“I do not,” said Ned calmly. “I recognise only the right of the individual to an independent expression of self. To secure this he must conform to a social code that excludes the processes of tyranny.” “And that code must read equality.” “No; for men are not equal. The world must always exhibit a sliding-scale of intellect and capacity; the unit, a perpetual aspiration. Materially, there must be a desideratum--an _ultima ratio_ to ambition. Call it king, consul, dictator. Whatever its name, it is merely the crystallisation of a people’s character and energy--the highest effect given to a national tendency.” “But all this, my friend, is not compatible with hereditary titles.” “No; and there I pause.” “It is gracious of you. A little further, and you will recognise the impossibility of patching up old fustian to wear like new cloth. Better to commit all to the fire than to spare the sorry stuff because a bit here and there is less decayed than the rest.” As he spoke a square of mellow radiance met them at a turning of their path. The light proceeded from the window of a wooden hut or shanty--a tool-shed it might have been, or at the best a little disused hunters’ lodge. It was sunk in a bosket of evergreens; built of luffer-boards that gaped in many places; and its roof of flaking tiles was all sown with buttons of moss. “The headquarters of the brotherhood,” said St Denys, with a laugh; and he pushed open a creaking door and drew his visitor within. “_Holà_, Basile!” came in a triple note of greeting. Ned found himself--wondering somewhat--in a bare, small room, furnished only with a table and plain benches of chestnutwood. At this table were seated the exiguous sizar of the “Landlust,” and a couple of rather truculent-looking gentry--farmers of small holdings, by reasonable surmise. An oil-lamp burned against the wall, and its light swayed wooingly on the face of the fourth member of the company--Théroigne Lambertine, whom the young man had foreguessed to be the goddess. She sat, raised a little above the others, at the head of the board, a smile on her lips, her eyes awake with daring. Her hair was loosely caught under a scarlet handkerchief; about her bosom a white fichu was only too slackly knotted. Ned had never seen a living creature so richly secure in the defensive and aggressive qualities of beauty. She looked at him with a little defiance of recognition. “_Mes amis_,” said St Denys, “I have the pleasure to introduce to you a visitor whom you will know as Edouard. He is all, I may tell you, for reforming society.” “That is a discipline thou shalt not wield here, Edouard,” cried one of the loobies, with an insolent laugh. Ned faced the speaker gravely. “Not even for the whipping of a jackass?” said he. There answered a cackle of derision. St Denys caught his friend by the arm. “It is unfair, it is unfair!” he cried merrily. “I have brought him hither without a word of explanation.”