ficent livery.

Gwynplaine, in spite of his bewildered state, in which he felt quite
overcome, remarked the gorgeously-attired footmen, and asked the Usher
of the Black Rod,--

"Whose livery is that?"

He answered,--

"Yours, my lord."

The House of Lords was to sit that evening. _Curia erat serena_, run the
old records. In England parliamentary work is by preference undertaken
at night. It once happened that Sheridan began a speech at midnight and
finished it at sunrise.

The two postchaises returned to Windsor. Gwynplaine's carriage set out
for London. This ornamented four-horse carriage proceeded at a walk from
Brentford to London, as befitted the dignity of the coachman.
Gwynplaine's servitude to ceremony was beginning in the shape of his
solemn-looking coachman. The delay was, moreover, apparently
prearranged; and we shall see presently its probable motive.

Night was falling, though it was not quite dark, when the carriage
stopped at the King's Gate, a large sunken door between two turrets
connecting Whitehall with Westminster. The escort of gentlemen
pensioners formed a circle around the carriage. A footman jumped down
from behind it and opened the door. The Usher of the Black Rod, followed
by the officer carrying the cushion, got out of the carriage, and
addressed Gwynplaine.

"My lord, be pleased to alight. I beg your lordship to keep your hat
on."

Gwynplaine wore under his travelling cloak the suit of black silk, which
he had not changed since the previous evening. He had no sword. He left
his cloak in the carriage. Under the arched way of the King's Gate there
was a small side door raised some few steps above the road. In
ceremonial processions the greatest personage never walks first.

The Usher of the Black Rod, followed by his officer, walked first;
Gwynplaine followed. They ascended the steps, and entered by the side
door. Presently they were in a wide, circular room, with a pillar in the
centre, the lower part of a turret. The room, being on the ground floor,
was lighted by narrow windows in the pointed arches, which served but to
make darkness visible. Twilight often lends solemnity to a scene.
Obscurity is in itself majestic.

In this room, thirteen men, disposed in ranks, were standing--three in
the front row, six in the second row, and four behind. In the front row
one wore a crimson velvet gown; the other two, gowns of the same colour,
but of satin. All three had the arms of England