"I want exactly what you want," said the new-comer with a new
gravity. "I want the Revolution."

Turnbull looked at the fire-swept sky and the wind-stricken
woodlands, and kept on repeating the word voicelessly to
himself--the word that did indeed so thoroughly express his mood
of rage as it had been among those red clouds and rocking
tree-tops. "Revolution!" he said to himself. "The
Revolution--yes, that is what I want right enough--anything, so
long as it is a Revolution."

To some cause he could never explain he found himself completing
the sentence on the top of the wall, having automatically
followed the stranger so far. But when the stranger silently
indicated the rope that led to the machine, he found himself
pausing and saying: "I can't leave MacIan behind in this den."

"We are going to destroy the Pope and all the kings," said the
new-comer. "Would it be wiser to take him with us?"

Somehow the muttering Turnbull found himself in the flying ship
also, and it swung up into the sunset.

"All the great rebels have been very little rebels," said the man
with the red scarf. "They have been like fourth-form boys who
sometimes venture to hit a fifth-form boy. That was all the worth
of their French Revolution and regicide. The boys never really
dared to defy the schoolmaster."

"Whom do you mean by the schoolmaster?" asked Turnbull.