tossing his head to let the sun gleam on his coal-black mane and swaying plumes. Then upon the dead silence—the impressive silence of a waiting multitude—rings the herald's voice proclaiming the King-Emperor. We strain our ears to catch his every word. Then the salutes. We sit in silence, listening. One hundred and one guns boom out across the plain. 'God save the King.' Twice after the feu de joie, the inspiring strains ring out from the massed bands beyond. Each time they bring a rush of pride and exultation as the vast assembly rises to its feet. Never before had I realised the full impressiveness of that national hymn. Played like that in those surroundings, one heard it with other ears. But too often it is nothing more than the signal for departure, the hurried putting on of cloaks, the murmuring of the last words of farewell. Here one stood listening tense and eager, greatly moved by what had passed, and waiting for that which was yet to come. Could there have been one in all that great throng who was not stirred to the very depths? All that there was of loyalty in one seemed to rise to meet those clear, triumphant, acclaiming notes as they rang out upon the quivering listening air. 'Victorious, happy, and glorious.' Was there a heart that did not respond? 'God save the King.'
Then the Emperor's message, listened to with breathless interest, and the Viceroy's speech, every word ringing out clear and true to the furthest limits of that vast amphitheatre. Then, turning towards us, the Herald called to us to take our part in the
