It stirred a half-uneasy, half-laughing compunction. He could not
flatter himself--yet--that his cousin had forgotten it.
"What gate?--and what threshold?" he asked Diana, as they moved on. "If
you mean the gate of power--it is too late. Democracy is in the
citadel--and has run up its own flag. Or to take another metaphor--the
Whirlwind is in possession--the only question is who shall ride it!"
Diana declared that the Socialists would ride it to the abyss--with
England on the crupper.
"Magnificent!" said Marsham, "but merely rhetorical. Besides--all that
we ask, is that Ferrier should ride it. Let him only try the beast--and
he will find it tame enough."
"And if he won't?--"
"Ah, if he won't--" said Marsham, uncertainly, and paused. In the
growing darkness she could no longer see his face plainly. But presently
he resumed, more earnestly and simply.
"Don't misunderstand me! Ferrier is our chief--my chief, above all--and
one does not even discuss whether one is loyal to him. The party owes
him an enormous debt. As for myself--" He drew a long breath, which was
again a sigh.
Then with a change of manner, and in a lighter tone: "I seem to have
given myself away--to an enemy!"
"Poor enemy!"
[Illustration: "The man's pulses leaped anew".
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