Featherstone handed Geoffrey a cigar, and lighted one himself as the procession started. "I wonder where King George the Fifth is about this time," he said, with a forlorn smile. "No matter where he is," answered Geoffrey, in a voice of settled belief; "one thing is certain: Monarchy is dead forever in England--and it is time!" CHAPTER XII. IN THE LION'S MOUTH. The news of the suppression of the conspiracy and the arrest of the ringleaders caused great excitement over England. Enormous crowds paraded the streets of London demanding the exile of all persons who had formerly borne titles. The King was hung in effigy and his lay figure cremated in the public kiln at Lincoln's Inn Fields. Socialism became rampant. A rabble of the lowest orders of the people invaded Hyde Park and the other public gardens, making day and night hideous with their orgies. The famous Albert memorial statue was blown to shivers by dynamite at high noon, and unbridled license became the watchword of the masses. Such anarchy had never been known in England. Even the government, who at first were inclined to suffer the demonstration against the Royalists to gather head, grew alarmed. Absolute revolution was imminent, and resolute measures had to be taken. Nor did the public temper cool until threescore of the most wretched of those who live in the foul dens of the great city lay dead along the streets of Kensington and Belgravia. The military were forced to shoot them down to stem the tumult. Comparative quiet was restored at the end of ten days, and then the government ventured to bring the prisoners to London under a strong guard and lodge them in the Tower. Twenty thousand people, it is estimated, dogged the footsteps of the troops who escorted them, and it was only the points of bayonets and the muskets ready to deal death at a word that secured their safety. The conspirators marched two and two with lancers carrying loaded carbines on each flank. There were sixteen in all. John Dacre and Geoffrey Ripon were side by side. Neither of them had much hope of escaping the fury of the mob. The Duke of Bayswater and Colonel Featherstone rode a little in advance. The poor old duke's hat had fallen off, and his bald head was a shining mark for missiles. An egg had struck his pate and made an offensive daub.