Free Sergeant Verity and the Blood Royal by Francis Selwyn

men.
    Soon there appeared a line of breakers between dense foliage, the writhing and hissing of a cataract, enough to make the very banks quiver with its vibration. The tumbling waters emerged at last on to the brink of a sheer and mighty-precipice, extending in its thunder far away into the western sunset. Into the cauldron of spray beneath, the mighty curtain of green plunged smooth as oil or polished marble. As the sun clipped behind the hills on the American shore a great gauze-like mist rose higher from the seething waters below, making the very rocks and pine woods seem like a stage magician's vision hovering in the air. The young man and his companions stood, as though in the presence of a divine revelation, before the majesty of Niagara.
    He alone stood forward from the rest. Behind him was a group of older men. One of these, a grave-looking figure with a fair beard closely-trimmed, approached the young man and spoke softly.
    'Mr Blackwell's Bengal Lights, sir. They will be best seen from where we stand now.'
    The youth nodded, as though his heart were too full for speech. There was a moment's delay, and then from the cliff below them and from behind the very curtain of waters sweeping into the abyss, a silver magnesium brilliance blazed out across the dark chasm. From the party on Table Rock and from the crowds on either bank there was a gasp of wonder. The great falls of the Niagara had been turned into a shimmering surface of crystal glass, in which the droplets of the spray became a cascade of diamonds, and the seething foam shone white as a river of phosphorus.
    At length the Bengal Lights began to sputter and die, but only to be rekindled in deepest red. The Niagara seemed a torrent of blood or a river of fire in the night. In its deep natural drama the transformation scene held the great crowds in silent veneration. Then, at last, the two hundred torches guttered and died, one by one.
    The eighteen-year-old Prince of Wales stood for a long time alone gazing at the darkened scene from the edge of the rock, while the trimly-bearded Duke of Newcastle, Secretary-of-State for the Colonies, and the other officials of his party stood behind him in respectful attendance. Behind them were several young officers of the Prince's staff.
    Further back still, in the shadows, stood Sergeant Verity, his large boots planted firmly apart, one hand resting in the palm of the other behind his back. It was the approved stance for a Private-Clothes officer on surveillance duty of this kind.
    The grandeur of the occasion had moved him so deeply that there was a lump in his throat. He had never seen anything to approach such a display. Just before his departure for America he had taken Bella to Mr Grieve's Stereorama at the Cremorne Gardens, on his rest day. All the others in the jostling crowd of the canvas booth had sworn that it was just like being in the Alps or on the shores of the Italian lakes, so vivid were the scenes. Yet he had thought it only a clever toy. The glory of Niagara illuminated was the union of man and nature, so sublime that one might shed a manly tear in admiration. Such a tribute would have been absurd in a penny show at the Cremorne.
    The young Prince walked alone and thoughtfully along the path which led back to the grounds of Clifton House on the Canadian bank of the river. Among its trees and gardens were several picturesque cottages. One of these accommodated the Prince himself, while the others were taken up by the Duke of Newcastle, General Bruce, who was the Prince's Governor, Dr Acland the Royal Surgeon, and the dark plump figure of Lord Lyons, the British Ambassador to the United States. These dignitaries followed their young master at a distance, talking with bright self-consciousness. Verity strode heavily behind. He had learnt by instinct that there was a point which was close enough for him to be an effective bodyguard, and yet not so close as to make his presence intrusive.
    A single illuminated