The Honourable Hilary Vane, captain-general of the Forces, had had but four hours’ sleep, and his Excellency, the Honourable Asa Gray, when he arose in the twilight of the morning, had to step carefully to avoid the cigar butts on the floor which—­like so many empty cartridge shells were unpleasant reminders that a rebellion of no mean magnitude had arisen against the power to which he owed allegiance, and by the favour of which he was attended with pomp and circumstance wherever he chose to go.

Long before eleven o’clock the paths to the state-house were thronged with people.  Beside the office-holders and their friends who were in town, there were many residents of the capital city in the habit of going to hear the livelier debates.  Not that the powers of the Empire had permitted debates on most subjects, but there could be no harm in allowing the lower House to discuss as fiercely as they pleased dog and sheep laws and hedgehog bounties.  But now!  The oldest resident couldn’t remember a case of high treason and rebellion against the Northeastern such as this promised to be, and the sensation took on an added flavour from the fact that the arch rebel was a figure of picturesque interest, a millionaire with money enough to rent the Duncan house and fill its long-disused stable with horses, who was a capitalist himself and a friend of Mr. Flint’s; of whom it was said that he was going to marry Mr. Flint’s daughter!

Long before eleven, too, the chiefs over tens and the chiefs over hundreds had gathered their men and marched them into the state-house; and Mr. Tooting, who was everywhere that morning, noticed that some of these led soldiers had pieces of paper in their hands.  The chaplain arose to pray for guidance, and the House was crowded to its capacity, and the gallery filled with eager and expectant faces—­but the hero of the hour had not yet arrived.  When at length he did walk down the aisle, as unconcernedly as though he were an unknown man entering a theatre, feminine whispers of “There he is!” could plainly be heard above the buzz, and simultaneous applause broke out in spots, causing the Speaker to rap sharply with his gavel.  Poor Mr. Speaker Doby!  He looked more like the mock-turtle than ever! and might have exclaimed, too, that once he had been a real turtle:  only yesterday, in fact, before he had made the inconceivable blunder of recognizing Mr. Humphrey Crewe.  Mr. Speaker Doby had spent a part of the night in room Number Seven listening to things about himself.  Herminius the unspeakable has given the enemy a foothold in Rome.

Apparently unaware that he was the centre of interest, Mr. Crewe, carrying a neat little bag full of papers, took his seat beside the Honourable Jacob Botcher, nodding to that erstwhile friend as a man of the world should.  And Mr. Botcher, not to be outdone, nodded back.