembered, was possible to him in extremity. By a concentration of will
equal to that which would be needed to cow a tiger, he had succeeded in
obliterating for a moment the fatal grin upon his face. For an instant
he no longer laughed. This effort could not last long. Rebellion against
that which is our law or our fatality must be short-lived; at times the
waters of the sea resist the power of gravitation, swell into a
waterspout and become a mountain, but only on the condition of falling
back again.

Such a struggle was Gwynplaine's. For an instant, which he felt to be a
solemn one, by a prodigious intensity of will, but for not much longer
than a flash of lightning lasts, he had thrown over his brow the dark
veil of his soul--he held in suspe