Though the song had stopped so abruptly, though the special music of this gathering reasserted itself, the motif of the marching song, once it had begun, lingered in his mind.

The bright-eyed lady was still struggling with the mysteries of Eadhamite when he perceived the girl he had seen in the theatre again.  She was coming now along the gallery towards him; he saw her first before she saw him.  She was dressed in a faintly luminous grey, her dark hair about her brows was like a cloud, and as he saw her the cold light from the circular opening into the ways fell upon her downcast face.

The lady in trouble about the Eadhamite saw the change in his expression, and grasped her opportunity to escape.  “Would you care to know that girl, Sire?” she asked boldly.  “She is Helen Wotton—­a niece of Ostrog’s.  She knows a great many serious things.  She is one of the most serious persons alive.  I am sure you will like her.”

In another moment Graham was talking to the girl, and the bright-eyed lady had fluttered away.

“I remember you quite well,” said Graham.  “You were in that little room.  When all the people were singing and beating time with their feet.  Before I walked across the Hall.”

Her momentary embarrassment passed.  She looked up at him, and her face was steady.  “It was wonderful,” she said, hesitated, and spoke with a sudden effort.  “All those people would have died for you, Sire.  Countless people did die for you that night.”

Her face glowed.  She glanced swiftly aside to see that no other heard her words.

Lincoln appeared some way off along the gallery, making his way through the press towards them.  She saw him and turned to Graham strangely eager, with a swift change to confidence and intimacy.  “Sire,” she said quickly, “I cannot tell you now and here.  But the common people are very unhappy; they are oppressed—­they are misgoverned.  Do not forget the people, who faced death—­death that you might live.”

“I know nothing—­” began Graham.

“I cannot tell you now.”

Lincoln’s face appeared close to them.  He bowed an apology to the girl.

“You find the new world amusing, Sire?” asked Lincoln, with smiling deference, and indicating the space and splendour of the gathering by one comprehensive gesture.  “At any rate, you find it changed.”

“Yes,” said Graham, “changed.  And yet, after all, not so greatly changed.”

“Wait till you are in the air,” said Lincoln.  “The wind has fallen; even now an aeroplane awaits you.”

The girl’s attitude awaited dismissal.

Graham glanced at her face, was on the verge of a question, found a warning in her expression, bowed to her and turned to accompany Lincoln.

CHAPTER XVI

THE MONOPLANE