omatically into the hands of the controllers of the
Federation. Resistance was, of course, out of the question, and as
soon as it was once known for certain that the Tsar had been taken
prisoner and his army annihilated, no one thought seriously of it, as
it would have been utterly impossible to have defended even Russia
against the overwhelming forces of the Federation and the British
Empire, assisted by the two aerial fleets.

The _Ithuriel_, after a flight of a little more than an hour, stopped
and descended to the earth on the broad, sloping, and now
snow-covered lawn in front of Alanmere Castle. Lord Marazion and his
daughter, who, as it is almost needless to say, had been kept well
informed of the course of events since the Federation forces landed
in England, had also been warned by telegraph of the coming of their
aerial visitors, and before the _Ithuriel_ had touched the earth, the
new mistress of Alanmere had descended the steps of the terrace that
ran the whole length of the Castle front to welcome its lord and hers
back to his own again.

Then there were greetings of lovers and friends, well known to each
other by public report and familiar description, yet never seen in
the flesh till now, and of others long parted by distance and by
misconception of aims and motives. But however pleasing it might be
to dwell at length upon the details of such a meeting, and its
delightful contrast to the horrors of unsparing war and merciless
destruction, there is now no space to do so, for the original limits
of this history of the near future have already been reached and
overpassed, and it is time to make ready for the curtain to descend
upon the last scenes of the world-drama of the Year of Wonders--1904.

Tremayne was the first to alight, and he was followed by Natasha and
Arnold at a respectful distance, which they kept until the first
greeting between the two long and strangely-parted lovers was over.
When at length Lady Muriel got out of the arms of her future lord,
she at once ran to Natasha with both her hands outstretched, a very
picture of grace and health and blushing loveliness.

She was Natasha's other self, saving only for the incomparable
brilliance of colouring and contrast which the daughter of Natas
derived from her union of Eastern and Western blood. Yet no fairer
type of purely English beauty than Muriel Penarth could have been
found between the Border and the Land's End, and what she lacked of
N