"If we do not unite and have another revolution!" answered Dacre, slowly and firmly.
There was a slight sound outside the room, which made Geoffrey raise his eyes and glance toward the window; but Dacre, now aflame with his subject, stood before him and arrested his look.
"Ripon, do you think that the nobles, the gentlemen of England, have lain down like submissive creatures to this atrocious revolt? Do you think nothing has been done?"
"In Heaven's name, what can be done?" asked Geoffrey.
"What did the Anarchists do when they wanted power?" asked Dacre fiercely. "They banded together in secret. They swore to be true to each other to the death. They armed and drilled and prepared their plans. They watched every avenue, and took advantage of every mistake of ours. They inflamed the masses against the Royal Family, the Court, the House of Peers, the landed aristocracy, and when their hour of opportunity came they raised the cry of revolution, and the government was changed in a day."
"Well?"
"Well!—we have learned their lesson. What they did we shall do. We have banded ourselves together. What is that?"
A noise like a creaking door had struck Dacre's ear, and he stopped. Geoffrey had heard it, too, and instantly jumped up and walked into the kitchen. Reynolds was not there; but Geoffrey heard him at work in another room. He returned smiling.
"Either an owl or a ghost, Dacre," he said, looking out on the field. "There is not a soul but old Reynolds within two miles of this place."
Dacre continued to pace the room, and as he walked he said in a low voice: