“My Lord John Leveson, Baron Gower,” continued the Clerk.

This Baron, from whom were to spring the Dukes of Sutherland, rose, and, as he reseated himself, said “Content.”

The Clerk went on.

“My Lord Heneage Finch, Baron Guernsey.”

The ancestor of the Earls of Aylesford, neither older nor less elegant than the ancestor of the Marquises of Hertford, justified his device, Aperto vivere voto, by the proud tone in which he exclaimed, “Content.”

Whilst he was resuming his seat, the Clerk called the fifth Baron,—­

“My Lord John, Baron Granville.”

Rising and resuming his seat quickly, “Content,” exclaimed Lord Granville, of Potheridge, whose peerage was to become extinct in 1709.

The Clerk passed to the sixth.

“My Lord Charles Montague, Baron Halifax.”

“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.