Montano bit his lip scornfully. It was on his tongue to spurn this spiritless creature. But he suppressed himself.
'What would you, then?' he demanded; 'you, the wretched victim of the system you commend?'
'Ah!' sighed Lupo, 'ideally, Messer, an autocracy, with an angel at its head.'
The philosopher laughed harshly.
'Why,' he sneered, 'there is your ideal come to hand. Be plain. Shall we depose a tyrant, and elect in his place this new-arrived, this divine boy, as ye all title him?'
'Why not?'
Montano started and stared at the speaker. There was suggestion here—of a standard for innovation; of a rallying-point for reform. A republic, like a despotism, might find its telling battle-cry in a saint. The boy, as representing the liberty of conscience, was already a subject of popular adoration. Why should they not use him as a fulcrum to the lever of revolution, and, having done with, return him to the cloisters from which he drew? There was suggestion here.
He mused a little, then broke out suddenly:—
'Brutus is none the less indispensable.'
'I do not gainsay it, master.'