e little room
once more, where they are gathered speechless about Hilary Vane. And the
doctor comes young Dr. Tredway of Ripton, who is before all others.

"I expected this to happen, gentlemen," he said, "and I have been here
all day, at the request of Mr. Vane's son, for this purpose."

"Austen!"

It was Hilary who spoke.

"I have sent for him," said the doctor. "And now, gentlemen, if you will
kindly--"

They withdrew and the doctor shut the door. Outside, the Honourable Giles
is telling them how seriously he regards the responsibility of the honour
thrust upon him by a great party. But nobody hears him in the wild
rumours that fly from mouth to mouth as the hall empties. Rushing in
against the tide outpouring, tall, stern, vigorous, is a young man whom
many recognize, whose name is on many lips as they make way for him, who
might have saved them if he would. The door of the little room opens, and
he stands before his father, looking down at him. And the stern
expression is gone from his face.

"Austen!" said Mr. Vane.

"Yes, Judge."

"Take me away from here. Take me home--now--to-night."

Austen glanced at Dr. Tredway.

"It is best," said the doctor; "we will take him home--to-night."

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE VOICE OF AN ERA

They took him home, in the stateroom of the sleeper attached to the night
express from the south, although Mr. Flint, by telephone, had put a
special train at his disposal. The long service of Hilary Vane was over;
he had won his last fight for the man he had chosen to call his master;
and those who had fought behind him, whose places, whose very luminary
existences, had depended on his skill, knew that the end had come; nay,
were already speculating, manoeuvring, and taking sides. Who would be the
new Captain-general? Who would be strong enough to suppress the straining
ambitions of the many that the Empire might continue to flourish in its
integrity and gather tribute? It is the world-old cry around the palace
walls: Long live the new ruler--if you can find him among the curdling
factions.

They carried Hilary home that September night, when Sawanec was like a
gray ghost-mountain facing the waning moon, back to the home of those
strange, Renaissance Austens which he had reclaimed for a grim
puritanism, and laid him in the carved and canopied bedstead Channing
Austen had brought from Spain. Euphrasia had met them at the door, but a
trained nurse from the Ripton hospital wa