[Illustration: The King had the eyes he longed to see. ]

THE LOST PRINCE

By FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT

With Four Illustrations

By MAURICE L. BOWER

1915

CONTENTS

 I THE NEW LODGERS AT NO. 7 PHILIBERT PLACE II A YOUNG CITIZEN OF THE WORLD III THE LEGEND OF THE LOST PRINCE IV THE RAT V "SILENCE IS STILL THE ORDER" VI THE DRILL AND THE SECRET PARTY VII "THE LAMP IS LIGHTED!" VIII AN EXCITING GAME IX "IT IS NOT A GAME" X THE RAT--AND SAMAVIA XI "COME WITH ME" XII "ONLY TWO BOYS" XIII LORISTAN ATTENDS A DRILL OF THE SQUAD XIV MARCO DOES NOT ANSWER XV A SOUND IN A DREAM XVI THE RAT TO THE RESCUE XVII "IT IS A VERY BAD SIGN" XVIII "CITIES AND FACES" XIX "THAT IS ONE!" XX MARCO GOES TO THE OPERA XXI "HELP!" XXII THE NIGHT VIGIL XXIII THE SILVER HORN XXIV "HOW SHALL WE FIND HIM?" XXV A VOICE IN THE NIGHT XXVI ACROSS THE FRONTIER XXVII "IT IS THE LOST PRINCE! IT IS IVOR!" XXVIII "EXTRA! EXTRA! EXTRA!" XXIX 'TWIXT NIGHT AND MORNING XXX THE GAME IS AT AN END XXXI "THE SON OF STEFAN LORISTAN"

THE LOST PRINCE

I

THE NEW LODGERS AT NO. 7 PHILIBERT PLACE

There are many dreary and dingy rows of ugly houses in certain parts ofLondon, but there certainly could not be any row more ugly or dingierthan Philibert Place. There were stories that it had once been moreattractive, but that had been so long ago that no one remembered thetime. It stood back in its gloomy, narrow strips of uncared-for, smokygardens, whose broken iron railings were supposed to protect it from thesurging traffic of a road which was always roaring with the rattle ofbusses, cabs, drays, and vans, and the passing of people who wereshabbily dressed and looked as if they were either going to hard work orcoming from it, or hurrying to see if they could find some of it to doto keep themselves from going hungry. The brick fronts of the houseswere blackened with smoke, their windows were nearly all dirty and hungwith dingy curtains, or had no curtains at all; the strips of ground, which had once been intended to grow flowers in, had been trodden downinto bare earth in which even weeds had forgotten to grow. One of themwas used as a stone-cutter's yard, and cheap monuments, crosses, andslates were set out for sale, bearing inscriptions beginning with"Sacred to the Memory of. " Another had piles of old lumber in it, another exhibited second-hand furniture, chairs with unsteady legs, sofas with horsehair stuffing bulging out of holes in their covering, mirrors with blotches or cracks in them. The insides of the houses wereas gloomy as the outside. They were all exactly alike. In each a darkentrance passage led to narrow stairs going up to bedrooms, and tonarrow steps going down to a basement kitchen. The back bedroom lookedout on small, sooty, flagged yards, where thin cats quarreled, or sat onthe coping of the brick walls hoping that sometime they might feel thesun; the front rooms looked over the noisy road, and through theirwindows came the roar and rattle of it. It was shabby and cheerless onthe brightest days, and on foggy or rainy ones it was the most forlornplace in London. 

At least that was what one boy thought as he stood near the ironrailings watching the passers-by on the morning on which this storybegins, which was also the morning after he had been brought by hisfather to live as a lodger in the back sitting-room of the house No. 7. 

He was a boy about twelve years old, his name was Marco Loristan, and hewas the kind of boy people look at a second time when they have lookedat him once. In the first place, he was a very big boy--tall for hisyears, and with a particularly strong frame. His shoulders were broadand his arms and legs were long and powerful. He was quite used tohearing people say, as they glanced at him, "What a fine, big lad!" Andthen they always looked again at his face. It was not an English faceor an American one, and was very dark in coloring. His features werestrong, his black hair grew on his head like a mat, his eyes were largeand deep set, and looked out between thick, straight, black lashes. Hewas as un-English a boy as one could imagine, and an observing personwould have been struck at once by a sort of _silent_ look expressed byhis whole face, a look which suggested that he was not a boy who talkedmuch. 

This look was specially noticeable this morning as he stood before theiron railings. The things he was thinking of were of a kind likely tobring to the face of a twelve-year-old boy an unboyish expression. 

He was thinking of the long, hurried journey he and his father and theirold soldier servant, Lazarus, had made during the last few days--thejourney from Russia. Cramped in a close third-class railway carriage, they had dashed across the Continent as if something important orterrible were driving them, and here they were, settled in London asif they were going to live forever at No. 7 Philibert Place. He knew, however, that though they might stay a year, it was just as probablethat, in the middle of some night, his father or Lazarus might waken himfrom his sleep and say, "Get up--dress yourself quickly. We must go atonce. " A few days later, he might be in St. Petersburg, Berlin, Vienna, or Budapest, huddled away in some poor little house as shabby andcomfortless as No. 7 Philibert Place. 

He passed his hand over his forehead as he thought of it and watched thebusses. His strange life and his close association with his father hadmade him much older than his years, but he was only a boy, after all, and the mystery of things sometimes weighed heavily upon him, and sethim to deep wondering. 

In not one of the many countries he knew had he ever met a boy whoselife was in the least like his own. Other boys had homes in which theyspent year after year; they went to school regularly, and played withother boys, and talked openly of the things which happened to them, andthe journeys they made. When he remained in a place long enough to makea few boy-friends, he knew he must never forget that his whole existencewas a sort of secret whose safety depended upon his own silence anddiscretion. 

This was because of the promises he had made to his father, and theyhad been the first thing he remembered. Not that he had ever regrettedanything connected with his father. He threw his black head up as hethought of that. None of the other boys had such a father, not one ofthem. His father was his idol and his chief. He had scarcely ever seenhim when his clothes had not been poor and shabby, but he had also neverseen him when, despite his worn coat and frayed linen, he had not stoodout among all others as more distinguished than the most noticeable ofthem. When he walked down a street, people turned to look at him evenoftener than they turned to look at Marco, and the boy felt as if it wasnot merely because he was a big man with a handsome, dark face, butbecause he looked, somehow, as if he had been born to command armies, and as if no one would think of disobeying him. Yet Marco had neverseen him command any one, and they had always been poor, and shabbilydressed, and often enough ill-fed. But whether they were in one countryor another, and whatsoever dark place they seemed to be hiding in, thefew people they saw treated him with a sort of deference, and nearlyalways stood when they were in his presence, unless he bade them sitdown. 

"It is because they know he is a patriot, and patriots are respected, "the boy had told himself. 

He himself wished to be a patriot, though he had never seen his owncountry of Samavia. He knew it well, however. His father had talked tohim about it ever since that day when he had made the promises. He hadtaught him to know it by helping him to study curious detailed maps ofit--maps of its cities, maps of its mountains, maps of its roads. He hadtold him stories of the wrongs done its people, of their sufferings andstruggles for liberty, and, above all, of their unconquerable courage. When they talked together of its history, Marco's boy-blood burned andleaped in his veins, and he always knew, by the look in his father'seyes, that his blood burned also. His countrymen had been killed, theyhad been robbed, they had died by thousands of cruelties and starvation, but their souls had never been conquered, and, through all the yearsduring which more powerful nations crushed and enslaved them, they neverceased to struggle to free themselves and stand unfettered as Samavianshad stood centuries before. 

"Why do we not live there, " Marco had cried on the day the promises weremade. "Why do we not go back and fight? When I am a man, I will be asoldier and die for Samavia. "

"We are of those who must _live_ for Samavia--working day and night, " hisfather had answered; "denying ourselves, training our bodies and souls, using our brains, learning the things which are best to be done for ourpeople and our country. Even exiles may be Samavian soldiers--I am one, you must be one. "

"Are we exiles?" asked Marco. 

"Yes, " was the answer. "But even if we never set foot on Samavian soil, we must give our lives to it. I have given mine since I was sixteen. I shall give it until I die. "

"Have you never lived there?" said Marco. 

A strange look shot across his father's face. 

"No, " he answered, and said no more. Marco watching him, knew he mustnot ask the question again. 

The next words his father said were about the promises. Marco was quitea little fellow at the time, but he understood the solemnity of them, and felt that he was being honored as if he were a man. 

"When you are a man, you shall know all you wish to know, " Loristansaid. "Now you are a child, and your mind must not be burdened. Butyou must do your part. A child sometimes forgets that words may bedangerous. You must promise never to forget this. Wheresoever you are;if you have playmates, you must remember to be silent about many things. You must not speak of what I do, or of the people who come to see me. You must not mention the things in your life which make it differentfrom the lives of other boys. You must keep in your mind that a secretexists which a chance foolish word might betray. You are a Samavian, andthere have been Samavians who have died a thousand deaths rather thanbetray a secret. You must learn to obey without question, as if you werea soldier. Now you must take your oath of allegiance. "

He rose from his seat and went to a corner of the room. He knelt down, turned back the carpet, lifted a plank, and took something from beneathit. It was a sword, and, as he came back to Marco, he drew it out fromits sheath. The child's strong, little body stiffened and drew itselfup, his large, deep eyes flashed. He was to take his oath of allegianceupon a sword as if he were a man. He did not know that his small handopened and shut with a fierce understanding grip because those of hisblood had for long centuries past carried swords and fought with them. 

Loristan gave him the big bared weapon, and stood erect before him. 

"Repeat these words after me sentence by sentence!" he commanded. 

And as he spoke them Marco echoed each one loudly and clearly. 

"The sword in my hand--for Samavia!

"The heart in my breast--for Samavia!

"The swiftness of my sight, the thought of my brain, the life of mylife--for Samavia. 

"Here grows a man for Samavia. 

"God be thanked!"

Then Loristan put his hand on the child's shoulder, and his dark facelooked almost fiercely proud. 

"From this hour, " he said, "you and I are comrades at arms. "

And from that day to the one on which he stood beside the broken ironrailings of No. 7 Philibert Place, Marco had not forgotten for one hour. 

II

A YOUNG CITIZEN OF THE WORLD

He had been in London more than once before, but not to the lodgings inPhilibert Place. When he was brought a second or third time to a townor city, he always knew that the house he was taken to would be in aquarter new to him, and he should not see again the people he had seenbefore. Such slight links of acquaintance as sometimes formed themselvesbetween him and other children as shabby and poor as himself were easilybroken. His father, however, had never forbidden him to make chanceacquaintances. He had, in fact, told him that he had reasons for notwishing him to hold himself aloof from other boys. The only barrierwhich must exist between them must be the barrier of silence concerninghis wanderings from country to country. Other boys as poor as he was didnot make constant journeys, therefore they would miss nothing from hisboyish talk when he omitted all mention of his. When he was in Russia, he must speak only of Russian places and Russian people and customs. When he was in France, Germany, Austria, or England, he must do the samething. When he had learned English, French, German, Italian, and Russianhe did not know. He had seemed to grow up in the midst of changingtongues which all seemed familiar to him, as languages are familiar tochildren who have lived with them until one scarcely seems less familiarthan another. He did remember, however, that his father had always beenunswerving in his attention to his pronunciation and method of speakingthe language of any country they chanced to be living in. 

"You must not seem a foreigner in any country, " he had said to him. "Itis necessary that you should not. But when you are in England, you mustnot know French, or German, or anything but English. "

Once, when he was seven or eight years old, a boy had asked him what hisfather's work was. 

"His own father is a carpenter, and he asked me if my father was one, "Marco brought the story to Loristan. "I said you were not. Then he askedif you were a shoemaker, and another one said you might be a bricklayeror a tailor--and I didn't know what to tell them. " He had been outplaying in a London street, and he put a grubby little hand on hisfather's arm, and clutched and almost fiercely shook it. "I wanted tosay that you were not like their fathers, not at all. I knew you werenot, though you were quite as poor. You are not a bricklayer or ashoemaker, but a patriot--you could not be only a bricklayer--you!" Hesaid it grandly and with a queer indignation, his black head held up andhis eyes angry. 

Loristan laid his hand against his mouth. 

"Hush! hush!" he said. "Is it an insult to a man to think he may be acarpenter or make a good suit of clothes? If I could make our clothes, we should go better dressed. If I were a shoemaker, your toes would notbe making their way into the world as they are now. " He was smiling, butMarco saw his head held itself high, too, and his eyes were glowing ashe touched his shoulder. "I know you did not tell them I was a patriot, "he ended. "What was it you said to them?"

"I remembered that you were nearly always writing and drawing maps, andI said you were a writer, but I did not know what you wrote--and thatyou said it was a poor trade. I heard you say that once to Lazarus. Wasthat a right thing to tell them?"

"Yes. You may always say it if you are asked. There are poor fellowsenough who write a thousand different things which bring them littlemoney. There is nothing strange in my being a writer. "

So Loristan answered him, and from that time if, by any chance, hisfather's means of livelihood were inquired into, it was simple enoughand true enough to say that he wrote to earn his bread. 

In the first days of strangeness to a new place, Marco often walked agreat deal. He was strong and untiring, and it amused him to wanderthrough unknown streets, and look at shops, and houses, and people. He did not confine himself to the great thoroughfares, but liked tobranch off into the side streets and odd, deserted-looking squares, andeven courts and alleyways. He often stopped to watch workmen and talk tothem if they were friendly. In this way he made stray acquaintances inhis strollings, and learned a good many things. He had a fondness forwandering musicians, and, from an old Italian who had in his youth beena singer in opera, he had learned to sing a number of songs in hisstrong, musical boy-voice. He knew well many of the songs of the peoplein several countries. 

It was very dull this first morning, and he wished that he had somethingto do or some one to speak to. To do nothing whatever is a depressingthing at all times, but perhaps it is more especially so when one is abig, healthy boy twelve years old. London as he saw it in the MaryleboneRoad seemed to him a hideous place. It was murky and shabby-looking, andfull of dreary-faced people. It was not the first time he had seen thesame things, and they always made him feel that he wished he hadsomething to do. 

Suddenly he turned away from the gate and went into the house to speakto Lazarus. He found him in his dingy closet of a room on the fourthfloor at the back of the house. 

"I am going for a walk, " he announced to him. "Please tell my father ifhe asks for me. He is busy, and I must not disturb him. "

Lazarus was patching an old coat as he often patched things--even shoessometimes. When Marco spoke, he stood up at once to answer him. He wasvery obstinate and particular about certain forms of manner. Nothingwould have obliged him to remain seated when Loristan or Marco was nearhim. Marco thought it was because he had been so strictly trained as asoldier. He knew that his father had had great trouble to make him layaside his habit of saluting when they spoke to him. 

"Perhaps, " Marco had heard Loristan say to him almost severely, once when he had forgotten himself and had stood at salute whilehis master passed through a broken-down iron gate before an equallybroken-down-looking lodging-house--"perhaps you can force yourself toremember when I tell you that it is not safe--_it is not safe_! You putus in danger!"

It was evident that this helped the good fellow to control himself. Marco remembered that at the time he had actually turned pale, and hadstruck his forehead and poured forth a torrent of Samavian dialect inpenitence and terror. But, though he no longer saluted them in public, he omitted no other form of reverence and ceremony, and the boy hadbecome accustomed to being treated as if he were anything but the shabbylad whose very coat was patched by the old soldier who stood "atattention" before him. 

"Yes, sir, " Lazarus answered. "Where was it your wish to go?"

Marco knitted his black brows a little in trying to recall distinctmemories of the last time he had been in London. 

"I have been to so many places, and have seen so many things since I washere before, that I must begin to learn again about the streets andbuildings I do not quite remember. "

"Yes, sir, " said Lazarus. "There _have_ been so many. I also forget. Youwere but eight years old when you were last here. "

"I think I will go and find the royal palace, and then I will walk aboutand learn the names of the streets, " Marco said. 

"Yes, sir, " answered Lazarus, and this time he made his military salute. 

Marco lifted his right hand in recognition, as if he had been a youngofficer. Most boys might have looked awkward or theatrical in makingthe gesture, but he made it with naturalness and ease, because he hadbeen familiar with the form since his babyhood. He had seen officersreturning the salutes of their men when they encountered each other bychance in the streets, he had seen princes passing sentries on theirway to their carriages, more august personages raising the quiet, recognizing hand to their helmets as they rode through applaudingcrowds. He had seen many royal persons and many royal pageants, butalways only as an ill-clad boy standing on the edge of the crowd ofcommon people. An energetic lad, however poor, cannot spend his days ingoing from one country to another without, by mere every-day chance, becoming familiar with the outer life of royalties and courts. Marco hadstood in continental thoroughfares when visiting emperors rode by withglittering soldiery before and behind them, and a populace shoutingcourteous welcomes. He knew where in various great capitals the sentriesstood before kingly or princely palaces. He had seen certain royal facesoften enough to know them well, and to be ready to make his salute whenparticular quiet and unattended carriages passed him by. 

"It is well to know them. It is well to observe everything and to trainone's self to remember faces and circumstances, " his father had said. "If you were a young prince or a young man training for a diplomaticcareer, you would be taught to notice and remember people and thingsas you would be taught to speak your own language with elegance. Suchobservation would be your most practical accomplishment and greatestpower. It is as practical for one man as another--for a poor lad in apatched coat as for one whose place is to be in courts. As you cannot beeducated in the ordinary way, you must learn from travel and the world. You must lose nothing--forget nothing. "

It was his father who had taught him everything, and he had learned agreat deal. Loristan had the power of making all things interesting tofascination. To Marco it seemed that he knew everything in the world. They were not rich enough to buy many books, but Loristan knew thetreasures of all great cities, the resources of the smallest towns. Together he and his boy walked through the endless galleries filled withthe wonders of the world, the pictures before which through centuries anunbroken procession of almost worshiping eyes had passed uplifted. Because his father made the pictures seem the glowing, burning work ofstill-living men whom the centuries could not turn to dust, because hecould tell the stories of their living and laboring to triumph, storiesof what they felt and suffered and were, the boy became as familiar withthe old masters--Italian, German, French, Dutch, English, Spanish--as hewas with most of the countries they had lived in. They were not merelyold masters to him, but men who were great, men who seemed to him tohave wielded beautiful swords and held high, splendid lights. His fathercould not go often with him, but he always took him for the first timeto the galleries, museums, libraries, and historical places which wererichest in treasures of art, beauty, or story. Then, having seen themonce through his eyes, Marco went again and again alone, and so grewintimate with the wonders of the world. He knew that he was gratifyinga wish of his father's when he tried to train himself to observeall things and forget nothing. These palaces of marvels were hisschool-rooms, and his strange but rich education was the mostinteresting part of his life. In time, he knew exactly the places wherethe great Rembrandts, Vandykes, Rubens, Raphaels, Tintorettos, or FransHals hung; he knew whether this masterpiece or that was in Vienna, inParis, in Venice, or Munich, or Rome. He knew stories of splendid crownjewels, of old armor, of ancient crafts, and of Roman relics dug up frombeneath the foundations of old German cities. Any boy wandering to amusehimself through museums and palaces on "free days" could see what hesaw, but boys living fuller and less lonely lives would have been lesslikely to concentrate their entire minds on what they looked at, andalso less likely to store away facts with the determination to be ableto recall at any moment the mental shelf on which they were laid. Havingno playmates and nothing to play with, he began when he was a verylittle fellow to make a sort of game out of his rambles throughpicture-galleries, and the places which, whether they called themselvesmuseums or not, were storehouses or relics of antiquity. There werealways the blessed "free days, " when he could climb any marble steps, and enter any great portal without paying an entrance fee. Once inside, there were plenty of plainly and poorly dressed people to be seen, butthere were not often boys as young as himself who were not attended byolder companions. Quiet and orderly as he was, he often found himselfstared at. The game he had created for himself was as simple as it wasabsorbing. It was to try how much he could remember and clearly describeto his father when they sat together at night and talked of what he hadseen. These night talks filled his happiest hours. He never felt lonelythen, and when his father sat and watched him with a certain curiousand deep attention in his dark, reflective eyes, the boy was utterlycomforted and content. Sometimes he brought back rough and crudesketches of objects he wished to ask questions about, and Loristan couldalways relate to him the full, rich story of the thing he wanted toknow. They were stories made so splendid and full of color in thetelling that Marco could not forget them. 

III

THE LEGEND OF THE LOST PRINCE

As he walked through the streets, he was thinking of one of thesestories. It was one he had heard first when he was very young, and ithad so seized upon his imagination that he had asked often for it. It was, indeed, a part of the long-past history of Samavia, and he hadloved it for that reason. Lazarus had often told it to him, sometimesadding much detail, but he had always liked best his father's version, which seemed a thrilling and living thing. On their journey from Russia, during an hour when they had been forced to wait in a cold waysidestation and had found the time long, Loristan had discussed it with him. He always found some such way of making hard and comfortless hourseasier to live through. 

"Fine, big lad--for a foreigner, " Marco heard a man say to his companionas he passed them this morning. "Looks like a Pole or a Russian. "

It was this which had led his thoughts back to the story of the LostPrince. He knew that most of the people who looked at him and called hima "foreigner" had not even heard of Samavia. Those who chanced to recallits existence knew of it only as a small fierce country, so placed uponthe map that the larger countries which were its neighbors felt theymust control and keep it in order, and therefore made incursions intoit, and fought its people and each other for possession. But it had notbeen always so. It was an old, old country, and hundreds of years ago ithad been as celebrated for its peaceful happiness and wealth as for itsbeauty. It was often said that it was one of the most beautiful placesin the world. A favorite Samavian legend was that it had been the siteof the Garden of Eden. In those past centuries, its people had been ofsuch great stature, physical beauty, and strength, that they had beenlike a race of noble giants. They were in those days a pastoral people, whose rich crops and splendid flocks and herds were the envy of lessfertile countries. Among the shepherds and herdsmen there were poets whosang their own songs when they piped among their sheep upon the mountainsides and in the flower-thick valleys. Their songs had been aboutpatriotism and bravery, and faithfulness to their chieftains and theircountry. The simple courtesy of the poorest peasant was as stately asthe manner of a noble. But that, as Loristan had said with a tiredsmile, had been before they had had time to outlive and forget theGarden of Eden. Five hundred years ago, there had succeeded to thethrone a king who was bad and weak. His father had lived to be ninetyyears old, and his son had grown tired of waiting in Samavia for hiscrown. He had gone out into the world, and visited other countries andtheir courts. When he returned and became king, he lived as no Samavianking had lived before. He was an extravagant, vicious man of furioustemper and bitter jealousies. He was jealous of the larger courts andcountries he had seen, and tried to introduce their customs and theirambitions. He ended by introducing their worst faults and vices. Therearose political quarrels and savage new factions. Money was squandereduntil poverty began for the first time to stare the country in the face. The big Samavians, after their first stupefaction, broke forth intofurious rage. There were mobs and riots, then bloody battles. Since itwas the king who had worked this wrong, they would have none of him. They would depose him and make his son king in his place. It was atthis part of the story that Marco was always most deeply interested. The young prince was totally unlike his father. He was a true royalSamavian. He was bigger and stronger for his age than any man in thecountry, and he was as handsome as a young Viking god. More than this, he had a lion's heart, and before he was sixteen, the shepherds andherdsmen had already begun to make songs about his young valor, andhis kingly courtesy, and generous kindness. Not only the shepherds andherdsmen sang them, but the people in the streets. The king, his father, had always been jealous of him, even when he was only a beautiful, stately child whom the people roared with joy to see as he rode throughthe streets. When he returned from his journeyings and found him asplendid youth, he detested him. When the people began to clamor anddemand that he himself should abdicate, he became insane with rage, andcommitted such cruelties that the people ran mad themselves. One daythey stormed the palace, killed and overpowered the guards, and, rushinginto the royal apartments, burst in upon the king as he shuddered greenwith terror and fury in his private room. He was king no more, and mustleave the country, they vowed, as they closed round him with baredweapons and shook them in his face. Where was the prince? They must seehim and tell him their ultimatum. It was he whom they wanted for a king. They trusted him and would obey him. They began to shout aloud hisname, calling him in a sort of chant in unison, "Prince Ivor--PrinceIvor--Prince Ivor!" But no answer came. The people of the palace hadhidden themselves, and the place was utterly silent. 

The king, despite his terror, could not help but sneer. 

"Call him again, " he said. "He is afraid to come out of his hole!"

A savage fellow from the mountain fastnesses struck him on the mouth. 

"He afraid!" he shouted. "If he does not come, it is because thou hastkilled him--and thou art a dead man!"

This set them aflame with hotter burning. They broke away, leaving threeon guard, and ran about the empty palace rooms shouting the prince'sname. But there was no answer. They sought him in a frenzy, burstingopen doors and flinging down every obstacle in their way. A page, foundhidden in a closet, owned that he had seen His Royal Highness passthrough a corridor early in the morning. He had been softly singing tohimself one of the shepherd's songs. 

And in this strange way out of the history of Samavia, five hundredyears before Marco's day, the young prince had walked--singing softlyto himself the old song of Samavia's beauty and happiness. For he wasnever seen again. 

In every nook and cranny, high and low, they sought for him, believingthat the king himself had made him prisoner in some secret place, orhad privately had him killed. The fury of the people grew to frenzy. There were new risings, and every few days the palace was attacked andsearched again. But no trace of the prince was found. He had vanished asa star vanishes when it drops from its place in the sky. During a riotin the palace, when a last fruitless search was made, the king himselfwas killed. A powerful noble who headed one of the uprisings madehimself king in his place. From that time, the once splendid littlekingdom was like a bone fought for by dogs. Its pastoral peace wasforgotten. It was torn and worried and shaken by stronger countries. It tore and worried itself with internal fights. It assassinated kingsand created new ones. No man was sure in his youth what ruler hismaturity would live under, or whether his children would die in uselessfights, or through stress of poverty and cruel, useless laws. There wereno more shepherds and herdsmen who were poets, but on the mountain sidesand in the valleys sometimes some of the old songs were sung. Those mostbeloved were songs about a Lost Prince whose name had been Ivor. If hehad been king, he would have saved Samavia, the verses said, and allbrave hearts believed that he would still return. In the modern cities, one of the jocular cynical sayings was, "Yes, that will happen whenPrince Ivor comes again. "

In his more childish days, Marco had been bitterly troubled by theunsolved mystery. Where had he gone--the Lost Prince? Had he beenkilled, or had he been hidden away in a dungeon? But he was so big andbrave, he would have broken out of any dungeon. The boy had invented forhimself a dozen endings to the story. 

"Did no one ever find his sword or his cap--or hear anything or guessanything about him ever--ever--ever?" he would say restlessly again andagain. 

One winter's night, as they sat together before a small fire in a coldroom in a cold city in Austria, he had been so eager and asked so manysearching questions, that his father gave him an answer he had nevergiven him before, and which was a sort of ending to the story, thoughnot a satisfying one:

"Everybody guessed as you are guessing. A few very old shepherds in themountains who like to believe ancient histories relate a story whichmost people consider a kind of legend. It is that almost a hundred yearsafter the prince was lost, an old shepherd told a story his long-deadfather had confided to him in secret just before he died. The father hadsaid that, going out in the early morning on the mountain side, he hadfound in the forest what he at first thought to be the dead body of abeautiful, boyish, young huntsman. Some enemy had plainly attacked himfrom behind and believed he had killed him. He was, however, not quitedead, and the shepherd dragged him into a cave where he himself oftentook refuge from storms with his flocks. Since there was such riot anddisorder in the city, he was afraid to speak of what he had found; and, by the time he discovered that he was harboring the prince, the kinghad already been killed, and an even worse man had taken possession ofhis throne, and ruled Samavia with a blood-stained, iron hand. To theterrified and simple peasant the safest thing seemed to get the woundedyouth out of the country before there was any chance of his beingdiscovered and murdered outright, as he would surely be. The cave inwhich he was hidden was not far from the frontier, and while he wasstill so weak that he was hardly conscious of what befell him, he wassmuggled across it in a cart loaded with sheepskins, and left with somekind monks who did not know his rank or name. The shepherd went back tohis flocks and his mountains, and lived and died among them, always interror of the changing rulers and their savage battles with each other. The mountaineers said among themselves, as the generations succeededeach other, that the Lost Prince must have died young, because otherwisehe would have come back to his country and tried to restore its good, bygone days. "

"Yes, he would have come, " Marco said. 

"He would have come if he had seen that he could help his people, "Loristan answered, as if he were not reflecting on a story which wasprobably only a kind of legend. "But he was very young, and Samavia wasin the hands of the new dynasty, and filled with his enemies. He couldnot have crossed the frontier without an army. Still, I think he diedyoung. "

[Illustration: He was the man who had spoken to him in Samavian. ]

It was of this story that Marco was thinking as he walked, and perhapsthe thoughts that filled his mind expressed themselves in his face insome way which attracted attention. As he was nearing Buckingham Palace, a distinguished-looking well-dressed man with clever eyes caught sightof him, and, after looking at him keenly, slackened his pace as heapproached him from the opposite direction. An observer might havethought he saw something which puzzled and surprised him. Marco didn'tsee him at all, and still moved forward, thinking of the shepherds andthe prince. The well-dressed man began to walk still more slowly. Whenhe was quite close to Marco, he stopped and spoke to him--in theSamavian language. 

"What is your name?" he asked. 

Marco's training from his earliest childhood had been an extraordinarything. His love for his father had made it simple and natural to him, and he had never questioned the reason for it. As he had been taught tokeep silence, he had been taught to control the expression of his faceand the sound of his voice, and, above all, never to allow himself tolook startled. But for this he might have started at the extraordinarysound of the Samavian words suddenly uttered in a London street by anEnglish gentleman. He might even have answered the question in Samavianhimself. But he did not. He courteously lifted his cap and replied inEnglish:

"Excuse me?"

The gentleman's clever eyes scrutinized him keenly. Then he also spokein English. 

"Perhaps you do not understand? I asked your name because you are verylike a Samavian I know, " he said. 

"I am Marco Loristan, " the boy answered him. 

The man looked straight into his eyes and smiled. 

"That is not the name, " he said. "I beg your pardon, my boy. "

He was about to go on, and had indeed taken a couple of steps away, whenhe paused and turned to him again. 

"You may tell your father that you are a very well-trained lad. I wantedto find out for myself. " And he went on. 

Marco felt that his heart beat a little quickly. This was one ofseveral incidents which had happened during the last three years, andmade him feel that he was living among things so mysterious that theirvery mystery hinted at danger. But he himself had never before seemedinvolved in them. Why should it matter that he was well-behaved? Then heremembered something. The man had not said "well-behaved, " he had said"well-_trained_. " Well-trained in what way? He felt his forehead prickleslightly as he thought of the smiling, keen look which set itself sostraight upon him. Had he spoken to him in Samavian for an experiment, to see if he would be startled into forgetting that he had been trainedto seem to know only the language of the country he was temporarilyliving in? But he had not forgotten. He had remembered well, and wasthankful that he had betrayed nothing. "Even exiles may be Samaviansoldiers. I am one. You must be one, " his father had said on that daylong ago when he had made him take his oath. Perhaps remembering histraining was being a soldier. Never had Samavia needed help as sheneeded it to-day. Two years before, a rival claimant to the throne hadassassinated the then reigning king and his sons, and since then, bloodywar and tumult had raged. The new king was a powerful man, and had agreat following of the worst and most self-seeking of the people. Neighboring countries had interfered for their own welfare's sake, and the newspapers had been full of stories of savage fighting andatrocities, and of starving peasants. 

Marco had late one evening entered their lodgings to find Loristanwalking to and fro like a lion in a cage, a paper crushed and tornin his hands, and his eyes blazing. He had been reading of crueltieswrought upon innocent peasants and women and children. Lazarus wasstanding staring at him with huge tears running down his cheeks. WhenMarco opened the door, the old soldier strode over to him, turned himabout, and led him out of the room. 

"Pardon, sir, pardon!" he sobbed. "No one must see him, not even you. He suffers so horribly. "

He stood by a chair in Marco's own small bedroom, where he half pushed, half led him. He bent his grizzled head, and wept like a beaten child. 

"Dear God of those who are in pain, assuredly it is now the time to giveback to us our Lost Prince!" he said, and Marco knew the words were aprayer, and wondered at the frenzied intensity of it, because it seemedso wild a thing to pray for the return of a youth who had died fivehundred years before. 

When he reached the palace, he was still thinking of the man who hadspoken to him. He was thinking of him even as he looked at the majesticgray stone building and counted the number of its stories and windows. He walked round it that he might make a note in his memory of its sizeand form and its entrances, and guess at the size of its gardens. Thishe did because it was part of his game, and part of his strangetraining. 

When he came back to the front, he saw that in the great entrance courtwithin the high iron railings an elegant but quiet-looking closedcarriage was drawing up before the doorway. Marco stood and watched withinterest to see who would come out and enter it. He knew that kings andemperors who were not on parade looked merely like well-dressed privategentlemen, and often chose to go out as simply and quietly as other men. So he thought that, perhaps, if he waited, he might see one of thosewell-known faces which represent the highest rank and power in amonarchical country, and which in times gone by had also represented thepower over human life and death and liberty. 

"I should like to be able to tell my father that I have seen the Kingand know his face, as I know the faces of the czar and the twoemperors. "

There was a little movement among the tall men-servants in the royalscarlet liveries, and an elderly man descended the steps attended byanother who walked behind him. He entered the carriage, the other manfollowed him, the door was closed, and the carriage drove through theentrance gates, where the sentries saluted. 

Marco was near enough to see distinctly. The two men were talking as ifinterested. The face of the one farthest from him was the face he hadoften seen in shop-windows and newspapers. The boy made his quick, formal salute. It was the King; and, as he smiled and acknowledged hisgreeting, he spoke to his companion. 

"That fine lad salutes as if he belonged to the army, " was what he said, though Marco could not hear him. 

His companion leaned forward to look through the window. When he caughtsight of Marco, a singular expression crossed his face. 

"He does belong to an army, sir, " he answered, "though he does not knowit. His name is Marco Loristan. "

Then Marco saw him plainly for the first time. He was the man with thekeen eyes who had spoken to him in Samavian. 

IV

THE RAT

Marco would have wondered very much if he had heard the words, but, ashe did not hear them, he turned toward home wondering at something else. A man who was in intimate attendance on a king must be a person ofimportance. He no doubt knew many things not only of his own ruler'scountry, but of the countries of other kings. But so few had reallyknown anything of poor little Samavia until the newspapers had begun totell them of the horrors of its war--and who but a Samavian could speakits language? It would be an interesting thing to tell his father--thata man who knew the King had spoken to him in Samavian, and had sent thatcurious message. 

Later he found himself passing a side street and looked up it. It was sonarrow, and on either side of it were such old, tall, and sloping-walledhouses that it attracted his attention. It looked as if a bit of oldLondon had been left to stand while newer places grew up and hid itfrom view. This was the kind of street he liked to pass through forcuriosity's sake. He knew many of them in the old quarters of manycities. He had lived in some of them. He could find his way home fromthe other end of it. Another thing than its queerness attracted him. He heard a clamor of boys' voices, and he wanted to see what they weredoing. Sometimes, when he had reached a new place and had had thatlonely feeling, he had followed some boyish clamor of play or wrangling, and had found a temporary friend or so. 

Half-way to the street's end there was an arched brick passage. Thesound of the voices came from there--one of them high, and thinner andshriller than the rest. Marco tramped up to the arch and looked downthrough the passage. It opened on to a gray flagged space, shut in bythe railings of a black, deserted, and ancient graveyard behind avenerable church which turned its face toward some other street. Theboys were not playing, but listening to one of their number who wasreading to them from a newspaper. 

Marco walked down the passage and listened also, standing in the darkarched outlet at its end and watching the boy who read. He was a strangelittle creature with a big forehead, and deep eyes which were curiouslysharp. But this was not all. He had a hunch back, his legs seemed smalland crooked. He sat with them crossed before him on a rough woodenplatform set on low wheels, on which he evidently pushed himself about. Near him were a number of sticks stacked together as if they wererifles. One of the first things that Marco noticed was that he had asavage little face marked with lines as if he had been angry all hislife. 

"Hold your tongues, you fools!" he shrilled out to some boys whointerrupted him. "Don't you want to know anything, you ignorant swine?"

He was as ill-dressed as the rest of them, but he did not speak in theCockney dialect. If he was of the riffraff of the streets, as hiscompanions were, he was somehow different. 

Then he, by chance, saw Marco, who was standing in the arched end of thepassage. 

"What are you doing there listening?" he shouted, and at once stooped topick up a stone and threw it at him. The stone hit Marco's shoulder, butit did not hurt him much. What he did not like was that another ladshould want to throw something at him before they had even exchangedboy-signs. He also did not like the fact that two other boys promptlytook the matter up by bending down to pick up stones also. 

He walked forward straight into the group and stopped close to thehunchback. 

"What did you do that for?" he asked, in his rather deep young voice. 

He was big and strong-looking enough to suggest that he was not a boy itwould be easy to dispose of, but it was not that which made the groupstand still a moment to stare at him. It was something in himself--halfof it a kind of impartial lack of anything like irritation at thestone-throwing. It was as if it had not mattered to him in the least. It had not made him feel angry or insulted. He was only rather curiousabout it. Because he was clean, and his hair and his shabby clothes werebrushed, the first impression given by his appearance as he stood in thearchway was that he was a young "toff" poking his nose where it was notwanted; but, as he drew near, they saw that the well-brushed clotheswere worn, and there were patches on his shoes. 

"What did you do that for?" he asked, and he asked it merely as if hewanted to find out the reason. 

"I'm not going to have you swells dropping in to my club as if it wasyour own, " said the hunchback. 

"I'm not a swell, and I didn't know it was a club, " Marco answered. "Iheard boys, and I thought I'd come and look. When I heard you readingabout Samavia, I wanted to hear. "

He looked at the reader with his silent-expressioned eyes. 

"You needn't have thrown a stone, " he added. "They don't do it at men'sclubs. I'll go away. "

He turned about as if he were going, but, before he had taken threesteps, the hunchback hailed him unceremoniously. 

"Hi!" he called out. "Hi, you!"

"What do you want?" said Marco. 

"I bet you don't know where Samavia is, or what they're fighting about. "The hunchback threw the words at him. 

"Yes, I do. It's north of Beltrazo and east of Jiardasia, and they arefighting because one party has assassinated King Maran, and the otherwill not let them crown Nicola Iarovitch. And why should they? He's abrigand, and hasn't a drop of royal blood in him. "

"Oh!" reluctantly admitted the hunchback. "You do know that much, doyou? Come back here. "

Marco turned back, while the boys still stared. It was as if two leadersor generals were meeting for the first time, and the rabble, looking on, wondered what would come of their encounter. 

"The Samavians of the Iarovitch party are a bad lot and want only badthings, " said Marco, speaking first. "They care nothing for Samavia. They only care for money and the power to make laws which will servethem and crush everybody else. They know Nicola is a weak man, and that, if they can crown him king, they can make him do what they like. "

The fact that he spoke first, and that, though he spoke in a steadyboyish voice without swagger, he somehow seemed to take it for grantedthat they would listen, made his place for him at once. Boys areimpressionable creatures, and they know a leader when they see him. Thehunchback fixed glittering eyes on him. The rabble began to murmur. 

"Rat! Rat!" several voices cried at once in good strong Cockney. "Arst'im some more, Rat!"

"Is that what they call you?" Marco asked the hunchback. 

"It's what I called myself, " he answered resentfully. "'The Rat. ' Lookat me! Crawling round on the ground like this! Look at me!"

He made a gesture ordering his followers to move aside, and began topush himself rapidly, with queer darts this side and that round theinclosure. He bent his head and body, and twisted his face, and madestrange animal-like movements. He even uttered sharp squeaks as herushed here and there--as a rat might have done when it was beinghunted. He did it as if he were displaying an accomplishment, and hisfollowers' laughter was applause. 

"Wasn't I like a rat?" he demanded, when he suddenly stopped. 

"You made yourself like one on purpose, " Marco answered. "You do it forfun. "

"Not so much fun, " said The Rat. "I feel like one. Every one's my enemy. I'm vermin. I can't fight or defend myself unless I bite. I can bite, though. " And he showed two rows of fierce, strong, white teeth, sharperat the points than human teeth usually are. "I bite my father when hegets drunk and beats me. I've bitten him till he's learned to remember. "He laughed a shrill, squeaking laugh. "He hasn't tried it for threemonths--even when he was drunk--and he's always drunk. " Then he laughedagain still more shrilly. "He's a gentleman, " he said. "I'm agentleman's son. He was a Master at a big school until he was kickedout--that was when I was four and my mother died. I'm thirteen now. Howold are you?"

"I'm twelve, " answered Marco. 

The Rat twisted his face enviously. 

"I wish I was your size! Are you a gentleman's son? You look as if youwere. "

"I'm a very poor man's son, " was Marco's answer. "My father is awriter. "

"Then, ten to one, he's a sort of gentleman, " said The Rat. Then quitesuddenly he threw another question at him. "What's the name of the otherSamavian party?"

"The Maranovitch. The Maranovitch and the Iarovitch have been fightingwith each other for five hundred years. First one dynasty rules, andthen the other gets in when it has killed somebody as it killed KingMaran, " Marco answered without hesitation. 

"What was the name of the dynasty that ruled before they began fighting?The first Maranovitch assassinated the last of them, " The Rat asked him. 

"The Fedorovitch, " said Marco. "The last one was a bad king. "

"His son was the one they never found again, " said The Rat. "The onethey call the Lost Prince. "

Marco would have started but for his long training in exteriorself-control. It was so strange to hear his dream-hero spoken of in thisback alley in a slum, and just after he had been thinking of him. 

"What do you know about him?" he asked, and, as he did so, he saw thegroup of vagabond lads draw nearer. 

"Not much. I only read something about him in a torn magazine I found inthe street, " The Rat answered. "The man that wrote about him said he wasonly part of a legend, and he laughed at people for believing in him. Hesaid it was about time that he should turn up again if he intended to. I've invented things about him because these chaps like to hear me tellthem. They're only stories. "

"We likes 'im, " a voice called out, "becos 'e wos the right sort; 'e'dfight, 'e would, if 'e was in Samavia now. "

Marco rapidly asked himself how much he might say. He decided and spoketo them all. 

"He is not part of a legend. He's part of Samavian history, " he said. "I know something about him too. "

"How did you find it out?" asked The Rat. 

"Because my father's a writer, he's obliged to have books and papers, and he knows things. I like to read, and I go into the free libraries. You can always get books and papers there. Then I ask my fatherquestions. All the newspapers are full of things about Samavia justnow. " Marco felt that this was an explanation which betrayed nothing. It was true that no one could open a newspaper at this period withoutseeing news and stories of Samavia. 

The Rat saw possible vistas of information opening up before him. 

"Sit down here, " he said, "and tell us what you know about him. Sitdown, you fellows. "

There was nothing to sit on but the broken flagged pavement, but thatwas a small matter. Marco himself had sat on flags or bare ground oftenenough before, and so had the rest of the lads. He took his place nearThe Rat, and the others made a semicircle in front of them. The twoleaders had joined forces, so to speak, and the followers fell into lineat "attention. "

Then the new-comer began to talk. It was a good story, that of the LostPrince, and Marco told it in a way which gave it reality. How could hehelp it? He knew, as they could not, that it was real. He who had poredover maps of little Samavia since his seventh year, who had studied themwith his father, knew it as a country he could have found his way to anypart of if he had been dropped in any forest or any mountain of it. Heknew every highway and byway, and in the capital city of Melzarr couldalmost have made his way blindfolded. He knew the palaces and the forts, the churches, the poor streets and the rich ones. His father had onceshown him a plan of the royal palace which they had studied togetheruntil the boy knew each apartment and corridor in it by heart. But thishe did not speak of. He knew it was one of the things to be silentabout. But of the mountains and the emerald velvet meadows climbingtheir sides and only ending where huge bare crags and peaks began, hecould speak. He could make pictures of the wide fertile plains whereherds of wild horses fed, or raced and sniffed the air; he coulddescribe the fertile valleys where clear rivers ran and flocks of sheeppastured on deep sweet grass. He could speak of them because he couldoffer a good enough reason for his knowledge of them. It was not theonly reason he had for his knowledge, but it was one which would servewell enough. 

"That torn magazine you found had more than one article about Samavia init, " he said to The Rat. "The same man wrote four. I read them all in afree library. He had been to Samavia, and knew a great deal about it. He said it was one of the most beautiful countries he had ever traveledin--and the most fertile. That's what they all say of it. "

The group before him knew nothing of fertility or open country. Theyonly knew London back streets and courts. Most of them had nevertraveled as far as the public parks, and in fact scarcely believed intheir existence. They were a rough lot, and as they had stared at Marcoat first sight of him, so they continued to stare at him as he talked. When he told of the tall Samavians who had been like giants centuriesago, and who had hunted the wild horses and captured and trained them toobedience by a sort of strong and gentle magic, their mouths fell open. This was the sort of thing to allure any boy's imagination. 

"Blimme, if I wouldn't 'ave liked ketchin' one o' them 'orses, " broke inone of the audience, and his exclamation was followed by a dozen of likenature from the others. Who wouldn't have liked "ketchin' one"?

When he told of the deep endless-seeming forests, and of the herdsmenand shepherds who played on their pipes and made songs about high deedsand bravery, they grinned with pleasure without knowing they weregrinning. They did not really know that in this neglected, broken-flagged inclosure, shut in on one side by smoke-blackened, poverty-stricken houses, and on the other by a deserted and forgottensunken graveyard, they heard the rustle of green forest boughs wherebirds nested close, the swish of the summer wind in the river reeds, andthe tinkle and laughter and rush of brooks running. 

They heard more or less of it all through the Lost Prince story, becausePrince Ivor had loved lowland woods and mountain forests and allout-of-door life. When Marco pictured him tall and strong-limbed andyoung, winning all the people when he rode smiling among them, the boysgrinned again with unconscious pleasure. 

"Wisht 'e 'adn't got lost!" some one cried out. 

When they heard of the unrest and dissatisfaction of the Samavians, theybegan to get restless themselves. When Marco reached the part of thestory in which the mob rushed into the palace and demanded their princefrom the king, they ejaculated scraps of bad language. "The old geezerhad got him hidden somewhere in some dungeon, or he'd killed him out an'out--that's what he'd been up to!" they clamored. "Wisht the lot of ushad been there then--wisht we 'ad. We'd 'ave give' 'im wot for, anyway!"

"An' 'im walkin' out o' the place so early in the mornin' just singin'like that! 'E 'ad 'im follered an' done for!" they decided with variousexclamations of boyish wrath. Somehow, the fact that the handsome royallad had strolled into the morning sunshine singing made them moresavage. Their language was extremely bad at this point. 

But if it was bad here, it became worse when the old shepherd foundthe young huntsman's half-dead body in the forest. He _had_ "bin 'donefor' _in the back_! 'E'd bin give' no charnst. G-r-r-r!" they groanedin chorus. "Wisht" _they'd_ "bin there when 'e'd bin 'it!" They'd"'ave done fur somebody" themselves. It was a story which had a queereffect on them. It made them think they saw things; it fired theirblood; it set them wanting to fight for ideals they knew nothingabout--adventurous things, for instance, and high and noble youngprinces who were full of the possibility of great and good deeds. Sitting upon the broken flagstones of the bit of ground behind thedeserted graveyard, they were suddenly dragged into the world ofromance, and noble young princes and great and good deeds became asreal as the sunken gravestones, and far more interesting. 

And then the smuggling across the frontier of the unconscious prince inthe bullock cart loaded with sheepskins! They held their breaths. Wouldthe old shepherd get him past the line! Marco, who was lost in therecital himself, told it as if he had been present. He felt as if hehad, and as this was the first time he had ever told it to thrilledlisteners, his imagination got him in its grip, and his heart jumped inhis breast as he was sure the old man's must have done when the guardstopped his cart and asked him what he was carrying out of the country. He knew he must have had to call up all his strength to force his voiceinto steadiness. 

And then the good monks! He had to stop to explain what a monk was, andwhen he described the solitude of the ancient monastery, and its walledgardens full of flowers and old simples to be used for healing, and thewise monks walking in the silence and the sun, the boys stared a littlehelplessly, but still as if they were vaguely pleased by the picture. 

And then there was no more to tell--no more. There it broke off, andsomething like a low howl of dismay broke from the semicircle. 

"Aw!" they protested, "it 'adn't ought to stop there! Ain't there nomore? Is that all there is?"

"It's all that was ever known really. And that last part might only bea sort of story made up by somebody. But I believe it myself. "

The Rat had listened with burning eyes. He had sat biting hisfinger-nails, as was a trick of his when he was excited or angry. 

"Tell you what!" he exclaimed suddenly. "This was what happened. It wassome of the Maranovitch fellows that tried to kill him. They meant tokill his father and make their own man king, and they knew the peoplewouldn't stand it if young Ivor was alive. They just stabbed him in theback, the fiends! I dare say they heard the old shepherd coming, andleft him for dead and ran. "

"Right, oh! That was it!" the lads agreed. "Yer right there, Rat!"

"When he got well, " The Rat went on feverishly, still biting his nails, "he couldn't go back. He was only a boy. The other fellow had beencrowned, and his followers felt strong because they'd just conqueredthe country. He could have done nothing without an army, and he was tooyoung to raise one. Perhaps he thought he'd wait till he was old enoughto know what to do. I dare say he went away and had to work for hisliving as if he'd never been a prince at all. Then perhaps sometime hemarried somebody and had a son, and told him as a secret who he was andall about Samavia. " The Rat began to look vengeful. "If I'd bin him I'dhave told him not to forget what the Maranovitch had done to me. I'dhave told him that if I couldn't get back the throne, he must see whathe could do when he grew to be a man. And I'd have made him swear, if he got it back, to take it out of them or their children or theirchildren's children in torture and killing. I'd have made him swear notto leave a Maranovitch alive. And I'd have told him that, if he couldn'tdo it in his life, he must pass the oath on to his son and his son'sson, as long as there was a Fedorovitch on earth. Wouldn't you?" hedemanded hotly of Marco. 

Marco's blood was also hot, but it was a different kind of blood, and hehad talked too much to a very sane man. 

"No, " he said slowly. "What would have been the use? It wouldn't havedone Samavia any good, and it wouldn't have done him any good to tortureand kill people. Better keep them alive and make them do things for thecountry. If you're a patriot, you think of the country. " He wanted toadd "That's what my father says, " but he did not. 

"Torture 'em first and then attend to the country, " snapped The Rat. "What would you have told your son if you'd been Ivor?"

"I'd have told him to learn everything about Samavia--and all the thingskings have to know--and study things about laws and other countries--andabout keeping silent--and about governing himself as if he were ageneral commanding soldiers in battle--so that he would never doanything he did not mean to do or could be ashamed of doing after it wasover. And I'd have asked him to tell his son's sons to tell their sonsto learn the same things. So, you see, however long the time was, therewould always be a king getting ready for Samavia--when Samavia reallywanted him. And he would be a real king. "

He stopped himself suddenly and looked at the staring semicircle. 

"I didn't make that up myself, " he said. "I have heard a man who readsand knows things say it. I believe the Lost Prince would have had thesame thoughts. If he had, and told them to his son, there has been aline of kings in training for Samavia for five hundred years, andperhaps one is walking about the streets of Vienna, or Budapest, orParis, or London now, and he'd be ready if the people found out abouthim and called him. "

"Wisht they would!" some one yelled. 

"It would be a queer secret to know all the time when no one else knewit, " The Rat communed with himself as it were, "that you were a king andyou ought to be on a throne wearing a crown. I wonder if it would make achap look different?"

He laughed his squeaky laugh, and then turned in his sudden way toMarco:

"But he'd be a fool to give up the vengeance. What is your name?"

"Marco Loristan. What's yours? It isn't The Rat really. "

"It's Jem _Rat_cliffe. That's pretty near. Where do you live?"

"No. 7 Philibert Place. "

"This club is a soldiers' club, " said The Rat. "It's called the Squad. I'm the captain. 'Tention, you fellows! Let's show him. "

The semicircle sprang to its feet. There were about twelve ladsaltogether, and, when they stood upright, Marco saw at once that forsome reason they were accustomed to obeying the word of command withmilitary precision. 

"Form in line!" ordered The Rat. 

They did it at once, and held their backs and legs straight and theirheads up amazingly well. Each had seized one of the sticks which hadbeen stacked together like guns. 

The Rat himself sat up straight on his platform. There was actuallysomething military in the bearing of his lean body. His voice lost itssqueak and its sharpness became commanding. 

He put the dozen lads through the drill as if he had been a smart youngofficer. And the drill itself was prompt and smart enough to have donecredit to practiced soldiers in barracks. It made Marco involuntarilystand very straight himself, and watch with surprised interest. 

"That's good!" he exclaimed when it was at an end. "How did you learnthat?"

The Rat made a savage gesture. 

"If I'd had legs to stand on, I'd have been a soldier!" he said. "I'dhave enlisted in any regiment that would take me. I don't care foranything else. "

Suddenly his face changed, and he shouted a command to his followers. 

"Turn your backs!" he ordered. 

And they did turn their backs and looked through the railings of the oldchurchyard. Marco saw that they were obeying an order which was not newto them. The Rat had thrown his arm up over his eyes and covered them. He held it there for several moments, as if he did not want to be seen. Marco turned his back as the rest had done. All at once he understoodthat, though The Rat was not crying, yet he was feeling something whichanother boy would possibly have broken down under. 

"All right!" he shouted presently, and dropped his ragged-sleeved armand sat up straight again. 

"I want to go to war!" he said hoarsely. "I want to fight! I want tolead a lot of men into battle! And I haven't got any legs. Sometimes ittakes the pluck out of me. "

"You've not grown up yet!" said Marco. "You might get strong. "

No one knows what is going to happen. How did you learn to drill theclub?"

"I hang about barracks. I watch and listen. I follow soldiers. If Icould get books, I'd read about wars. I can't go to libraries as youcan. I can do nothing but scuffle about like a rat. "

"I can take you to some libraries, " said Marco. "There are places whereboys can get in. And I can get some papers from my father. "

"Can you?" said The Rat. "Do you want to join the club?"

"Yes!" Marco answered. "I'll speak to my father about it. "

He said it because the hungry longing for companionship in his own mindhad found a sort of response in the queer hungry look in The Rat's eyes. He wanted to see him again. Strange creature as he was, there wasattraction in him. Scuffling about on his low wheeled platform, he haddrawn this group of rough lads to him and made himself their commander. They obeyed him; they listened to his stories and harangues about warand soldiering; they let him drill them and give them orders. Marco knewthat, when he told his father about him, he would be interested. The boywanted to hear what Loristan would say. 

"I'm going home now, " he said. "If you're going to be here to-morrow, I will try to come. "

"We shall be here, " The Rat answered. "It's our barracks. "

Marco drew himself up smartly and made his salute as if to a superiorofficer. Then he wheeled about and marched through the brick archway, and the sound of his boyish tread was as regular and decided as if hehad been a man keeping time with his regiment. 

"He's been drilled himself, " said The Rat. "He knows as much as I do. "

And he sat up and stared down the passage with new interest. 

V

"SILENCE IS STILL THE ORDER"

They were even poorer than usual just now, and the supper Marco and hisfather sat down to was scant enough. Lazarus stood upright behind hismaster's chair and served him with strictest ceremony. Their poorlodgings were always kept with a soldierly cleanliness and order. Whenan object could be polished it was forced to shine, no grain of dust wasallowed to lie undisturbed, and this perfection was not attained throughthe ministrations of a lodging house slavey. Lazarus made himselfextremely popular by taking the work of caring for his master's roomsentirely out of the hands of the overburdened maids of all work. He hadlearned to do many things in his young days in barracks. He carriedabout with him coarse bits of table-cloths and towels, which helaundered as if they had been the finest linen. He mended, he patched, he darned, and in the hardest fight the poor must face--the fight withdirt and dinginess--he always held his own. They had nothing but drybread and coffee this evening, but Lazarus had made the coffee and thebread was good. 

As Marco ate, he told his father the story of The Rat and his followers. Loristan listened, as the boy had known he would, with the far-off, intently-thinking smile in his dark eyes. It was a look which alwaysfascinated Marco because it meant that he was thinking so many things. Perhaps he would tell some of them and perhaps he would not. His spellover the boy lay in the fact that to him he seemed like a wonderful bookof which one had only glimpses. It was full of pictures and adventureswhich were true, and one could not help continually making guesses aboutthem. Yes, the feeling that Marco had was that his father's attractionfor him was a sort of spell, and that others felt the same thing. Whenhe stood and talked to commoner people, he held his tall body withsingular quiet grace which was like power. He never stirred or movedhimself as if he were nervous or uncertain. He could hold his hands (hehad beautiful slender and strong hands) quite still; he could stand onhis fine arched feet without shuffling them. He could sit without anyungrace or restlessness. His mind knew what his body should do, and gaveit orders without speaking, and his fine limbs and muscles and nervesobeyed. So he could stand still and at ease and look at the people hewas talking to, and they always looked at him and listened to what hesaid, and somehow, courteous and uncondescending as his mannerunfailingly was, it used always to seem to Marco as if he were "givingan audience" as kings gave them. 

He had often seen people bow very low when they went away from him, andmore than once it had happened that some humble person had stepped outof his presence backward, as people do when retiring before a sovereign. And yet his bearing was the quietest and least assuming in the world. 

"And they were talking about Samavia? And he knew the story of the LostPrince?" he said ponderingly. "Even in that place!"

"He wants to hear about wars--he wants to talk about them, " Marcoanswered. "If he could stand and were old enough, he would go and fightfor Samavia himself. "

"It is a blood-drenched and sad place now!" said Loristan. "The peopleare mad when they are not heartbroken and terrified. "

Suddenly Marco struck the table with a sounding slap of his boy's hand. He did it before he realized any intention in his own mind. 

"Why should either one of the Iarovitch or one of the Maranovitch beking!" he cried. "They were only savage peasants when they first foughtfor the crown hundreds of years ago. The most savage one got it, andthey have been fighting ever since. Only the Fedorovitch were bornkings. There is only one man in the world who has the right to thethrone--and I don't know whether he is in the world or not. But Ibelieve he is! I do!"

Loristan looked at his hot twelve-year-old face with a reflectivecuriousness. He saw that the flame which had leaped up in him had leapedwithout warning--just as a fierce heart-beat might have shaken him. 

"You mean--?" he suggested softly. 

"Ivor Fedorovitch. King Ivor he ought to be. And the people would obeyhim, and the good days would come again. "

"It is five hundred years since Ivor Fedorovitch left the good monks. "Loristan still spoke softly. 

"But, Father, " Marco protested, "even The Rat said what you said--thathe was too young to be able to come back while the Maranovitch were inpower. And he would have to work and have a home, and perhaps he is aspoor as we are. But when he had a son he would call him Ivor and _tell_him--and his son would call _his_ son Ivor and tell _him_--and it wouldgo on and on. They could never call their eldest sons anything but Ivor. And what you said about the training would be true. There would alwaysbe a king being trained for Samavia, and ready to be called. " In thefire of his feelings he sprang from his chair and stood upright. "Why!There may be a king of Samavia in some city now who knows he is king, and, when he reads about the fighting among his people, his blood getsred-hot. They're his own people--his very own! He ought to go tothem--he ought to go and tell them who he is! Don't you think he ought, Father?"

"It would not be as easy as it seems to a boy, " Loristan answered. "There are many countries which would have something to say--Russiawould have her word, and Austria, and Germany; and England never issilent. But, if he were a strong man and knew how to make strong friendsin silence, he might sometime be able to declare himself openly. "

"But if he is anywhere, some one--some Samavian--ought to go and lookfor him. It ought to be a Samavian who is very clever and a patriot--"He stopped at a flash of recognition. "Father!" he cried out. "Father!You--you are the one who could find him if any one in the world could. But perhaps--" and he stopped a moment again because new thoughts rushedthrough his mind. "Have _you_ ever looked for him?" he asked hesitating. 

Perhaps he had asked a stupid question--perhaps his father had alwaysbeen looking for him, perhaps that was his secret and his work. 

But Loristan did not look as if he thought him stupid. Quite thecontrary. He kept his handsome eyes fixed on him still in that curiousway, as if he were studying him--as if he were much more than twelveyears old, and he were deciding to tell him something. 

"Comrade at arms, " he said, with the smile which always gladdenedMarco's heart, "you have kept your oath of allegiance like a man. Youwere not seven years old when you took it. You are growing older. Silence is still the order, but you are man enough to be told more. " Hepaused and looked down, and then looked up again, speaking in a lowtone. "I have not looked for him, " he said, "because--I believe I knowwhere he is. "

Marco caught his breath. 

"Father!" He said only that word. He could say no more. He knew he mustnot ask questions. "Silence is still the order. " But as they faced eachother in their dingy room at the back of the shabby house on the sideof the roaring common road--as Lazarus stood stock-still behind hisfather's chair and kept his eyes fixed on the empty coffee cups andthe dry bread plate, and everything looked as poor as things alwaysdid--there was a king of Samavia--an Ivor Fedorovitch with the blood ofthe Lost Prince in his veins--alive in some town or city this moment!And Marco's own father knew where he was!

He glanced at Lazarus, but, though the old soldier's face looked asexpressionless as if it were cut out of wood, Marco realized that heknew this thing and had always known it. He had been a comrade at armsall his life. He continued to stare at the bread plate. 

Loristan spoke again and in an even lower voice. "The Samavians who arepatriots and thinkers, " he said, "formed themselves into a secret partyabout eighty years ago. They formed it when they had no reason forhope, but they formed it because one of them discovered that an IvorFedorovitch was living. He was head forester on a great estate in theAustrian Alps. The nobleman he served had always thought him a mysterybecause he had the bearing and speech of a man who had not been born aservant, and his methods in caring for the forests and game were thoseof a man who was educated and had studied his subject. But he never wasfamiliar or assuming, and never professed superiority over any of hisfellows. He was a man of great stature, and was extraordinarily braveand silent. The nobleman who was his master made a sort of companionof him when they hunted together. Once he took him with him when hetraveled to Samavia to hunt wild horses. He found that he knew thecountry strangely well, and that he was familiar with Samavian huntingand customs. Before he returned to Austria, the man obtained permissionto go to the mountains alone. He went among the shepherds and madefriends among them, asking many questions. 

"One night around a forest fire he heard the songs about the Lost Princewhich had not been forgotten even after nearly five hundred years hadpassed. The shepherds and herdsmen talked about Prince Ivor, and toldold stories about him, and related the prophecy that he would come backand bring again Samavia's good days. He might come only in the body ofone of his descendants, but it would be his spirit which came, becausehis spirit would never cease to love Samavia. One very old shepherdtottered to his feet and lifted his face to the myriad stars bestrewnlike jewels in the blue sky above the forest trees, and he wept andprayed aloud that the great God would send their king to them. And thestranger huntsman stood upright also and lifted his face to the stars. And, though he said no word, the herdsman nearest to him saw tears onhis cheeks--great, heavy tears. The next day, the stranger went to themonastery where the order of good monks lived who had taken care of theLost Prince. When he had left Samavia, the secret society was formed, and the members of it knew that an Ivor Fedorovitch had passed throughhis ancestors' country as the servant of another man. But the secretsociety was only a small one, and, though it has been growing ever sinceand it has done good deeds and good work in secret, the huntsman died anold man before it was strong enough even to dare to tell Samavia what itknew. "

"Had he a son?" cried Marco. "Had he a son?"

"Yes. He had a son. His name was Ivor. And he was trained as I told you. That part I knew to be true, though I should have believed it was trueeven if I had not known. There has _always_ been a king ready forSamavia--even when he has labored with his hands and served others. Eachone took the oath of allegiance. "

"As I did?" said Marco, breathless with excitement. When one is twelveyears old, to be so near a Lost Prince who might end wars is a thrillingthing. 

"The same, " answered Loristan. 

Marco threw up his hand in salute. 

"'Here grows a man for Samavia! God be thanked!'" he quoted. "And _he_is somewhere? And you know?"

Loristan bent his head in acquiescence. 

"For years much secret work has been done, and the Fedorovitch party hasgrown until it is much greater and more powerful than the other partiesdream. The larger countries are tired of the constant war and disorderin Samavia. Their interests are disturbed by them, and they are decidingthat they must have peace and laws which can be counted on. There havebeen Samavian patriots who have spent their lives in trying to bringthis about by making friends in the most powerful capitals, and workingsecretly for the future good of their own land. Because Samavia is sosmall and uninfluential, it has taken a long time but when King Maranand his family were assassinated and the war broke out, there were greatpowers which began to say that if some king of good blood and reliablecharacteristics were given the crown, he should be upheld. "

"_His_ blood, "--Marco's intensity made his voice drop almost to awhisper, --"_his_ blood has been trained for five hundred years, Father!If it comes true--" though he laughed a little, he was obliged to winkhis eyes hard because suddenly he felt tears rush into them, which noboy likes--"the shepherds will have to make a new song--it will have tobe a shouting one about a prince going away and a king coming back!"

"They are a devout people and observe many an ancient rite and ceremony. They will chant prayers and burn altar-fires on their mountain sides, "Loristan said. "But the end is not yet--the end is not yet. Sometimes itseems that perhaps it is near--but God knows!"

Then there leaped back upon Marco the story he had to tell, but which hehad held back for the last--the story of the man who spoke Samavian anddrove in the carriage with the King. He knew now that it might mean someimportant thing which he could not have before suspected. 

"There is something I must tell you, " he said. 

He had learned to relate incidents in few but clear words when herelated them to his father. It had been part of his training. Loristanhad said that he might sometime have a story to tell when he had but fewmoments to tell it in--some story which meant life or death to some one. He told this one quickly and well. He made Loristan see the well-dressedman with the deliberate manner and the keen eyes, and he made him hearhis voice when he said, "Tell your father that you are a verywell-trained lad. "

"I am glad he said that. He is a man who knows what training is, " saidLoristan. "He is a person who knows what all Europe is doing, and almostall that it will do. He is an ambassador from a powerful and greatcountry. If he saw that you are a well-trained and fine lad, itmight--it might even be good for Samavia. "

"Would it matter that _I_ was well-trained? _Could_ it matter to Samavia?"Marco cried out. 

Loristan paused for a moment--watching him gravely--looking himover--his big, well-built boy's frame, his shabby clothes, and hiseagerly burning eyes. 

He smiled one of his slow wonderful smiles. 

"Yes. It might even matter to Samavia!" he answered. 

VI

THE DRILL AND THE SECRET PARTY

Loristan did not forbid Marco to pursue his acquaintance with The Ratand his followers. 

"You will find out for yourself whether they are friends for you ornot, " he said. "You will know in a few days, and then you can make yourown decision. You have known lads in various countries, and you are agood judge of them, I think. You will soon see whether they are going tobe _men_ or mere rabble. The Rat now--how does he strike you?"

And the handsome eyes held their keen look of questioning. 

"He'd be a brave soldier if he could stand, " said Marco, thinking himover. "But he might be cruel. "

"A lad who might make a brave soldier cannot be disdained, but a manwho is cruel is a fool. Tell him that from me, " Loristan answered. "Hewastes force--his own and the force of the one he treats cruelly. Onlya fool wastes force. "

"May I speak of you sometimes?" asked Marco. 

"Yes. You will know how. You will remember the things about whichsilence is the order. "

"I never forget them, " said Marco. "I have been trying not to, for sucha long time. "

"You have succeeded well, Comrade!" returned Loristan, from hiswriting-table, to which he had gone and where he was turning overpapers. 

A strong impulse overpowered the boy. He marched over to the table andstood very straight, making his soldierly young salute, his whole bodyglowing. 

"Father!" he said, "you don't know how I love you! I wish you were ageneral and I might die in battle for you. When I look at you, I longand long to do something for you a boy could not do. I would die of athousand wounds rather than disobey you--or Samavia!"

He seized Loristan's hand, and knelt on one knee and kissed it. AnEnglish or American boy could not have done such a thing from unaffectednatural impulse. But he was of warm Southern blood. 

"I took my oath of allegiance to you, Father, when I took it to Samavia. It seems as if you were Samavia, too, " he said, and kissed his handagain. 

Loristan had turned toward him with one of the movements which were fullof dignity and grace. Marco, looking up at him, felt that there wasalways a certain remote stateliness in him which made it seem quitenatural that any one should bend the knee and kiss his hand. 

A sudden great tenderness glowed in his father's face as he raised theboy and put his hand on his shoulder. 

"Comrade, " he said, "you don't know how much I love you--and what reasonthere is that we should love each other! You don't know how I have beenwatching you, and thanking God each year that here grew a man forSamavia. That I know you are--a _man_, though you have lived but twelveyears. Twelve years may grow a man--or prove that a man will never grow, though a human thing he may remain for ninety years. This year may befull of strange things for both of us. We cannot know _what_ I may haveto ask you to do for me--and for Samavia. Perhaps such a thing as notwelve-year-old boy has ever done before. "

"Every night and every morning, " said Marco, "I shall pray that I may becalled to do it, and that I may do it well. "

"You will do it well, Comrade, if you are called. That I could makeoath, " Loristan answered him. 

The Squad had collected in the inclosure behind the church when Marcoappeared at the arched end of the passage. The boys were drawn up withtheir rifles, but they all wore a rather dogged and sullen look. Theexplanation which darted into Marco's mind was that this was because TheRat was in a bad humor. He sat crouched together on his platform bitinghis nails fiercely, his elbows on his updrawn knees, his face twistedinto a hideous scowl. He did not look around, or even look up from thecracked flagstone of the pavement on which his eyes were fixed. 

Marco went forward with military step and stopped opposite to him withprompt salute. 

"Sorry to be late, sir, " he said, as if he had been a private speakingto his colonel. 

"It's 'im, Rat! 'E's come, Rat!" the Squad shouted. "Look at 'im!"

But The Rat would not look, and did not even move. 

"What's the matter?" said Marco, with less ceremony than a private wouldhave shown. "There's no use in my coming here if you don't want me. "

"'E's got a grouch on 'cos you're late!" called out the head of theline. "No doin' nothin' when 'e's got a grouch on. "

"I sha'n't try to do anything, " said Marco, his boy-face setting itselfinto good stubborn lines. "That's not what I came here for. I came todrill. I've been with my father. He comes first. I can't join the Squadif he doesn't come first. We're not on active service, and we're not inbarracks. "

Then The Rat moved sharply and turned to look at him. 

"I thought you weren't coming at all!" he snapped and growled at once. "My father said you wouldn't. He said you were a young swell for allyour patched clothes. He said your father would think he was a swell, even if he was only a penny-a-liner on newspapers, and he wouldn't letyou have anything to do with a vagabond and a nuisance. Nobody beggedyou to join. Your father can go to blazes!"

"Don't you speak in that way about my father, " said Marco, quitequietly, "because I can't knock you down. "

"I'll get up and let you!" began The Rat, immediately white and raging. "I can stand up with two sticks. I'll get up and let you!"

"No, you won't, " said Marco. "If you want to know what my father said, I can tell you. He said I could come as often as I liked--till I foundout whether we should be friends or not. He says I shall find that outfor myself. "

It was a strange thing The Rat did. It must always be remembered of himthat his wretched father, who had each year sunk lower and lower in theunder-world, had been a gentleman once, a man who had been familiar withgood manners and had been educated in the customs of good breeding. Sometimes when he was drunk, and sometimes when he was partly sober, he talked to The Rat of many things the boy would otherwise never haveheard of. That was why the lad was different from the other vagabonds. This, also, was why he suddenly altered the whole situation by doingthis strange and unexpected thing. He utterly changed his expression andvoice, fixing his sharp eyes shrewdly on Marco's. It was almost as if hewere asking him a conundrum. He knew it would have been one to most boysof the class he appeared outwardly to belong to. He would either knowthe answer or he wouldn't. 

"I beg your pardon, " The Rat said. 

That was the conundrum. It was what a gentleman and an officer wouldhave said, if he felt he had been mistaken or rude. He had heard thatfrom his drunken father. 

"I beg yours--for being late, " said Marco. 

That was the right answer. It was the one another officer and gentlemanwould have made. It settled the matter at once, and it settled more thanwas apparent at the moment. It decided that Marco was one of those whoknew the things The Rat's father had once known--the things gentlemen doand say and think. Not another word was said. It was all right. Marcoslipped into line with the Squad, and The Rat sat erect with hismilitary bearing and began his drill:

"Squad!

"'Tention!

"Number!

"Slope arms!

"Form fours!

"Right!

"Quick march!

"Halt!

"Left turn!

"Order arms!

"Stand at ease!

"Stand easy!"

They did it so well that it was quite wonderful when one considered thelimited space at their disposal. They had evidently done it often, andThe Rat had been not only a smart, but a severe, officer. This morningthey repeated the exercise a number of times, and even varied it withReview Drill, with which they seemed just as familiar. 

"Where did you learn it?" The Rat asked, when the arms were stackedagain and Marco was sitting by him as he had sat the previous day. 

"From an old soldier. And I like to watch it, as you do. "

"If you were a young swell in the Guards, you couldn't be smarter atit, " The Rat said. "The way you hold yourself! The way you stand! You'vegot it! Wish I was you! It comes natural to you. "

"I've always liked to watch it and try to do it myself. I did when I wasa little fellow, " answered Marco. 

"I've been trying to kick it into these chaps for more than a year, "said The Rat. "A nice job I had of it! It nearly made me sick at first. "

The semicircle in front of him only giggled or laughed outright. Themembers of it seemed to take very little offense at his cavaliertreatment of them. He had evidently something to give them which wasentertaining enough to make up for his tyranny and indifference. Hethrust his hand into one of the pockets of his ragged coat, and drew outa piece of newspaper. 

"My father brought home this, wrapped round a loaf of bread, " he said. "See what it says there!"

He handed it to Marco, pointing to some words printed in large lettersat the head of a column. Marco looked at it and sat very still. 

The words he read were: "The Lost Prince. "

"Silence is still the order, " was the first thought which flashedthrough his mind. "Silence is still the order. "

"What does it mean?" he said aloud. 

"There isn't much of it. I wish there was more, " The Rat said fretfully. "Read and see. Of course they say it mayn't be true--but I believe itis. They say that people think some one knows where he is--at leastwhere one of his descendants is. It'd be the same thing. He'd be thereal king. If he'd just show himself, it might stop all the fighting. Just read. "

Marco read, and his skin prickled as the blood went racing throughhis body. But his face did not change. There was a sketch of the storyof the Lost Prince to begin with. It had been regarded by most people, the article said, as a sort of legend. Now there was a definite rumorthat it was not a legend at all, but a part of the long past historyof Samavia. It was said that through the centuries there had alwaysbeen a party secretly loyal to the memory of this worshiped and lostFedorovitch. It was even said that from father to son, generation aftergeneration after generation, had descended the oath of fealty to him andhis descendants. The people had made a god of him, and now, romanticas it seemed, it was beginning to be an open secret that some personsbelieved that a descendant had been found--a Fedorovitch worthy of hisyoung ancestor--and that a certain Secret Party also held that, if hewere called back to the throne of Samavia, the interminable wars andbloodshed would reach an end. 

The Rat had begun to bite his nails fast. 

"Do you believe he's found?" he asked feverishly. "_Don't you_? I do!"

"I wonder where he is, if it's true? I wonder! Where?" exclaimed Marco. He could say that, and he might seem as eager as he felt. 

The Squad all began to jabber at once. "Yus, where wos'e? There is noknowin'. It'd be likely to be in some o' these furrin places. England'dbe too far from Samavia. 'Ow far off wos Samavia? Wos it in Roosha, orwhere the Frenchies were, or the Germans? But wherever 'e wos, 'e'd bethe right sort, an' 'e'd be the sort a chap'd turn and look at in thestreet. "

The Rat continued to bite his nails. 

"He might be anywhere, " he said, his small fierce face glowing. 

"That's what I like to think about. He might be passing in the streetoutside there; he might be up in one of those houses, " jerking his headover his shoulder toward the backs of the inclosing dwellings. "Perhapshe knows he's a king, and perhaps he doesn't. He'd know if what you saidyesterday was true--about the king always being made ready for Samavia. "

"Yes, he'd know, " put in Marco. 

"Well, it'd be finer if he did, " went on The Rat. "However poor andshabby he was, he'd know the secret all the time. And if people sneeredat him, he'd sneer at them and laugh to himself. I dare say he'd walktremendously straight and hold his head up. If I was him, I'd like tomake people suspect a bit that I wasn't like the common lot o' them. "He put out his hand and pushed Marco excitedly. "Let's work out plotsfor him!" he said. "That'd be a splendid game! Let's pretend we're theSecret Party!"

He was tremendously excited. Out of the ragged pocket he fished a pieceof chalk. Then he leaned forward and began to draw something quickly onthe flagstones closest to his platform. The Squad leaned forward also, quite breathlessly, and Marco leaned forward. The chalk was sketching aroughly outlined map, and he knew what map it was, before The Rat spoke. 

"That's a map of Samavia, " he said. "It was in that piece of magazineI told you about--the one where I read about Prince Ivor. I studied ituntil it fell to pieces. But I could draw it myself by that time, so itdidn't matter. I could draw it with my eyes shut. That's the capitalcity, " pointing to a spot. "It's called Melzarr. The palace is there. It's the place where the first of the Maranovitch killed the last ofthe Fedorovitch--the bad chap that was Ivor's father. It's the palaceIvor wandered out of singing the shepherds' song that early morning. It's where the throne is that his descendant would sit upon to becrowned--that he's _going_ to sit upon. I believe he is! Let's swearhe shall!" He flung down his piece of chalk and sat up. "Give me twosticks. Help me to get up. "

Two of the Squad sprang to their feet and came to him. Each snatched oneof the sticks from the stacked rifles, evidently knowing what he wanted. Marco rose too, and watched with sudden, keen curiosity. He had thoughtthat The Rat could not stand up, but it seemed that he could, in afashion of his own, and he was going to do it. The boys lifted him byhis arms, set him against the stone coping of the iron railings of thechurchyard, and put a stick in each of his hands. They stood at hisside, but he supported himself. 

"'E could get about if 'e 'ad the money to buy crutches!" said onewhose name was Cad, and he said it quite proudly. The queer thing thatMarco had noticed was that the ragamuffins were proud of The Rat, andregarded him as their lord and master. "--'E could get about an' standas well as any one, " added the other, and he said it in the tone of onewho boasts. His name was Ben. 

"I'm going to stand now, and so are the rest of you, " said The Rat. "Squad! 'Tention! You at the head of the line, " to Marco. They were inline in a moment--straight, shoulders back, chins up. And Marco stood atthe head. 

"We're going to take an oath, " said The Rat. "It's an oath ofallegiance. Allegiance means faithfulness to a thing--a king or acountry. Ours means allegiance to the King of Samavia. We don't knowwhere he is, but we swear to be faithful to him, to fight for him, toplot for him, to _die_ for him, and to bring him back to his throne!" Theway in which he flung up his head when he said the word "die" was veryfine indeed. "We are the Secret Party. We will work in the dark and findout things--and run risks--and collect an army no one will know anythingabout until it is strong enough to suddenly rise at a secret signal, andoverwhelm the Maranovitch and Iarovitch, and seize their forts andcitadels. No one even knows we are alive. We are a silent, secret thingthat never speaks aloud!"

Silent and secret as they were, however, they spoke aloud at thisjuncture. It was such a grand idea for a game, and so full of possiblelarks, that the Squad broke into a howl of an exultant cheer. 

"Hooray!" they yelled. "Hooray for the oath of 'legiance! 'Ray! 'ray!'ray!"

"Shut up, you swine!" shouted The Rat. "Is that the way you keepyourself secret? You'll call the police in, you fools! Look at _him_!"pointing to Marco. "He's got some sense. "

Marco, in fact, had not made any sound. 

"Come here, you Cad and Ben, and put me back on my wheels, " raged theSquad's commander. "I'll not make up the game at all. It's no use with alot of fat-head, raw recruits like you. "

The line broke and surrounded him in a moment, pleading and urging. 

"Aw, Rat! We forgot. It's the primest game you've ever thought out! Rat!Rat! Don't get a grouch on! We'll keep still, Rat! Primest lark of all'll be the sneakin' about an' keepin' quiet. Aw, Rat! Keep it up!"

"Keep it up yourselves!" snarled The Rat. 

"Not another cove of us could do it but you! Not one! There's no othercove could think it out. You're the only chap that can think out things. You thought out the Squad! That's why you're captain!"

This was true. He was the one who could invent entertainment for them, these street lads who had nothing. Out of that nothing he could createwhat excited them, and give them something to fill empty, useless, oftencold or wet or foggy, hours. That made him their captain and theirpride. 

The Rat began to yield, though grudgingly. He pointed again to Marco, who had not moved, but stood still at attention. 

"Look at _him_!" he said. "He knows enough to stand where he's put untilhe's ordered to break line. He's a soldier, he is--not a raw recruitthat don't know the goose-step. He's been in barracks before. "

But after this outburst, he deigned to go on. 

"Here's the oath, " he said. "We swear to stand any torture and submit insilence to any death rather than betray our secret and our king. We willobey in silence and in secret. We will swim through seas of blood andfight our way through lakes of fire, if we are ordered. Nothing shallbar our way. All we do and say and think is for our country and ourking. If any of you have anything to say, speak out before you take theoath. "

He saw Marco move a little, and he made a sign to him. 

"You, " he said. "Have you something to say?"

Marco turned to him and saluted. 

"Here stand ten men for Samavia. God be thanked!" he said. He dared saythat much, and he felt as if his father himself would have told him thatthey were the right words. 

The Rat thought they were. Somehow he felt that they struck home. Hereddened with a sudden emotion. 

"Squad!" he said. "I'll let you give three cheers on that. It's for thelast time. We'll begin to be quiet afterward. "

And to the Squad's exultant relief he led the cheer, and they wereallowed to make as much uproar as they liked. They liked to make a greatdeal, and when it was at an end, it had done them good and made themready for business. 

The Rat opened the drama at once. Never surely had there ever beforebeen heard a conspirator's whisper as hollow as his. 

"Secret Ones, " he said, "it is midnight. We meet in the depths ofdarkness. We dare not meet by day. When we meet in the daytime, wepretend not to know each other. We are meeting now in a Samavian citywhere there is a fortress. We shall have to take it when the secret signis given and we make our rising. We are getting everything ready, sothat, when we find the king, the secret sign can be given. "

"What is the name of the city we are in?" whispered Cad. 

"It is called Larrina. It is an important seaport. We must take it assoon as we rise. The next time we meet I will bring a dark lantern anddraw a map and show it to you. "

It would have been a great advantage to the game if Marco could havedrawn for them the map he could have made, a map which would have shownevery fortress--every stronghold and every weak place. Being a boy, heknew what excitement would have thrilled each breast, how they wouldlean forward and pile question on question, pointing to this place andto that. He had learned to draw the map before he was ten, and he haddrawn it again and again because there had been times when his fatherhad told him that changes had taken place. Oh, yes! he could have drawna map which would have moved them to a frenzy of joy. But he sat silentand listened, only speaking when he asked a question, as if he knewnothing more about Samavia than The Rat did. What a Secret Party theywere! They drew themselves together in the closest of circles; theyspoke in unearthly whispers. 

"A sentinel ought to be posted at the end of the passage, " Marcowhispered. 

"Ben, take your gun!" commanded The Rat. 

Ben rose stealthily, and, shouldering his weapon, crept on tiptoe to theopening. There he stood on guard. 

"My father says there's been a Secret Party in Samavia for a hundredyears, " The Rat whispered. 

"Who told him?" asked Marco. 

"A man who has been in Samavia, " answered The Rat. "He said it was themost wonderful Secret Party in the world, because it has worked andwaited so long, and never given up, though it has had no reason forhoping. It began among some shepherds and charcoal-burners who boundthemselves by an oath to find the Lost Prince and bring him back tothe throne. There were too few of them to do anything against theMaranovitch, and when the first lot found they were growing old, they made their sons take the same oath. It has been passed on fromgeneration to generation, and in each generation the band has grown. Noone really knows how large it is now, but they say that there are peoplein nearly all the countries in Europe who belong to it in dead secret, and are sworn to help it when they are called. They are only waiting. Some are rich people who will give money, and some are poor ones whowill slip across the frontier to fight or to help to smuggle in arms. They even say that for all these years there have been arms made incaves in the mountains, and hidden there year after year. There are menwho are called Forgers of the Sword, and they, and their fathers, andgrandfathers, and great-grandfathers have always made swords and storedthem in caverns no one knows of, hidden caverns underground. "

Marco spoke aloud the thought which had come into his mind as helistened, a thought which brought fear to him. "If the people in thestreets talk about it, they won't be hidden long. "

"It isn't common talk, my father says. Only very few have guessed, andmost of them think it is part of the Lost Prince legend, " said The Rat. "The Maranovitch and Iarovitch laugh at it. They have always been greatfools. They're too full of their own swagger to think anything caninterfere with them. "

"Do you talk much to your father?" Marco asked him. 

The Rat showed his sharp white teeth in a grin. 

"I know what you're thinking of, " he said. "You're remembering that Isaid he was always drunk. So he is, except when he's only _half_ drunk. And when he's _half_ drunk, he's the most splendid talker in London. Heremembers everything he has ever learned or read or heard since he wasborn. I get him going and listen. He wants to talk and I want to hear. I found out almost everything I know in that way. He didn't know he wasteaching me, but he was. He goes back into being a gentleman when he'shalf drunk. "

"If--if you care about the Samavians, you'd better ask him not to tellpeople about the Secret Party and the Forgers of the Sword, " suggestedMarco. 

The Rat started a little. 

"That's true!" he said. "You're sharper than I am. It oughtn't to beblabbed about, or the Maranovitch might hear enough to make them stopand listen. I'll get him to promise. There's one queer thing about him, "he added very slowly, as if he were thinking it over, "I suppose it'spart of the gentleman that's left in him. If he makes a promise, henever breaks it, drunk or sober. "

"Ask him to make one, " said Marco. The next moment he changed thesubject because it seemed the best thing to do. "Go on and tell us whatour own Secret Party is to do. We're forgetting, " he whispered. 

The Rat took up his game with renewed keenness. It was a game whichattracted him immensely because it called upon his imagination and heldhis audience spellbound, besides plunging him into war and strategy. 

"We're preparing for the rising, " he said. "It must come soon. We'vewaited so long. The caverns are stacked with arms. The Maranovitch andthe Iarovitch are fighting and using all their soldiers, and now is ourtime. " He stopped and thought, his elbows on his knees. He began to bitehis nails again. 

"The Secret Signal must be given, " he said. Then he stopped again, andthe Squad held its breath and pressed nearer with a softly shufflingsound. "Two of the Secret Ones must be chosen by lot and sent forth, " hewent on; and the Squad almost brought ruin and disgrace upon itself bywanting to cheer again, and only just stopping itself in time. "Must bechosen _by lot_, " The Rat repeated, looking from one face to another. "Each one will take his life in his hand when he goes forth. He may haveto die a thousand deaths, but he must go. He must steal in silence anddisguise from one country to another. Wherever there is one of theSecret Party, whether he is in a hovel or on a throne, the messengersmust go to him in darkness and stealth and give him the sign. It willmean, 'The hour has come. God save Samavia!'"

"God save Samavia!" whispered the Squad, excitedly. And, because theysaw Marco raise his hand to his forehead, every one of them saluted. 

They all began to whisper at once. 

"Let's draw lots now. Let's draw lots, Rat. Don't let's 'ave nowaitin'. "

The Rat began to look about him with dread anxiety. He seemed to beexamining the sky. 

"The darkness is not as thick as it was, " he whispered. "Midnight haspassed. The dawn of day will be upon us. If any one has a piece of paperor a string, we will draw the lots before we part. "

Cad had a piece of string, and Marco had a knife which could be used tocut it into lengths. This The Rat did himself. Then, after shutting hiseyes and mixing them, he held them in his hand ready for the drawing. 

"The Secret One who draws the longest lot is chosen. The Secret One whodraws the shortest is chosen, " he said solemnly. 

The drawing was as solemn as his tone. Each boy wanted to draw eitherthe shortest lot or the longest one. The heart of each thumped somewhatas he drew his piece of string. 

When the drawing was at an end, each showed his lot. The Rat had drawnthe shortest piece of string, and Marco had drawn the longest one. 

"Comrade!" said The Rat, taking his hand. "We will face death and dangertogether!"

"God save Samavia!" answered Marco. 

And the game was at an end for the day. The primest thing, the Squadsaid, The Rat had ever made up for them. "'E wos a wonder, he wos!"

VII

"THE LAMP IS LIGHTED!"

On his way home, Marco thought of nothing but the story he must tell hisfather, the story the stranger who had been to Samavia had told TheRat's father. He felt that it must be a true story and not merely aninvention. The Forgers of the Sword must be real men, and the hiddensubterranean caverns stacked through the centuries with arms must bereal, too. And if they were real, surely his father was one of those whoknew the secret. His thoughts ran very fast. The Rat's boyish inventionof the rising was only part of a game, but how natural it would be thatsometime--perhaps before long--there would be a real rising! Surelythere would be one if the Secret Party had grown so strong, and if manyweapons and secret friends in other countries were ready and waiting. During all these years, hidden work and preparation would have beengoing on continually, even though it was preparation for an unknown day. A party which had lasted so long--which passed its oath on fromgeneration to generation--must be of a deadly determination. 

What might it not have made ready in its caverns and secretmeeting-places! He longed to reach home and tell his father, at once, all he had heard. He recalled to mind, word for word, all that The Rathad been told, and even all he had added in his game, because--well, because that seemed so real too, so real that it actually might beuseful. 

But when he reached No. 7 Philibert Place, he found Loristan and Lazarusvery much absorbed in work. The door of the back sitting-room was lockedwhen he first knocked on it, and locked again as soon as he had entered. There were many papers on the table, and they were evidently studyingthem. Several of them were maps. Some were road maps, some maps of townsand cities, and some of fortifications; but they were all maps of placesin Samavia. They were usually kept in a strong box, and when they weretaken out to be studied, the door was always kept locked. 

Before they had their evening meal, these were all returned to thestrong box, which was pushed into a corner and had newspapers piled uponit. 

"When he arrives, " Marco heard Loristan say to Lazarus, "we can show himclearly what has been planned. He can see for himself. "

His father spoke scarcely at all during the meal, and, though it wasnot the habit of Lazarus to speak at such times unless spoken to, thisevening it seemed to Marco that he _looked_ more silent than he hadever seen him look before. They were plainly both thinking anxiously ofdeeply serious things. The story of the stranger who had been to Samaviamust not be told yet. But it was one which would keep. 

Loristan did not say anything until Lazarus had removed the things fromthe table and made the room as neat as possible. While that was beingdone, he sat with his forehead resting on his hand, as if absorbed inthought. Then he made a gesture to Marco. 

"Come here, Comrade, " he said. 

Marco went to him. 

"To-night some one may come to talk with me about grave things, " hesaid. "I think he will come, but I cannot be quite sure. It is importantthat he should know that, when he comes, he will find me quite alone. Hewill come at a late hour, and Lazarus will open the door quietly that noone may hear. It is important that no one should see him. Some one mustgo and walk on the opposite side of the street until he appears. Thenthe one who goes to give warning must cross the pavement before him andsay in a low voice, 'The Lamp is lighted!' and at once turn quietlyaway. "

What boy's heart would not have leaped with joy at the mystery of it!Even a common and dull boy who knew nothing of Samavia would have feltjerky. Marco's voice almost shook with the thrill of his feeling. 

"How shall I know him?" he said at once. Without asking at all, he knewhe was the "some one" who was to go. 

"You have seen him before, " Loristan answered. "He is the man who drovein the carriage with the King. "

"I shall know him, " said Marco. "When shall I go?"

"Not until it is half-past one o'clock. Go to bed and sleep untilLazarus calls you. " Then he added, "Look well at his face before youspeak. He will probably not be dressed as well as he was when you sawhim first. "

Marco went up-stairs to his room and went to bed as he was told, butit was hard to go to sleep. The rattle and roaring of the road did notusually keep him awake, because he had lived in the poorer quarter oftoo many big capital cities not to be accustomed to noise. But to-nightit seemed to him that, as he lay and looked out at the lamplight, heheard every bus and cab which went past. He could not help thinking ofthe people who were in them, and on top of them, and of the people whowere hurrying along on the pavement outside the broken iron railings. Hewas wondering what they would think if they knew that things connectedwith the battles they read of in the daily papers were going on in oneof the shabby houses they scarcely gave a glance to as they went bythem. It must be something connected with the war, if a man who was agreat diplomat and the companion of kings came in secret to talk alonewith a patriot who was a Samavian. Whatever his father was doing was forthe good of Samavia, and perhaps the Secret Party knew he was doing it. His heart almost beat aloud under his shirt as he lay on the lumpymattress thinking it over. He must indeed look well at the strangerbefore he even moved toward him. He must be sure he was the right man. The game he had amused himself with so long--the game of trying toremember pictures and people and places clearly and in detail--had beena wonderful training. If he could draw, he knew he could have made asketch of the keen-eyed, clever, aquiline face with the well-cut anddelicately close mouth, which looked as if it had been shut upon secretsalways--always. If he could draw, he found himself saying again. He_could_ draw, though perhaps only roughly. He had often amused himself bymaking sketches of things he wanted to ask questions about. He had evendrawn people's faces in his untrained way, and his father had said thathe had a crude gift for catching a likeness. Perhaps he could make asketch of this face which would show his father that he knew and wouldrecognize it. 

He jumped out of bed and went to a table near the window. There waspaper and a pencil lying on it. A street lamp exactly opposite threwinto the room quite light enough for him to see by. He half knelt by thetable and began to draw. He worked for about twenty minutes steadily, and he tore up two or three unsatisfactory sketches. The poor drawingwould not matter if he could catch that subtle look which was notslyness but something more dignified and important. It was notdifficult to get the marked, aristocratic outline of the features. A common-looking man with less pronounced profile would have been lesseasy to draw in one sense. He gave his mind wholly to the recalling ofevery detail which had photographed itself on his memory through itstrained habit. Gradually he saw that the likeness was becoming clearer. It was not long before it was clear enough to be a striking one. Any onewho knew the man would recognize it. He got up, drawing a long andjoyful breath. 

He did not put on his shoes, but crossed his room as noiselessly aspossible, and as noiselessly opened the door. He made no ghost of asound when he went down the stairs. The woman who kept the lodging-househad gone to bed, and so had the other lodgers and the maid of all work. All the lights were out except the one he saw a glimmer of under thedoor of his father's room. When he had been a mere baby, he had beentaught to make a special sign on the door when he wished to speak toLoristan. He stood still outside the back sitting-room and made it now. It was a low scratching sound--two scratches and a soft tap. Lazarusopened the door and looked troubled. 

"It is not yet time, sir, " he said very low. 

"I know, " Marco answered. "But I must show something to my father. "Lazarus let him in, and Loristan turned round from his writing-tablequestioningly. 

Marco went forward and laid the sketch down before him. 

"Look at it, " he said. "I remember him well enough to draw that. Ithought of it all at once--that I could make a sort of picture. Do youthink it is like him?" Loristan examined it closely. 

"It is very like him, " he answered. "You have made me feel entirelysafe. Thanks, Comrade. It was a good idea. "

There was relief in the grip he gave the boy's hand, and Marco turnedaway with an exultant feeling. Just as he reached the door, Loristansaid to him:

"Make the most of this gift. It is a gift. And it is true your mind hashad good training. The more you draw, the better. Draw everything youcan. "

Neither the street lamps, nor the noises, nor his thoughts kept Marcoawake when he went back to bed. But before he settled himself upon hispillow he gave himself certain orders. He had both read, and heardLoristan say, that the mind can control the body when people once findout that it can do so. He had tried experiments himself, and had foundout some curious things. One was that if he told himself to remember acertain thing at a certain time, he usually found that he _did_ rememberit. Something in his brain seemed to remind him. He had often tried theexperiment of telling himself to awaken at a particular hour, and hadawakened almost exactly at the moment by the clock. 

"I will sleep until one o'clock, " he said as he shut his eyes. "Then Iwill awaken and feel quite fresh. I shall not be sleepy at all. "

He slept as soundly as a boy can sleep. And at one o'clock exactly heawakened, and found the street lamp still throwing its light through thewindow. He knew it was one o'clock, because there was a cheap littleround clock on the table, and he could see the time. He was quite freshand not at all sleepy. His experiment had succeeded again. 

He got up and dressed. Then he went down-stairs as noiselessly asbefore. He carried his shoes in his hands, as he meant to put them ononly when he reached the street. He made his sign at his father's door, and it was Loristan who opened it. 

"Shall I go now?" Marco asked. 

"Yes. Walk slowly to the other side of the street. Look in everydirection. We do not know where he will come from. After you have givenhim the sign, then come in and go to bed again. "

Marco saluted as a soldier would have done on receiving an order. 

Then, without a second's delay, he passed noiselessly out of the house. 

Loristan turned back into the room and stood silently in the center ofit. The long lines of his handsome body looked particularly erect andstately, and his eyes were glowing as if something deeply moved him. 

"There grows a man for Samavia, " he said to Lazarus, who watched him. "God be thanked!"

Lazarus's voice was low and hoarse, and he saluted quite reverently. 

"Your--sir!" he said. "God save the Prince!"

"Yes, " Loristan answered, after a moment's hesitation, --"when he isfound. " And he went back to his table smiling his beautiful smile. 

 * * * * *

The wonder of silence in the deserted streets of a great city, aftermidnight has hushed all the roar and tumult to rest, is an almostunbelievable thing. The stillness in the depths of a forest or on amountain top is not so strange. A few hours ago, the tumult was rushingpast; in a few hours more, it will be rushing past again. 

But now the street is a naked thing; a distant policeman's tramp onthe bare pavement has a hollow and almost fearsome sound. It seemedespecially so to Marco as he crossed the road. Had it ever been so emptyand deadly silent before? Was it so every night? Perhaps it was, when hewas fast asleep on his lumpy mattress with the light from a street lampstreaming into the room. He listened for the step of the policeman onnight-watch, because he did not wish to be seen. There was a juttingwall where he could stand in the shadow while the man passed. Apoliceman would stop to look questioningly at a boy who walked up anddown the pavement at half-past one in the morning. Marco could waituntil he had gone by, and then come out into the light and look up anddown the road and the cross streets. 

He heard his approaching footsteps in a few minutes, and was safely inthe shadows before he could be seen. When the policeman passed, he cameout and walked slowly down the road, looking on each side, and now andthen looking back. At first no one was in sight. Then a late hansom-cabcame tinkling along. But the people in it were returning from somefestivity, and were laughing and talking, and noticed nothing but theirown joking. Then there was silence again, and for a long time, as itseemed to Marco, no one was to be seen. It was not really so long as itappeared, because he was anxious. Then a very early vegetable-wagon onthe way from the country to Covent Garden Market came slowly lumberingby with its driver almost asleep on his piles of potatoes and cabbages. After it had passed, there was stillness and emptiness once more, untilthe policeman showed himself again on his beat, and Marco slipped intothe shadow of the wall as he had done before. 

When he came out into the light, he had begun to hope that the timewould not seem long to his father. It had not really been long, he toldhimself, it had only seemed so. But his father's anxiousness would begreater than his own could be. Loristan knew all that depended on thecoming of this great man who sat side by side with a king in hiscarriage and talked to him as if he knew him well. 

"It might be something which all Samavia is waiting to know--at leastall the Secret Party, " Marco thought. "The Secret Party is Samavia, "--hestarted at the sound of footsteps. "Some one is coming!" he said. "It isa man. "

It was a man who was walking up the road on the same side of thepavement as his own. Marco began to walk toward him quietly but ratherrapidly. He thought it might be best to appear as if he were some boysent on a midnight errand--perhaps to call a doctor. Then, if it was astranger he passed, no suspicion would be aroused. Was this man as tallas the one who had driven with the King? Yes, he was about the sameheight, but he was too far away to be recognizable otherwise. He drewnearer, and Marco noticed that he also seemed slightly to hasten hisfootsteps. Marco went on. A little nearer, and he would be able to makesure. Yes, now he was near enough. Yes, this man was the same height andnot unlike in figure, but he was much younger. He was not the one whohad been in the carriage with His Majesty. He was not more than thirtyyears old. He began swinging his cane and whistling a music-hall songsoftly as Marco passed him without changing his pace. 

It was after the policeman had walked round his beat and disappeared forthe third time, that Marco heard footsteps echoing at some distance downa cross street. After listening to make sure that they were approachinginstead of receding in another direction, he placed himself at a pointwhere he could watch the length of the thoroughfare. Yes, some one wascoming. It was a man's figure again. He was able to place himself ratherin the shadow so that the person approaching would not see that he wasbeing watched. The solitary walker reached a recognizable distance inabout two minutes' time. He was dressed in an ordinary shop-made suit ofclothes which was rather shabby and quite unnoticeable in itsappearance. His common hat was worn so that it rather shaded his face. But even before he had crossed to Marco's side of the road, the boy hadclearly recognized him. It was the man who had driven with the King!

Chance was with Marco. The man crossed at exactly the place which madeit easy for the boy to step lightly from behind him, walk a few pacesby his side, and then pass directly before him across the pavement, glancing quietly up into his face as he said in a low voice butdistinctly, the words "The Lamp is lighted, " and without pausing asecond walk on his way down the road. He did not slacken his pace orlook back until he was some distance away. Then he glanced over hisshoulder, and saw that the figure had crossed the street and was insidethe railings. It was all right. His father would not be disappointed. The great man had come. 

He walked for about ten minutes, and then went home and to bed. But hewas obliged to tell himself to go to sleep several times before his eyesclosed for the rest of the night. 

VIII

AN EXCITING GAME

Loristan referred only once during the next day to what had happened. 

"You did your errand well. You were not hurried or nervous, " he said. "The Prince was pleased with your calmness. "

No more was said. Marco knew that the quiet mention of the stranger'stitle had been made merely as a designation. If it was necessary tomention him again in the future, he could be referred to as "thePrince. " In various Continental countries there were many princes whowere not royal or even serene highnesses--who were merely princes asother nobles were dukes or barons. Nothing special was revealed whena man was spoken of as a prince. But though nothing was said on thesubject of the incident, it was plain that much work was being done byLoristan and Lazarus. The sitting-room door was locked, and the mapsand documents, usually kept in the iron box, were being used. 

Marco went to the Tower of London and spent part of the day in livingagain the stories which, centuries past, had been inclosed within itsmassive and ancient stone walls. In this way, he had throughout boyhoodbecome intimate with people who to most boys seemed only the unrealcreatures who professed to be alive in school-books of history. He hadlearned to know them as men and women because he had stood in thepalaces they had been born in and had played in as children, had died inat the end. He had seen the dungeons they had been imprisoned in, theblocks on which they had laid their heads, the battlements on which theyhad fought to defend their fortressed towers, the thrones they had satupon, the crowns they had worn, and the jeweled scepters they had held. He had stood before their portraits and had gazed curiously at their"Robes of Investiture, " sewn with tens of thousands of seed-pearls. Tolook at a man's face and feel his pictured eyes follow you as you moveaway from him, to see the strangely splendid garments he once warmedwith his living flesh, is to realize that history is not a mere lessonin a school-book, but is a relation of the life stories of men and womenwho saw strange and splendid days, and sometimes suffered strange andterrible things. 

There were only a few people who were being led about sight-seeing. The man in the ancient Beef-eaters' costume, who was their guide, wasgood-natured, and evidently fond of talking. He was a big and stout man, with a large face and a small, merry eye. He was rather like pictures ofHenry the Eighth, himself, which Marco remembered having seen. He wasspecially talkative when he stood by the tablet that marks the spotwhere stood the block on which Lady Jane Grey had laid her young head. One of the sightseers who knew little of English history had asked somequestions about the reasons for her execution. 

"If her father-in-law, the Duke of Northumberland, had left that youngcouple alone--her and her husband, Lord Guildford Dudley--they'd havekept their heads on. He was bound to make her a queen, and Mary Tudorwas bound to be queen herself. The duke wasn't clever enough to manage aconspiracy and work up the people. These Samavians we're reading aboutin the papers would have done it better. And they're half-savages. "

"They had a big battle outside Melzarr yesterday, " the sight-seerstanding next to Marco said to the young woman who was his companion. "Thousands of 'em killed. I saw it in big letters on the boards as Irode on the top of the bus. They're just slaughtering each other, that'swhat they're doing. "

The talkative Beef-eater heard him. 

"They can't even bury their dead fast enough, " he said. "There'll besome sort of plague breaking out and sweeping into the countries nearestthem. It'll end by spreading all over Europe as it did in the MiddleAges. What the civilized countries have got to do is to make them choosea decent king and begin to behave themselves. "

"I'll tell my father that too, " Marco thought. "It shows that everybodyis thinking and talking of Samavia, and that even the common people knowit must have a real king. This must be _the time_!" And what he meant wasthat this must be the time for which the Secret Party had waited andworked so long--the time for the Rising. But his father was out when hewent back to Philibert Place, and Lazarus looked more silent than everas he stood behind his chair and waited on him through his insignificantmeal. However plain and scant the food they had to eat, it was alwaysserved with as much care and ceremony as if it had been a banquet. 

"A man can eat dry bread and drink cold water as if he were agentleman, " his father had said long ago. "And it is easy to formcareless habits. Even if one is hungry enough to feel ravenous, a manwho has been well bred will not allow himself to look so. A dog may, aman may not. Just as a dog may howl when he is angry or in pain and aman may not. "

It was only one of the small parts of the training which had quietlymade the boy, even as a child, self-controlled and courteous, had taughthim ease and grace of boyish carriage, the habit of holding his bodywell and his head erect, and had given him a certain look of youngdistinction which, though it assumed nothing, set him apart from boys ofcarelessly awkward bearing. 

"Is there a newspaper here which tells of the battle, Lazarus?" heasked, after he had left the table. 

"Yes, sir, " was the answer. "Your father said that you might read it. Itis a black tale!" he added, as he handed him the paper. 

It was a black tale. As he read, Marco felt as if he could scarcely bearit. It was as if Samavia swam in blood, and as if the other countriesmust stand aghast before such furious cruelties. 

"Lazarus, " he said, springing to his feet at last, his eyes burning, "something must stop it! There must be something strong enough. The timehas come. The time has come. " And he walked up and down the room becausehe was too excited to stand still. 

How Lazarus watched him! What a strong and glowing feeling there was inhis own restrained face!

"Yes, sir. Surely the time has come, " he answered. But that was all hesaid, and he turned and went out of the shabby back sitting-room atonce. It was as if he felt it were wiser to go before he lost power overhimself and said more. 

Marco made his way to the meeting-place of the Squad, to which The Rathad in the past given the name of the Barracks. The Rat was sittingamong his followers, and he had been reading the morning paper to them, the one which contained the account of the battle of Melzarr. The Squadhad become the Secret Party, and each member of it was thrilled with thespirit of dark plot and adventure. They all whispered when they spoke. 

"This is not the Barracks now, " The Rat said. "It is a subterraneancavern. Under the floor of it thousands of swords and guns are buried, and it is piled to the roof with them. There is only a small place leftfor us to sit and plot in. We crawl in through a hole, and the hole ishidden by bushes. "

To the rest of the boys this was only an exciting game, but Marcoknew that to The Rat it was more. Though The Rat knew none of thethings he knew, he saw that the whole story seemed to him a real thing. The struggles of Samavia, as he had heard and read of them in thenewspapers, had taken possession of him. His passion for soldiering andwarfare and his curiously mature brain had led him into following everydetail he could lay hold of. He had listened to all he had heard withremarkable results. He remembered things older people forgot after theyhad mentioned them. He forgot nothing. He had drawn on the flagstones amap of Samavia which Marco saw was actually correct, and he had made arough sketch of Melzarr and the battle which had had such disastrousresults. 

"The Maranovitch had possession of Melzarr, " he explained with feverisheagerness. "And the Iarovitch attacked them from here, " pointing withhis finger. "That was a mistake. I should have attacked them from aplace where they would not have been expecting it. They expected attackon their fortifications, and they were ready to defend them. I believethe enemy could have stolen up in the night and rushed in here, "pointing again. Marco thought he was right. The Rat had argued it allout, and had studied Melzarr as he might have studied a puzzle or anarithmetical problem. He was very clever, and as sharp as his queer facelooked. 

"I believe you would make a good general if you were grown up, " saidMarco. "I'd like to show your maps to my father and ask him if hedoesn't think your stratagem would have been a good one. "

"Does he know much about Samavia?" asked The Rat. 

"He has to read the newspapers because he writes things, " Marcoanswered. "And every one is thinking about the war. No one can help it. "

The Rat drew a dingy, folded paper out of his pocket and looked it overwith an air of reflection. 

"I'll make a clean one, " he said. "I'd like a grown-up man to look at itand see if it's all right. My father was more than half-drunk when Iwas drawing this, so I couldn't ask him questions. He'll kill himselfbefore long. He had a sort of fit last night. "

"Tell us, Rat, wot you an' Marco'll 'ave ter do. Let's 'ear wot you'vemade up, " suggested Cad. He drew closer, and so did the rest of thecircle, hugging their knees with their arms. 

"This is what we shall have to do, " began The Rat, in the hollow whisperof a Secret Party. "_The hour has come_. To all the Secret Ones inSamavia, and to the friends of the Secret Party in every country, thesign must be carried. It must be carried by some one who could not besuspected. Who would suspect two boys--and one of them a cripple? Thebest thing of all for us is that I am a cripple. Who would suspect acripple? When my father is drunk and beats me, he does it because Iwon't go out and beg in the streets and bring him the money I get. Hesays that people will nearly always give money to a cripple. I won't bea beggar for him--the swine--but I will be one for Samavia and the LostPrince. Marco shall pretend to be my brother and take care of me. Isay, " speaking to Marco with a sudden change of voice, "can you singanything? It doesn't matter how you do it. "

"Yes, I can sing, " Marco replied. 

"Then Marco will pretend he is singing to make people give him money. I'll get a pair of crutches somewhere, and part of the time I will go oncrutches and part of the time on my platform. We'll live like beggarsand go wherever we want to. I can whiz past a man and give the sign andno one will know. Some times Marco can give it when people are droppingmoney into his cap. We can pass from one country to another and rouseeverybody who is of the Secret Party. We'll work our way into Samavia, and we'll be only two boys--and one a cripple--and nobody will think wecould be doing anything. We'll beg in great cities and on the highroad. "

"Where'll you get the money to travel?" said Cad. 

"The Secret Party will give it to us, and we sha'n't need much. We couldbeg enough, for that matter. We'll sleep under the stars, or underbridges, or archways, or in dark corners of streets. I've done it myselfmany a time when my father drove me out of doors. If it's cold weather, it's bad enough but if it's fine weather, it's better than sleeping inthe kind of place I'm used to. Comrade, " to Marco, "are you ready?"

He said "Comrade" as Loristan did, and somehow Marco did not resent it, because he was ready to labor for Samavia. It was only a game, but itmade them comrades--and was it really only a game, after all? Hisexcited voice and his strange, lined face made it singularly unlike one. 

"Yes, Comrade, I am ready, " Marco answered him. 

"We shall be in Samavia when the fighting for the Lost Prince begins. "The Rat carried on his story with fire. "We may see a battle. We mightdo something to help. We might carry messages under a rain of bullets--arain of bullets!" The thought so elated him that he forgot his whisperand his voice rang out fiercely. "Boys have been in battles before. Wemight find the Lost King--no, the Found King--and ask him to let us behis servants. He could send us where he couldn't send bigger people. Icould say to him, 'Your Majesty, I am called "The Rat, " because I cancreep through holes and into corners and dart about. Order me into anydanger and I will obey you. Let me die like a soldier if I can't livelike one. '"

Suddenly he threw his ragged coat sleeve up across his eyes. He hadwrought himself up tremendously with the picture of the rain of bullets. And he felt as if he saw the King who had at last been found. The nextmoment he uncovered his face. 

"That's what we've got to do, " he said. "Just that, if you want to know. And a lot more. There's no end to it!"

Marco's thoughts were in a whirl. It ought not to be nothing buta game. He grew quite hot all over. If the Secret Party wanted tosend messengers no one would think of suspecting, who could be moreharmless-looking than two vagabond boys wandering about picking up theirliving as best they could, not seeming to belong to any one? And one acripple. It was true--yes, it was true, as The Rat said, that his beinga cripple made him look safer than any one else. Marco actually put hisforehead in his hands and pressed his temples. 

"What's the matter?" exclaimed The Rat. "What are you thinking about?"

"I'm thinking what a general you would make. I'm thinking that it mightall be real--every word of it. It mightn't be a game at all, " saidMarco. 

"No, it mightn't, " The Rat answered. "If I knew where the Secret Partywas, I'd like to go and tell them about it. What's that!" he said, suddenly turning his head toward the street. "What are they callingout?"

Some newsboy with a particularly shrill voice was shouting out somethingat the topmost of his lungs. 

Tense and excited, no member of the circle stirred or spoke for a fewseconds. The Rat listened, Marco listened, the whole Squad listened, pricking up their ears. 

"Startling news from Samavia, " the newsboy was shrilling out. "Amazingstory! Descendant of the Lost Prince found! Descendant of the LostPrince found!"

"Any chap got a penny?" snapped The Rat, beginning to shuffle toward thearched passage. 

"I have!" answered Marco, following him. 

"Come on!" The Rat yelled. "Let's go and get a paper!" And he whizzeddown the passage with his swiftest rat-like dart, while the Squadfollowed him, shouting and tumbling over each other. 

IX

"IT IS NOT A GAME"

Loristan walked slowly up and down the back sitting-room and listened toMarco, who sat by the small fire and talked. 

"Go on, " he said, whenever the boy stopped. "I want to hear it all. He'sa strange lad, and it's a splendid game. "

Marco was telling him the story of his second and third visits to theinclosure behind the deserted church-yard. He had begun at thebeginning, and his father had listened with a deep interest. 

A year later, Marco recalled this evening as a thrilling memory, and asone which would never pass away from him throughout his life. He wouldalways be able to call it all back. The small and dingy back room, thedimness of the one poor gas-burner, which was all they could afford tolight, the iron box pushed into the corner with its maps and planslocked safely in it, the erect bearing and actual beauty of the tallform, which the shabbiness of worn and mended clothes could not hide ordim. Not even rags and tatters could have made Loristan seeminsignificant or undistinguished. He was always the same. His eyesseemed darker and more wonderful than ever in their remotethoughtfulness and interest as he spoke. 

"Go on, " he said. "It is a splendid game. And it is curious. He hasthought it out well. The lad is a born soldier. "

"It is not a game to him, " Marco said. "And it is not a game to me. TheSquad is only playing, but with him it's quite different. He knows he'llnever really get what he wants, but he feels as if this was somethingnear it. He said I might show you the map he made. Father, look at it. "

He gave Loristan the clean copy of The Rat's map of Samavia. The city ofMelzarr was marked with certain signs. They were to show at what pointsThe Rat--if he had been a Samavian general--would have attacked thecapital. As Marco pointed them out, he explained The Rat's reasons forhis planning. 

Loristan held the paper for some minutes. He fixed his eyes on itcuriously, and his black brows drew themselves together. 

"This is very wonderful!" he said at last. "He is quite right. Theymight have got in there, and for the very reasons he hit on. How did helearn all this?"

"He thinks of nothing else now, " answered Marco. "He has always thoughtof wars and made plans for battles. He's not like the rest of the Squad. His father is nearly always drunk, but he is very well educated, and, when he is only half drunk, he likes to talk. The Rat asks him questionsthen, and leads him on until he finds out a great deal. Then he begs oldnewspapers, and he hides himself in corners and listens to what peopleare saying. He says he lies awake at night thinking it out, and hethinks about it all the day. That was why he got up the Squad. "

Loristan had continued examining the paper. 

"Tell him, " he said, when he refolded and handed it back, "that Istudied his map, and he may be proud of it. You may also tell him--" andhe smiled quietly as he spoke--"that in my opinion he is right. TheIarovitch would have held Melzarr to-day if he had led them. "

Marco was full of exultation. 

"I thought you would say he was right. I felt sure you would. That iswhat makes me want to tell you the rest, " he hurried on. 

"If you think he is right about the rest too--" He stopped awkwardlybecause of a sudden wild thought which rushed upon him. "I don't knowwhat you will think, " he stammered. "Perhaps it will seem to you as ifthe game--as if that part of it could--could only be a game. "

He was so fervent in spite of his hesitation that Loristan began towatch him with sympathetic respect, as he always did when the boy wastrying to express something he was not sure of. One of the great bondsbetween them was that Loristan was always interested in his boyishmental processes--in the way in which his thoughts led him to anyconclusion. 

"Go on, " he said again. "I am like The Rat and I am like you. It has notseemed quite like a game to me, so far. "

He sat down at the writing-table and Marco, in his eagerness, drewnearer and leaned against it, resting on his arms and lowering hisvoice, though it was always their habit to speak at such a pitch that noone outside the room they were in could distinguish what they said. 

"It is The Rat's plan for giving the signal for a Rising, " he said. 

Loristan made a slight movement. 

"Does he think there will be a Rising?" he asked. 

"He says that must be what the Secret Party has been preparing for allthese years. And it must come soon. The other nations see that thefighting must be put an end to even if they have to stop it themselves. And if the real King is found--but when The Rat bought the newspaperthere was nothing in it about where he was. It was only a sort of rumor. Nobody seemed to know anything. " He stopped a few seconds, but he didnot utter the words which were in his mind. He did not say: "But _you_know. "

"And The Rat has a plan for giving the signal?" Loristan said. 

Marco forgot his first feeling of hesitation. He began to see the planagain as he had seen it when The Rat talked. He began to speak as TheRat had spoken, forgetting that it was a game. He made even a clearerpicture than The Rat had made of the two vagabond boys--one of thema cripple--making their way from one place to another, quite freeto carry messages or warnings where they chose, because they were soinsignificant and poor-looking that no one could think of them asanything but waifs and strays, belonging to nobody and blown about bythe wind of poverty and chance. He felt as if he wanted to convince hisfather that the plan was a possible one. He did not quite know why hefelt so anxious to win his approval of the scheme--as if it werereal--as if it could actually be done. But this feeling was whatinspired him to enter into new details and suggest possibilities. 

"A boy who was a cripple and one who was only a street singer and a sortof beggar could get almost anywhere, " he said. "Soldiers would listen toa singer if he sang good songs--and they might not be afraid to talkbefore him. A strolling singer and a cripple would perhaps hear a greatmany things it might be useful for the Secret Party to know. They mighteven hear important things. Don't you think so?"

Before he had gone far with his story, the faraway look had fallen uponLoristan's face--the look Marco had known so well all his life. He satturned a little sidewise from the boy, his elbow resting on the tableand his forehead on his hand. He looked down at the worn carpet at hisfeet, and so he looked as he listened to the end. It was as if some newthought were slowly growing in his mind as Marco went on talking andenlarging on The Rat's plan. He did not even look up or change hisposition as he answered, "Yes. I think so. "

But, because of the deep and growing thought in his face, Marco'scourage increased. His first fear that this part of the planning mightseem so bold and reckless that it would only appear to belong to aboyish game, gradually faded away for some strange reason. His fatherhad said that the first part of The Rat's imaginings had not seemedquite like a game to him, and now--even now--he was not listening as ifhe were listening to the details of mere exaggerated fancies. It was asif the thing he was hearing was not wildly impossible. Marco's knowledgeof Continental countries and of methods of journeying helped him toenter into much detail and give realism to his plans. 

"Sometimes we could pretend we knew nothing but English, " he said. "Then, though The Rat could not understand, I could. I should alwaysunderstand in each country. I know the cities and the places we shouldwant to go to. I know how boys like us live, and so we should not doanything which would make the police angry or make people notice us. If any one asked questions, I would let them believe that I had met TheRat by chance, and we had made up our minds to travel together becausepeople gave more money to a boy who sang if he was with a cripple. Therewas a boy who used to play the guitar in the streets of Rome, and healways had a lame girl with him, and every one knew it was for thatreason. When he played, people looked at the girl and were sorry for herand gave her soldi. You remember. "

"Yes, I remember. And what you say is true, " Loristan answered. 

Marco leaned forward across the table so that he came closer to him. The tone in which the words were said made his courage leap like aflame. To be allowed to go on with this boldness was to feel that he wasbeing treated almost as if he were a man. If his father had wished tostop him, he could have done it with one quiet glance, without utteringa word. For some wonderful reason he did not wish him to cease talking. He was willing to hear what he had to say--he was even interested. 

"You are growing older, " he had said the night he had revealed themarvelous secret. "Silence is still the order, but you are man enough tobe told more. "

Was he man enough to be thought worthy to help Samavia in any smallway--even with boyish fancies which might contain a germ of some thoughtwhich older and wiser minds might make useful? Was he being listened tobecause the plan, made as part of a game, was not an impossible one--iftwo boys who could be trusted could be found? He caught a deep breath ashe went on, drawing still nearer and speaking so low that his tone wasalmost a whisper. 

"If the men of the Secret Party have been working and thinking forso many years--they have prepared everything. They know by this timeexactly what must be done by the messengers who are to give the signal. They can tell them where to go and how to know the secret friends whomust be warned. If the orders could be written and given to--to some onewho has--who has learned to remember things!" He had begun to breathe soquickly that he stopped for a moment. 

Loristan looked up. He looked directly into his eyes. 

"Some one who has been _trained_ to remember things?" he said. 

"Some one who has been trained, " Marco went on, catching his breathagain. "Some one who does not forget--who would never forget--never!That one, even if he were only twelve--even if he were only ten--couldgo and do as he was told. " Loristan put his hand on his shoulder. 

"Comrade, " he said, "you are speaking as if you were ready to goyourself. "

Marco's eyes looked bravely straight into his, but he said not one word. 

"Do you know what it would mean, Comrade?" his father went on. "You areright. It is not a game. And you are not thinking of it as one. But haveyou thought how it would be if something betrayed you--and you were setup against a wall to be _shot_?"

Marco stood up quite straight. He tried to believe he felt the wallagainst his back. 

"If I were shot, I should be shot for Samavia, " he said. "And for _you_, Father. "

Even as he was speaking, the front door-bell rang and Lazarus evidentlyopened it. He spoke to some one, and then they heard his footstepsapproaching the back sitting-room. 

"Open the door, " said Loristan, and Marco opened it. 

"There is a boy who is a cripple here, sir, " the old soldier said. "Heasked to see Master Marco. "

"If it is The Rat, " said Loristan, "bring him in here. I wish to seehim. "

Marco went down the passage to the front door. The Rat was there, but hewas not upon his platform. He was leaning upon an old pair of crutches, and Marco thought he looked wild and strange. He was white, and somehowthe lines of his face seemed twisted in a new way. Marco wondered ifsomething had frightened him, or if he felt ill. 

"Rat, " he began, "my father--"

"I've come to tell you about _my_ father, " The Rat broke in withoutwaiting to hear the rest, and his voice was as strange as his pale face. "I don't know why I've come, but I--I just wanted to. He's dead!"

"Your father?" Marco stammered. "He's--"

"He's dead, " The Rat answered shakily. "I told you he'd kill himself. He had another fit and he died in it. I knew he would, one of these days. I told him so. He knew he would himself. I stayed with him till he wasdead--and then I got a bursting headache and I felt sick--and I thoughtabout you. "

Marco made a jump at him because he saw he was suddenly shaking as if hewere going to fall. He was just in time, and Lazarus, who had beenlooking on from the back of the passage, came forward. Together theyheld him up. 

"I'm not going to faint, " he said weakly, "but I felt as if I was. Itwas a bad fit, and I had to try and hold him. I was all by myself. Thepeople in the other attic thought he was only drunk, and they wouldn'tcome in. He's lying on the floor there, dead. "

"Come and see my father, " Marco said. "He'll tell us what do do. Lazarus, help him. "

"I can get on by myself, " said The Rat. "Do you see my crutches? I didsomething for a pawnbroker last night, and he gave them to me for pay. "

But though he tried to speak carelessly, he had plainly been horriblyshaken and overwrought. His queer face was yellowish white still, and hewas trembling a little. 

Marco led the way into the back sitting-room. In the midst of its shabbygloom and under the dim light Loristan was standing in one of his still, attentive attitudes. He was waiting for them. 

"Father, this is The Rat, " the boy began. The Rat stopped short andrested on his crutches, staring at the tall, reposeful figure withwidened eyes. 

"Is that your father?" he said to Marco. And then added, with a jerkyhalf-laugh, "He's not much like mine, is he?"

X

THE RAT--AND SAMAVIA

What The Rat thought when Loristan began to speak to him, Marcowondered. Suddenly he stood in an unknown world, and it was Loristan whomade it so because its poverty and shabbiness had no power to touch him. He looked at the boy with calm and clear eyes, he asked him practicalquestions gently, and it was plain that he understood many thingswithout asking questions at all. Marco thought that perhaps he had, atsome time, seen drunken men die, in his life in strange places. Heseemed to know the terribleness of the night through which The Rat hadpassed. He made him sit down, and he ordered Lazarus to bring him somehot coffee and simple food. 

"Haven't had a bite since yesterday, " The Rat said, still staring athim. "How did you know I hadn't?"

"You have not had time, " Loristan answered. 

Afterward he made him lie down on the sofa. 

"Look at my clothes, " said The Rat. 

"Lie down and sleep, " Loristan replied, putting his hand on his shoulderand gently forcing him toward the sofa. "You will sleep a long time. Youmust tell me how to find the place where your father died, and I willsee that the proper authorities are notified. "

"What are you doing it for?" The Rat asked, and then he added, "sir. "

"Because I am a man and you are a boy. And this is a terrible thing, "Loristan answered him. 

He went away without saying more, and The Rat lay on the sofa staring atthe wall and thinking about it until he fell asleep. But, before thishappened, Marco had quietly left him alone. So, as Loristan had told himhe would, he slept deeply and long; in fact, he slept through all thenight. 

 * * * * *

When he awakened it was morning, and Lazarus was standing by the side ofthe sofa looking down at him. 

"You will want to make yourself clean, " he said. "It must be done. "

"Clean!" said The Rat, with his squeaky laugh. "I couldn't keep cleanwhen I had a room to live in, and now where am I to wash myself?" He satup and looked about him. 

"Give me my crutches, " he said. "I've got to go. They've let me sleephere all night. They didn't turn me into the street. I don't know whythey didn't. Marco's father--he's the right sort. He looks like aswell. "

"The Master, " said Lazarus, with a rigid manner, "the Master is a greatgentleman. He would turn no tired creature into the street. He and hisson are poor, but they are of those who give. He desires to see and talkto you again. You are to have bread and coffee with him and the youngMaster. But it is I who tell you that you cannot sit at table with themuntil you are clean. Come with me, " and he handed him his crutches. His manner was authoritative, but it was the manner of a soldier; hissomewhat stiff and erect movements were those of a soldier, also, andThe Rat liked them because they made him feel as if he were in barracks. He did not know what was going to happen, but he got up and followed himon his crutches. 

Lazarus took him to a closet under the stairs where a battered tin bathwas already full of hot water, which the old soldier himself had broughtin pails. There were soap and coarse, clean towels on a wooden chair, and also there was a much worn but cleanly suit of clothes. 

"Put these on when you have bathed, " Lazarus ordered, pointing to them. "They belong to the young Master and will be large for you, but theywill be better than your own. " And then he went out of the closet andshut the door. 

It was a new experience for The Rat. So long as he remembered, he hadwashed his face and hands--when he had washed them at all--at an irontap set in the wall of a back street or court in some slum. His fatherand himself had long ago sunk into the world where to wash one's self isnot a part of every-day life. They had lived amid dirt and foulness, andwhen his father had been in a maudlin state, he had sometimes cried andtalked of the long-past days when he had shaved every morning and put ona clean shirt. 

To stand even in the most battered of tin baths full of clean hot waterand to splash and scrub with a big piece of flannel and plenty of soapwas a marvelous thing. The Rat's tired body responded to the noveltywith a curious feeling of freshness and comfort. 

"I dare say swells do this every day, " he muttered. "I'd do it myself ifI was a swell. Soldiers have to keep themselves so clean they shine. "

When, after making the most of his soap and water, he came out of thecloset under the stairs, he was as fresh as Marco himself; and, thoughhis clothes had been built for a more stalwart body, his recognition oftheir cleanliness filled him with pleasure. He wondered if by any efforthe could keep himself clean when he went out into the world again andhad to sleep in any hole the police did not order him out of. 

He wanted to see Marco again, but he wanted more to see the tall manwith the soft dark eyes and that queer look of being a swell in spite ofhis shabby clothes and the dingy place he lived in. There was somethingabout him which made you keep on looking at him, and wanting to knowwhat he was thinking of, and why you felt as if you'd take orders fromhim as you'd take orders from your general, if you were a soldier. Helooked, somehow, like a soldier, but as if he were something more--asif people had taken orders from him all his life, and always would takeorders from him. And yet he had that quiet voice and those fine, easymovements, and he was not a soldier at all, but only a poor man whowrote things for papers which did not pay him well enough to give himand his son a comfortable living. Through all the time of his seclusionwith the battered bath and the soap and water, The Rat thought of him, and longed to have another look at him and hear him speak again. He didnot see any reason why he should have let him sleep on his sofa or whyhe should give him a breakfast before he turned him out to face theworld. It was first-rate of him to do it. The Rat felt that when he wasturned out, after he had had the coffee, he should want to hang aboutthe neighborhood just on the chance of seeing him pass by sometimes. Hedid not know what he was going to do. The parish officials would by thistime have taken his dead father, and he would not see him again. He didnot want to see him again. He had never seemed like a father. They hadnever cared anything for each other. He had only been a wretched outcastwhose best hours had been when he had drunk too much to be violent andbrutal. Perhaps, The Rat thought, he would be driven to going about onhis platform on the pavements and begging, as his father had tried toforce him to do. Could he sell newspapers? What could a crippled lad dounless he begged or sold papers?

Lazarus was waiting for him in the passage. The Rat held back a little. 

"Perhaps they'd rather not eat their breakfast with me, " he hesitated. "I'm not--I'm not the kind they are. I could swallow the coffee out hereand carry the bread away with me. And you could thank him for me. I'dwant him to know I thanked him. "

Lazarus also had a steady eye. The Rat realized that he was looking himover as if he were summing him up. 

"You may not be the kind they are, but you may be of a kind the Mastersees good in. If he did not see something, he would not ask you to sitat his table. You are to come with me. "

The Squad had seen good in The Rat, but no one else had. Policemen hadmoved him on whenever they set eyes on him, the wretched women of theslums had regarded him as they regarded his darting, thieving namesake;loafing or busy men had seen in him a young nuisance to be kicked orpushed out of the way. The Squad had not called "good" what they saw inhim. They would have yelled with laughter if they had heard any one elsecall it so. "Goodness" was not considered an attraction in their world. 

The Rat grinned a little and wondered what was meant, as he followedLazarus into the back sitting-room. 

It was as dingy and gloomy as it had looked the night before, but bythe daylight The Rat saw how rigidly neat it was, how well swept andfree from any speck of dust, how the poor windows had been cleaned andpolished, and how everything was set in order. The coarse linen cloth onthe table was fresh and spotless, so was the cheap crockery, the spoonsshone with brightness. 

Loristan was standing on the hearth and Marco was near him. They werewaiting for their vagabond guest as if he had been a gentleman. 

The Rat hesitated and shuffled at the door for a moment, and then itsuddenly occurred to him to stand as straight as he could and salute. When he found himself in the presence of Loristan, he felt as if heought to do something, but he did not know what. 

Loristan's recognition of his gesture and his expression as he movedforward lifted from The Rat's shoulders a load which he himself had notknown lay there. Somehow he felt as if something new had happened tohim, as if he were not mere "vermin, " after all, as if he need not beon the defensive--even as if he need not feel so much in the dark, andlike a thing there was no place in the world for. The mere straight andfar-seeing look of this man's eyes seemed to make a place somewhere forwhat he looked at. And yet what he said was quite simple. 

"This is well, " he said. "You have rested. We will have some food, andthen we will talk together. " He made a slight gesture in the directionof the chair at the right hand of his own place. 

The Rat hesitated again. What a swell he was! With that wave of the handhe made you feel as if you were a fellow like himself, and he was doingyou some honor. 

"I'm not--" The Rat broke off and jerked his head toward Marco. "Heknows--" he ended, "I've never sat at a table like this before. "

"There is not much on it. " Loristan made the slight gesture toward theright-hand seat again and smiled. "Let us sit down. "

The Rat obeyed him and the meal began. There were only bread and coffeeand a little butter before them. But Lazarus presented the cups andplates on a small japanned tray as if it were a golden salver. When hewas not serving, he stood upright behind his master's chair, as thoughhe wore royal livery of scarlet and gold. To the boy who had gnawed abone or munched a crust wheresoever he found them, and with no thoughtbut of the appeasing of his own wolfish hunger, to watch the two withwhom he sat eat their simple food was a new thing. He knew nothing ofthe every-day decencies of civilized people. The Rat liked to look atthem, and he found himself trying to hold his cup as Loristan did, andto sit and move as Marco was sitting and moving--taking his bread orbutter, when it was held at his side by Lazarus, as if it were a simplething to be waited upon. Marco had had things handed to him all hislife, and it did not make him feel awkward. The Rat knew that his ownfather had once lived like this. He himself would have been at ease ifchance had treated him fairly. It made him scowl to think of it. Butin a few minutes Loristan began to talk about the copy of the map ofSamavia. Then The Rat forgot everything else and was ill at ease nomore. He did not know that Loristan was leading him on to explain histheories about the country and the people and the war. He found himselftelling all that he had read, or overheard, or _thought_ as he lay awakein his garret. He had thought out a great many things in a way not atall like a boy's. His strangely concentrated and over-mature mind hadbeen full of military schemes which Loristan listened to with curiosityand also with amazement. He had become extraordinarily clever in onedirection because he had fixed all his mental powers on one thing. Itseemed scarcely natural that an untaught vagabond lad should know somuch and reason so clearly. It was at least extraordinarily interesting. There had been no skirmish, no attack, no battle which he had not ledand fought in his own imagination, and he had made scores of rough queerplans of all that had been or should have been done. Lazarus listened asattentively as his master, and once Marco saw him exchange a startled, rapid glance with Loristan. It was at a moment when The Rat wassketching with his finger on the cloth an attack which _ought_ to havebeen made but was not. And Marco knew at once that the quickly exchangedlook meant "He is right! If it had been done, there would have beenvictory instead of disaster!"

It was a wonderful meal, though it was only of bread and coffee. The Ratknew he should never be able to forget it. 

Afterward, Loristan told him of what he had done the night before. Hehad seen the parish authorities and all had been done which a citygovernment provides in the case of a pauper's death. 

His father would be buried in the usual manner. "We will follow him, "Loristan said in the end. "You and I and Marco and Lazarus. "

The Rat's mouth fell open. 

"You--and Marco--and Lazarus!" he exclaimed, staring. "And me! Whyshould any of us go? I don't want to. He wouldn't have followed me ifI'd been the one. "

Loristan remained silent for a few moments. 

"When a life has counted for nothing, the end of it is a lonely thing, "he said at last. "If it has forgotten all respect for itself, pity isall that one has left to give. One would like to give _something_ toanything so lonely. " He said the last brief sentence after a pause. 

"Let us go, " Marco said suddenly; and he caught The Rat's hand. 

The Rat's own movement was sudden. He slipped from his crutches to achair, and sat and gazed at the worn carpet as if he were not looking atit at all, but at something a long way off. After a while he looked upat Loristan. 

"Do you know what I thought of, all at once?" he said in a shaky voice. "I thought of that 'Lost Prince' one. He only lived once. Perhaps hedidn't live a long time. Nobody knows. But it's five hundred years ago, and, just because he was the kind he was, every one that remembers himthinks of something fine. It's queer, but it does you good just to hearhis name. And if he has been training kings for Samavia all thesecenturies--they may have been poor and nobody may have known about them, but they've been _kings_. That's what _he_ did--just by being alive a fewyears. When I think of him and then think of--the other--there's such anawful difference that--yes--I'm sorry. For the first time. I'm his sonand I can't care about him; but he's too lonely--I want to go. "

 * * * * *

So it was that when the forlorn derelict was carried to the graveyardwhere nameless burdens on the city were given to the earth, a curiousfuneral procession followed him. There were two tall and soldierlylooking men and two boys, one of whom walked on crutches, and behindthem were ten other boys who walked two by two. These ten were a queer, ragged lot; but they had respectfully sober faces, held their heads andtheir shoulders well, and walked with a remarkably regular marchingstep. 

It was the Squad; but they had left their "rifles" at home. 

XI

"COME WITH ME"

When they came back from the graveyard, The Rat was silent all the way. He was thinking of what had happened and of what lay before him. He was, in fact, thinking chiefly that nothing lay before him--nothing. Thecertainty of that gave his sharp, lined face new lines and sharpnesswhich made it look pinched and hard. 

He had nothing before but a corner in a bare garret in which he couldfind little more than a leaking roof over his head--when he was notturned out into the street. But, if policemen asked him where he lived, he could say he lived in Bone Court with his father. Now he couldn't sayit. 

He got along very well on his crutches, but he was rather tired whenthey reached the turn in the street which led in the direction of hisold haunts. At any rate, they were haunts he knew, and he belongedto them more than he belonged elsewhere. The Squad stopped at thisparticular corner because it led to such homes as they possessed. Theystopped in a body and looked at The Rat, and The Rat stopped also. Heswung himself to Loristan's side, touching his hand to his forehead. 

"Thank you, sir, " he said. "Line and salute, you chaps!" And the Squadstood in line and raised their hands also. "Thank you, sir. Thank you, Marco. Good-by. "

"Where are you going?" Loristan asked. 

"I don't know yet, " The Rat answered, biting his lips. 

He and Loristan looked at each other a few moments in silence. Both ofthem were thinking very hard. In The Rat's eyes there was a kind ofdesperate adoration. He did not know what he should do when this manturned and walked away from him. It would be as if the sun itself haddropped out of the heavens--and The Rat had not thought of what the sunmeant before. 

But Loristan did not turn and walk away. He looked deep into the lad'seyes as if he were searching to find some certainty. Then he said in alow voice, "You know how poor I am. "

"I--I don't care!" said The Rat. "You--you're like a king to me. I'dstand up and be shot to bits if you told me to do it. "

"I am so poor that I am not sure I can give you enough dry bread toeat--always. Marco and Lazarus and I are often hungry. Sometimes youmight have nothing to sleep on but the floor. But I can find a _place_ foryou if I take you with me, " said Loristan. "Do you know what I mean by a_place_?"

"Yes, I do, " answered The Rat. "It's what I've never had before--sir. "

What he knew was that it meant some bit of space, out of all the world, where he would have a sort of right to stand, howsoever poor and bare itmight be. 

"I'm not used to beds or to food enough, " he said. But he did not dareto insist too much on that "place. " It seemed too great a thing to betrue. 

Loristan took his arm. 

"Come with me, " he said. "We won't part. I believe you are to betrusted. "

The Rat turned quite white in a sort of anguish of joy. He had nevercared for any one in his life. He had been a sort of young Cain, hishand against every man and every man's hand against him. And during thelast twelve hours he had plunged into a tumultuous ocean of boyishhero-worship. This man seemed like a sort of god to him. What he hadsaid and done the day before, in what had been really The Rat's hours ofextremity, after that appalling night--the way he had looked into hisface and understood it all, the talk at the table when he had listenedto him seriously, comprehending and actually respecting his plans andrough maps; his silent companionship as they followed the pauper hearsetogether--these things were enough to make the lad longingly ready to beany sort of servant or slave to him if he might see and be spoken to byhim even once or twice a day. 

The Squad wore a look of dismay for a moment, and Loristan saw it. 

"I am going to take your captain with me, " he said. "But he will comeback to Barracks. So will Marco. "

"Will yer go on with the game?" asked Cad, as eager spokesman. "We wantto go on being the 'Secret Party. '"

"Yes, I'll go on, " The Rat answered. "I won't give it up. There's a lotin the papers to-day. "

So they were pacified and went on their way, and Loristan and Lazarusand Marco and The Rat went on theirs also. 

"Queer thing is, " The Rat thought as they walked together, "I'm a bitafraid to speak to him unless he speaks to me first. Never felt that waybefore with any one. "

He had jeered at policemen and had impudently chaffed "swells, " but hefelt a sort of secret awe of this man, and actually liked the feeling. 

"It's as if I was a private and he was commander-in-chief, " he thought. "That's it. "

Loristan talked to him as they went. He was simple enough in hisstatements of the situation. There was an old sofa in Marco's bedroom. It was narrow and hard, as Marco's bed itself was, but The Rat couldsleep upon it. They would share what food they had. There werenewspapers and magazines to be read. There were papers and pencils todraw new maps and plans of battles. There was even an old map of Samaviaof Marco's which the two boys could study together as an aid to theirgame. The Rat's eyes began to have points of fire in them. 

"If I could see the papers every morning, I could fight the battles onpaper by night, " he said, quite panting at the incredible vision ofsplendor. Were all the kingdoms of the earth going to be given to him?Was he going to sleep without a drunken father near him?

Was he going to have a chance to wash himself and to sit at a table andhear people say "Thank you, " and "I beg pardon, " as if they were usingthe most ordinary fashion of speech? His own father, before he had sunkinto the depths, had lived and spoken in this way. 

"When I have time, we will see who can draw up the best plans, " Loristansaid. 

"Do you mean that you'll look at mine then--when you have time?" askedThe Rat, hesitatingly. "I wasn't expecting that. "

"Yes, " answered Loristan, "I'll look at them, and we'll talk them over. "

As they went on, he told him that he and Marco could do many thingstogether. They could go to museums and galleries, and Marco could showhim what he himself was familiar with. 

"My father said you wouldn't let him come back to Barracks when youfound out about it, " The Rat said, hesitating again and growing hotbecause he remembered so many ugly past days. "But--but I swear I won'tdo him any harm, sir. I won't!"

"When I said I believed you could be trusted, I meant several things, "Loristan answered him. "That was one of them. You're a new recruit. Youand Marco are both under a commanding officer. " He said the wordsbecause he knew they would elate him and stir his blood. 

XII

"ONLY TWO BOYS"

The words did elate him, and his blood was stirred by them every timethey returned to his mind. He remembered them through the days andnights that followed. He sometimes, indeed, awakened from his deep sleepon the hard and narrow sofa in Marco's room, and found that he wassaying them half aloud to himself. The hardness of the sofa did notprevent his resting as he had never rested before in his life. Bycontrast with the past he had known, this poor existence was comfortwhich verged on luxury. He got into the battered tin bath every morning, he sat at the clean table, and could look at Loristan and speak to himand hear his voice. His chief trouble was that he could hardly keep hiseyes off him, and he was a little afraid he might be annoyed. But hecould not bear to lose a look or a movement. 

At the end of the second day, he found his way, at some trouble, toLazarus's small back room at the top of the house. 

"Will you let me come in and talk a bit?" he said. 

When he went in, he was obliged to sit on the top of Lazarus's woodenbox because there was nothing else for him. 

"I want to ask you, " he plunged into his talk at once, "do you think heminds me looking at him so much? I can't help it--but if he hatesit--well--I'll try and keep my eyes on the table. "

"The Master is used to being looked at, " Lazarus made answer. "But itwould be well to ask himself. He likes open speech. "

"I want to find out everything he likes and everything he doesn't like, "The Rat said. "I want--isn't there anything--anything you'd let me dofor him? It wouldn't matter what it was. And he needn't know you are notdoing it. I know you wouldn't be willing to give up anything particular. But you wait on him night and day. Couldn't you give up something tome?"

Lazarus pierced him with keen eyes. He did not answer for severalseconds. 

"Now and then, " he said gruffly at last, "I'll let you brush his boots. But not every day--perhaps once a week. "

"When will you let me have my first turn?" The Rat asked. 

Lazarus reflected. His shaggy eyebrows drew themselves down over hiseyes as if this were a question of state. 

"Next Saturday, " he conceded. "Not before. I'll tell him when you brushthem. "

"You needn't, " said The Rat. "It's not that I want him to know. I wantto know myself that I'm doing something for him. I'll find out thingsthat I can do without interfering with you. I'll think them out. "

"Anything any one else did for him would be interfering with me, " saidLazarus. 

It was The Rat's turn to reflect now, and his face twisted itself intonew lines and wrinkles. 

"I'll tell you before I do anything, " he said, after he had thought itover. "You served him first. "

"I have served him ever since he was born, " said Lazarus. 

"He's--he's yours, " said The Rat, still thinking deeply. 

"I am his, " was Lazarus's stern answer. "I am his--and the youngMaster's. "

"That's it, " The Rat said. Then a squeak of a half-laugh broke from him. "I've never been anybody's, " he added. 

His sharp eyes caught a passing look on Lazarus's face. Such a queer, disturbed, sudden look. Could he be rather sorry for him?

Perhaps the look meant something like that. 

"If you stay near him long enough--and it needn't be long--you will behis too. Everybody is. "

The Rat sat up as straight as he could. "When it comes to that, " heblurted out, "I'm his now, in my way. I was his two minutes after helooked at me with his queer, handsome eyes. They're queer because theyget you, and you want to follow him. I'm going to follow. "

That night Lazarus recounted to his master the story of the scene. Hesimply repeated word for word what had been said, and Loristan listenedgravely. 

"We have not had time to learn much of him yet, " he commented. "But thatis a faithful soul, I think. "

A few days later, Marco missed The Rat soon after their breakfast hour. He had gone out without saying anything to the household. He did notreturn for several hours, and when he came back he looked tired. In theafternoon he fell asleep on his sofa in Marco's room and slept heavily. No one asked him any questions as he volunteered no explanation. Thenext day he went out again in the same mysterious manner, and the nextand the next. For an entire week he went out and returned with the tiredlook; but he did not explain until one morning, as he lay on his sofabefore getting up, he said to Marco:

"I'm practicing walking with my crutches. I don't want to go about likea rat any more. I mean to be as near like other people as I can. I walkfarther every morning. I began with two miles. If I practice every day, my crutches will be like legs. "

"Shall I walk with you?" asked Marco. 

"Wouldn't you mind walking with a cripple?"

"Don't call yourself that, " said Marco. "We can talk together, and tryto remember everything we see as we go along. "

"I want to learn to remember things. I'd like to train myself in thatway too, " The Rat answered. "I'd give anything to know some of thethings your father taught you. I've got a good memory. I remember a lotof things I don't want to remember. Will you go this morning?"

That morning they went, and Loristan was told the reason for their walk. But though he knew one reason, he did not know all about it. When TheRat was allowed his "turn" of the boot-brushing, he told more toLazarus. 

"What I want to do, " he said, "is not only walk as fast as other peopledo, but faster. Acrobats train themselves to do anything. It's trainingthat does it. There might come a time when he might need some one to goon an errand quickly, and I'm going to be ready. I'm going to trainmyself until he needn't think of me as if I were only a cripple whocan't do things and has to be taken care of. I want him to know that I'mreally as strong as Marco, and where Marco can go I can go. "

"He" was what he always said, and Lazarus always understood withoutexplanation. 

"'The Master' is your name for him, " he had explained at the beginning. "And I can't call him just 'Mister' Loristan. It sounds like cheek. Ifhe was called 'General' or 'Colonel' I could stand it--though itwouldn't be quite right. Some day I shall find a name. When I speak tohim, I say 'Sir. '"

The walks were taken every day, and each day were longer. Marco foundhimself silently watching The Rat with amazement at his determinationand endurance. He knew that he must not speak of what he could not failto see as they walked. He must not tell him that he looked tired andpale and sometimes desperately fatigued. He had inherited from hisfather the tact which sees what people do not wish to be reminded of. Heknew that for some reason of his own The Rat had determined to do thisthing at any cost to himself. Sometimes his face grew white and worn andhe breathed hard, but he never rested more than a few minutes, and neverturned back or shortened a walk they had planned. 

"Tell me something about Samavia, something to remember, " he would say, when he looked his worst. "When I begin to try to remember, Iforget--other things. "

So, as they went on their way, they talked, and The Rat committed thingsto memory. He was quick at it, and grew quicker every day. They inventeda game of remembering faces they passed. Both would learn them by heart, and on their return home Marco would draw them. They went to the museumsand galleries and learned things there, making from memory lists anddescriptions which at night they showed to Loristan, when he was not toobusy to talk to them. 

As the days passed, Marco saw that The Rat was gaining strength. Thisexhilarated him greatly. They often went to Hampstead Heath and walkedin the wind and sun. There The Rat would go through curious exerciseswhich he believed would develop his muscles. He began to look less tiredduring and after his journey. There were even fewer wrinkles on hisface, and his sharp eyes looked less fierce. The talks between the twoboys were long and curious. Marco soon realized that The Rat wanted tolearn--learn--learn. 

"Your father can talk to you almost as if you were twenty years old, " hesaid once. "He knows you can understand what he's saying. If he were totalk to me, he'd always have to remember that I was only a rat that hadlived in gutters and seen nothing else. "

They were talking in their room, as they nearly always did after theywent to bed and the street lamp shone in and lighted their bare littleroom. They often sat up clasping their knees, Marco on his poor bed, The Rat on his hard sofa, but neither of them conscious either of thepoorness or hardness, because to each one the long unknown sense ofcompanionship was such a satisfying thing. Neither of them had evertalked intimately to another boy, and now they were together day andnight. They revealed their thoughts to each other; they told each otherthings it had never before occurred to either to think of telling anyone. In fact, they found out about themselves, as they talked, thingsthey had not quite known before. Marco had gradually discovered that theadmiration The Rat had for his father was an impassioned and curiousfeeling which possessed him entirely. It seemed to Marco that it wasbeginning to be like a sort of religion. He evidently thought of himevery moment. So when he spoke of Loristan's knowing him to be only arat of the gutter, Marco felt he himself was fortunate in rememberingsomething he could say. 

"My father said yesterday that you had a big brain and a strong will, "he answered from his bed. "He said that you had a wonderful memory whichonly needed exercising. He said it after he looked over the list youmade of the things you had seen in the Tower. "

The Rat shuffled on his sofa and clasped his knees tighter. 

"Did he? Did he?" he said. 

He rested his chin upon his knees for a few minutes and stared straightbefore him. Then he turned to the bed. 

"Marco, " he said, in a rather hoarse voice, a queer voice; "are youjealous?"

"Jealous, " said Marco; "why?"

"I mean, have you ever been jealous? Do you know what it is like?"

"I don't think I do, " answered Marco, staring a little. 

"Are you ever jealous of Lazarus because he's always with yourfather--because he's with him oftener than you are--and knows about hiswork--and can do things for him you can't? I mean, are you jealousof--your father?"

Marco loosed his arms from his knees and lay down flat on his pillow. 

"No, I'm not. The more people love and serve him, the better, " he said. "The only thing I care for is--is him. I just care for _him_. Lazarus doestoo. Don't you?"

The Rat was greatly excited internally. He had been thinking of thisthing a great deal. The thought had sometimes terrified him. He mightas well have it out now if he could. If he could get at the truth, everything would be easier. But would Marco really tell him?

"Don't you mind?" he said, still hoarse and eager--"don't you mind howmuch I care for him? Could it ever make you feel savage? Could it everset you thinking I was nothing but--what I am--and that it was cheek ofme to push myself in and fasten on to a gentleman who only took me upfor charity? Here's the living truth, " he ended in an outburst; "if Iwere you and you were me, that's what I should be thinking. I know itis. I couldn't help it. I should see every low thing there was in you, in your manners and your voice and your looks. I should see nothing butthe contrast between you and me and between you and him. I should be sojealous that I should just rage. I should _hate_ you--and I should_despise_ you!"

He had wrought himself up to such a passion of feeling that he set Marcothinking that what he was hearing meant strange and strong emotions suchas he himself had never experienced. The Rat had been thinking over allthis in secret for some time, it was evident. Marco lay still a fewminutes and thought it over. Then he found something to say, just as hehad found something before. 

"You might, if you were with other people who thought in the same way, "he said, "and if you hadn't found out that it is such a mistake to thinkin that way, that it's even stupid. But, you see, if you were I, youwould have lived with my father, and he'd have told you what heknows--what he's been finding out all his life. "

"What's he found out?"

"Oh!" Marco answered, quite casually, "just that you can't set savagethoughts loose in the world, any more than you can let loose savagebeasts with hydrophobia. They spread a sort of rabies, and they alwaystear and worry you first of all. "

"What do you mean?" The Rat gasped out. 

"It's like this, " said Marco, lying flat and cool on his hard pillow andlooking at the reflection of the street lamp on the ceiling. "That dayI turned into your Barracks, without knowing that you'd think I wasspying, it made you feel savage, and you threw the stone at me. If ithad made me feel savage and I'd rushed in and fought, what would havehappened to all of us?"

The Rat's spirit of generalship gave the answer. 

"I should have called on the Squad to charge with fixed bayonets. They'dhave half killed you. You're a strong chap, and you'd have hurt a lot ofthem. "

A note of terror broke into his voice. "What a fool I should have been!"he cried out. "I should never have come here! I should never have known_him_!" Even by the light of the street lamp Marco could see him begin tolook almost ghastly. 

"The Squad could easily have half killed me, " Marco added. "They couldhave quite killed me, if they had wanted to do it. And who would havegot any good out of it? It would only have been a street-lads'row--with the police and prison at the end of it. "

"But because you'd lived with him, " The Rat pondered, "you walked in asif you didn't mind, and just asked why we did it, and looked like astronger chap than any of us--and different--different. I wondered whatwas the matter with you, you were so cool and steady. I know now. It wasbecause you were like him. He'd taught you. He's like a wizard. "

"He knows things that wizards think they know, but he knows thembetter, " Marco said. "He says they're not queer and unnatural. They'rejust simple laws of nature. You have to be either on one side or theother, like an army. You choose your side. You either build up or teardown. You either keep in the light where you can see, or you stand inthe dark and fight everything that comes near you, because you can't seeand you think it's an enemy. No, you wouldn't have been jealous if you'dbeen I and I'd been you. "

"And you're _not_?" The Rat's sharp voice was almost hollow. "You'll swearyou're not?"

"I'm not, " said Marco. 

The Rat's excitement even increased a shade as he poured forth hisconfession. 

"I was afraid, " he said. "I've been afraid every day since I came here. I'll tell you straight out. It seemed just natural that you and Lazaruswouldn't stand me, just as I wouldn't have stood you. It seemed justnatural that you'd work together to throw me out. I knew how I shouldhave worked myself. Marco--I said I'd tell you straight out--I'm jealousof you. I'm jealous of Lazarus. It makes me wild when I see you bothknowing all about him, and fit and ready to do anything he wants done. I'm not ready and I'm not fit. "

"You'd do anything he wanted done, whether you were fit and ready ornot, " said Marco. "He knows that. "

"Does he? Do you think he does?" cried The Rat. "I wish he'd try me. Iwish he would. "

Marco turned over on his bed and rose up on his elbow so that he facedThe Rat on his sofa. 

"Let us _wait_, " he said in a whisper. "Let us _wait_. "

There was a pause, and then The Rat whispered also. 

"For what?"

"For him to find out that we're fit to be tried. Don't you see whatfools we should be if we spent our time in being jealous, either of us. We're only two boys. Suppose he saw we were only two silly fools. Whenyou are jealous of me or of Lazarus, just go and sit down in a stillplace and think of _him_. Don't think about yourself or about us. He's soquiet that to think about him makes you quiet yourself. When things gowrong or when I'm lonely, he's taught me to sit down and make myselfthink of things I like--pictures, books, monuments, splendid places. It pushes the other things out and sets your mind going properly. He doesn't know I nearly always think of him. He's the best thoughthimself. You try it. You're not really jealous. You only _think_ you are. You'll find that out if you always stop yourself in time. Any one can besuch a fool if he lets himself. And he can always stop it if he makes uphis mind. I'm not jealous. You must let that thought alone. You're notjealous yourself. Kick that thought into the street. "

The Rat caught his breath and threw his arms up over his eyes. "Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!" he said; "if I'd lived near him always as you have. If I just had. "

"We're both living near him now, " said Marco. "And here's something tothink of, " leaning more forward on his elbow. "The kings who were beingmade ready for Samavia have waited all these years; _We_ can makeourselves ready and wait so that, if just two boys are wanted to dosomething--just two boys--we can step out of the ranks when the callcomes and say 'Here!' Now let's lie down and think of it until we go tosleep. "

XIII

LORISTAN ATTENDS A DRILL OF THE SQUAD, AND MARCO MEETS A SAMAVIAN

The Squad was not forgotten. It found that Loristan himself would haveregarded neglect as a breach of military duty. 

"You must remember your men, " he said, two or three days after The Ratbecame a member of his household. "You must keep up their drill. Marcotells me it was very smart. Don't let them get slack. "

"His men!" The Rat felt what he could not have put into words. 

He knew he had worked, and that the Squad had worked, in their hiddenholes and corners. Only hidden holes and corners had been possible forthem because they had existed in spite of the protest of their world andthe vigilance of its policemen. They had tried many refuges before theyfound the Barracks. No one but resented the existence of a troop ofnoisy vagabonds. But somehow this man knew that there had evolved fromit something more than mere noisy play, that he, The Rat, had _meant_order and discipline. 

"His men!" It made him feel as if he had had the Victoria Cross fastenedon his coat. He had brain enough to see many things, and he knew that itwas in this way that Loristan was finding him his "place. " He knew how. 

When they went to the Barracks, the Squad greeted them with a tumultuouswelcome which expressed a great sense of relief. Privately the membershad been filled with fears which they had talked over together in deepgloom. Marco's father, they decided, was too big a swell to let the twocome back after he had seen the sort the Squad was made up of. He mightbe poor just now, toffs sometimes lost their money for a bit, but youcould see what he was, and fathers like him weren't going to let theirsons make friends with "such as us. " He'd stop the drill and the "SecretSociety" game. That's what he'd do!

But The Rat came swinging in on his secondhand crutches looking as ifhe had been made a general, and Marco came with him; and the drill theSquad was put through was stricter and finer than any drill they hadever known. 

"I wish my father could have seen that, " Marco said to The Rat. 

The Rat turned red and white and then red again, but he said not asingle word. The mere thought was like a flash of fire passing throughhim. But no fellow could hope for a thing as big as that. The SecretParty, in its subterranean cavern, surrounded by its piled arms, satdown to read the morning paper. 

The war news was bad to read. The Maranovitch held the day for themoment, and while they suffered and wrought cruelties in the capitalcity, the Iarovitch suffered and wrought cruelties in the countryoutside. So fierce and dark was the record that Europe stood aghast. 

The Rat folded his paper when he had finished, and sat biting his nails. Having done this for a few minutes, he began to speak in his dramaticand hollow Secret Party whisper. 

"The hour has come, " he said to his followers. "The messengers must goforth. They know nothing of what they go for; they only know that theymust obey. If they were caught and tortured, they could betray nothingbecause they know nothing but that, at certain places, they must uttera certain word. They carry no papers. All commands they must learn byheart. When the sign is given, the Secret Party will know what todo--where to meet and where to attack. "

He drew plans of the battle on the flagstones, and he sketched animaginary route which the two messengers were to follow. But hisknowledge of the map of Europe was not worth much, and he turned toMarco. 

"You know more about geography that I do. You know more abouteverything, " he said. "I only know Italy is at the bottom and Russia isat one side and England's at the other. How would the Secret Messengersgo to Samavia? Can you draw the countries they'd have to pass through?"

Because any school-boy who knew the map could have done the same thing, Marco drew them. He also knew the stations the Secret Two would arriveat and leave by when they entered a city, the streets they would walkthrough and the very uniforms they would see; but of these things hesaid nothing. The reality his knowledge gave to the game was, however, athrilling thing. He wished he could have been free to explain to The Ratthe things he knew. Together they could have worked out so many detailsof travel and possible adventure that it would have been almost as ifthey had set out on their journey in fact. 

As it was, the mere sketching of the route fired The Rat's imagination. He forged ahead with the story of adventure, and filled it with suchmysterious purport and design that the Squad at times gasped for breath. In his glowing version the Secret Two entered cities by midnight andsang and begged at palace gates where kings driving outward paused tolisten and were given the Sign. 

"Though it would not always be kings, " he said. "Sometimes it wouldbe the poorest people. Sometimes they might seem to be beggars likeourselves, when they were only Secret Ones disguised. A great lord mightwear poor clothes and pretend to be a workman, and we should only knowhim by the signs we had learned by heart. When we were sent to Samavia, we should be obliged to creep in through some back part of the countrywhere no fighting was being done and where no one would attack. Theirgenerals are not clever enough to protect the parts which are joined tofriendly countries, and they have not forces enough. Two boys could finda way in if they thought it out. "

He became possessed by the idea of thinking it out on the spot. He drewhis rough map of Samavia on the flagstones with his chalk. 

"Look here, " he said to Marco, who, with the elated and thrilled Squad, bent over it in a close circle of heads. "Beltrazo is here and Carnolitzis here--and here is Jiardasia. Beltrazo and Jiardasia are friendly, though they don't take sides. All the fighting is going on in thecountry about Melzarr. There is no reason why they should prevent singletravelers from coming in across the frontiers of friendly neighbors. They're not fighting with the countries outside, they are fighting withthemselves. " He paused a moment and thought. 

"The article in that magazine said something about a huge forest on theeastern frontier. That's here. We could wander into a forest and staythere until we'd planned all we wanted to do. Even the people who hadseen us would forget about us. What we have to do is to make people feelas if we were nothing--nothing. "

They were in the very midst of it, crowded together, leaning over, stretching necks and breathing quickly with excitement, when Marcolifted his head. Some mysterious impulse made him do it in spite ofhimself. 

"There's my father!" he said. 

The chalk dropped, everything dropped, even Samavia. The Rat was up andon his crutches as if some magic force had swung him there. How he gavethe command, or if he gave it at all, not even he himself knew. But theSquad stood at salute. 

Loristan was standing at the opening of the archway as Marco had stoodthat first day. He raised his right hand in return salute and cameforward. 

"I was passing the end of the street and remembered the Barracks washere, " he explained. "I thought I should like to look at your men, Captain. "

He smiled, but it was not a smile which made his words really a joke. Helooked down at the chalk map drawn on the flagstones. 

"You know that map well, " he said. "Even I can see that it is Samavia. What is the Secret Party doing?"

"The messengers are trying to find a way in, " answered Marco. 

"We can get in there, " said The Rat, pointing with a crutch. "There's aforest where we could hide and find out things. "

"Reconnoiter, " said Loristan, looking down. "Yes. Two stray boys couldbe very safe in a forest. It's a good game. "

That he should be there! That he should, in his own wonderful way, havegiven them such a thing as this. That he should have cared enough evento look up the Barracks, was what The Rat was thinking. A batch ofragamuffins they were and nothing else, and he standing looking at themwith his fine smile. There was something about him which made him seemeven splendid. The Rat's heart thumped with startled joy. 

"Father, " said Marco, "will you watch The Rat drill us? I want you tosee how well it is done. "

"Captain, will you do me that honor?" Loristan said to The Rat, andto even these words he gave the right tone, neither jesting nor tooserious. Because it was so right a tone, The Rat's pulses beat only withexultation. This god of his had looked at his maps, he had talked of hisplans, he had come to see the soldiers who were his work! The Rat beganhis drill as if he had been reviewing an army. 

What Loristan saw done was wonderful in its mechanical exactness. 

The Squad moved like the perfect parts of a perfect machine. That theycould so do it in such space, and that they should have accomplishedsuch precision, was an extraordinary testimonial to the militaryefficiency and curious qualities of this one hunchbacked, vagabondofficer. 

"That is magnificent!" the spectator said, when it was over. "It couldnot be better done. Allow me to congratulate you. "

He shook The Rat's hand as if it had been a man's, and, after he hadshaken it, he put his own hand lightly on the boy's shoulder and let itrest there as he talked a few minutes to them all. 

He kept his talk within the game, and his clear comprehension of itadded a flavor which even the dullest member of the Squad was elated by. Sometimes you couldn't understand toffs when they made a shy at beingfriendly, but you could understand him, and he stirred up your spirits. He didn't make jokes with you, either, as if a chap had to be keptgrinning. After the few minutes were over, he went away. Then they satdown again in their circle and talked about him, because they could talkand think about nothing else. They stared at Marco furtively, feeling asif he were a creature of another world because he had lived with thisman. They stared at The Rat in a new way also. The wonderful-lookinghand had rested on his shoulder, and he had been told that what he haddone was magnificent. 

"When you said you wished your father could have seen the drill, " saidThe Rat, "you took my breath away. I'd never have had the cheek to thinkof it myself--and I'd never have dared to let you ask him, even if youwanted to do it. And he came himself! It struck me dumb. "

"If he came, " said Marco, "it was because he wanted to see it. "

When they had finished talking, it was time for Marco and The Rat to goon their way. Loristan had given The Rat an errand. At a certain hour hewas to present himself at a certain shop and receive a package. 

"Let him do it alone, " Loristan said to Marco. "He will be betterpleased. His desire is to feel that he is trusted to do things alone. "

So they parted at a street corner, Marco to walk back to No. 7 PhilibertPlace, The Rat to execute his commission. Marco turned into one of thebetter streets, through which he often passed on his way home. It wasnot a fashionable quarter, but it contained some respectable houses inwhose windows here and there were to be seen neat cards bearing the word"Apartments, " which meant that the owner of the house would let tolodgers his drawing-room or sitting-room suite. 

As Marco walked up the street, he saw some one come out of the door ofone of the houses and walk quickly and lightly down the pavement. It wasa young woman wearing an elegant though quiet dress, and a hat whichlooked as if it had been bought in Paris or Vienna. She had, in fact, aslightly foreign air, and it was this, indeed, which made Marco look ather long enough to see that she was also a graceful and lovely person. He wondered what her nationality was. Even at some yards' distance hecould see that she had long dark eyes and a curved mouth which seemed tobe smiling to itself. He thought she might be Spanish or Italian. 

He was trying to decide which of the two countries she belonged to, asshe drew near to him, but quite suddenly the curved mouth ceased smilingas her foot seemed to catch in a break in the pavement, and she so losther balance that she would have fallen if he had not leaped forward andcaught her. 

She was light and slender, and he was a strong lad and managed to steadyher. An expression of sharp momentary anguish crossed her face. 

"I hope you are not hurt, " Marco said. 

She bit her lip and clutched his shoulder very hard with her slim hand. 

"I have twisted my ankle, " she answered. "I am afraid I have twisted itbadly. Thank you for saving me. I should have had a bad fall. "

Her long, dark eyes were very sweet and grateful. She tried to smile, but there was such distress under the effort that Marco was afraid shemust have hurt herself very much. 

"Can you stand on your foot at all?" he asked. 

"I can stand a little now, " she said, "but I might not be able to standin a few minutes. I must get back to the house while I can bear to touchthe ground with it. I am so sorry. I am afraid I shall have to ask youto go with me. Fortunately it is only a few yards away. "

"Yes, " Marco answered. "I saw you come out of the house. If you willlean on my shoulder, I can soon help you back. I am glad to do it. Shallwe try now?"

She had a gentle and soft manner which would have appealed to any boy. Her voice was musical and her enunciation exquisite. 

Whether she was Spanish or Italian, it was easy to imagine her a personwho did not always live in London lodgings, even of the better class. 

"If you please, " she answered him. "It is very kind of you. You are verystrong, I see. But I am glad to have only a few steps to go. "

She rested on his shoulder as well as on her umbrella, but it was plainthat every movement gave her intense pain. She caught her lip with herteeth, and Marco thought she turned white. He could not help liking her. She was so lovely and gracious and brave. He could not bear to see thesuffering in her face. 

"I am so sorry!" he said, as he helped her, and his boy's voice hadsomething of the wonderful sympathetic tone of Loristan's. The beautifullady herself remarked it, and thought how unlike it was to the ordinaryboy-voice. 

"I have a latch-key, " she said, when they stood on the low step. 

She found the latch-key in her purse and opened the door. Marco helpedher into the entrance-hall. She sat down at once in a chair near thehat-stand. The place was quite plain and old-fashioned inside. 

"Shall I ring the front-door bell to call some one?" Marco inquired. 

"I am afraid that the servants are out, " she answered. "They had aholiday. Will you kindly close the door? I shall be obliged to ask youto help me into the sitting-room at the end of the hall. I shall findall I want there--if you will kindly hand me a few things. Some one maycome in presently--perhaps one of the other lodgers--and, even if I amalone for an hour or so, it will not really matter. "

"Perhaps I can find the landlady, " Marco suggested. The beautiful personsmiled. 

"She has gone to her sister's wedding. That is why I was going out tospend the day myself. I arranged the plan to accommodate her. How goodyou are! I shall be quite comfortable directly, really. I can get to myeasy-chair in the sitting-room now I have rested a little. "

Marco helped her to her feet, and her sharp, involuntary exclamation ofpain made him wince internally. Perhaps it was a worse sprain than sheknew. 

The house was of the early-Victorian London order. A "front lobby" witha dining-room on the right hand, and a "back lobby, " after the footof the stairs was passed, out of which opened the basement kitchenstaircase and a sitting-room looking out on a gloomy flagged back yardinclosed by high walls. The sitting-room was rather gloomy itself, butthere were a few luxurious things among the ordinary furnishings. Therewas an easy-chair with a small table near it, and on the table were asilver lamp and some rather elegant trifles. Marco helped his charge tothe easy-chair and put a cushion from the sofa under her foot. He did itvery gently, and, as he rose after doing it, he saw that the long, softdark eyes were looking at him in a curious way. 

"I must go away now, " he said, "but I do not like to leave you. May I gofor a doctor?"

"How dear you are!" she exclaimed. "But I do not want one, thank you. Iknow exactly what to do for a sprained ankle. And perhaps mine is notreally a sprain. I am going to take off my shoe and see. "

"May I help you?" Marco asked, and he kneeled down again and carefullyunfastened her shoe and withdrew it from her foot. It was a slender anddelicate foot in a silk stocking, and she bent and gently touched andrubbed it. 

"No, " she said, when she raised herself, "I do not think it is a sprain. Now that the shoe is off and the foot rests on the cushion, it is muchmore comfortable, much more. Thank you, thank you. If you had not beenpassing I might have had a dangerous fall. "

"I am very glad to have been able to help you, " Marco answered, with anair of relief. "Now I must go, if you think you will be all right. "

"Don't go yet, " she said, holding out her hand. "I should like to knowyou a little better, if I may. I am so grateful. I should like to talkto you. You have such beautiful manners for a boy, " she ended, with apretty, kind laugh, "and I believe I know where you got them from. "

"You are very kind to me, " Marco answered, wondering if he did notredden a little. "But I must go because my father will--"

"Your father would let you stay and talk to me, " she said, with even aprettier kindliness than before. "It is from him you have inherited yourbeautiful manner. He was once a friend of mine. I hope he is my friendstill, though perhaps he has forgotten me. "

All that Marco had ever learned and all that he had ever trained himselfto remember, quickly rushed back upon him now, because he had a clearand rapidly working brain, and had not lived the ordinary boy's life. Here was a beautiful lady of whom he knew nothing at all but that shehad twisted her foot in the street and he had helped her back into herhouse. If silence was still the order, it was not for him to know thingsor ask questions or answer them. She might be the loveliest lady in theworld and his father her dearest friend, but, even if this were so, hecould best serve them both by obeying her friend's commands with allcourtesy, and forgetting no instruction he had given. 

"I do not think my father ever forgets any one, " he answered. 

"No, I am sure he does not, " she said softly. "Has he been to Samaviaduring the last three years?"

Marco paused a moment. 

"Perhaps I am not the boy you think I am, " he said. "My father has neverbeen to Samavia. "

"He has not? But--you are Marco Loristan?"

"Yes. That is my name. "

Suddenly she leaned forward and her long lovely eyes filled with fire. 

"Then you are a Samavian, and you know of the disasters overwhelming us. You know all the hideousness and barbarity of what is being done. Yourfather's son must know it all!"

"Every one knows it, " said Marco. 

"But it is your country--your own! Your blood must burn in your veins!"

Marco stood quite still and looked at her. His eyes told whether hisblood burned or not, but he did not speak. His look was answer enough, since he did not wish to say anything. 

"What does your father think? I am a Samavian myself, and I think nightand day. What does he think of the rumor about the descendant of theLost Prince? Does he believe it?"

Marco was thinking very rapidly. Her beautiful face was glowing withemotion, her beautiful voice trembled. That she should be a Samavian, and love Samavia, and pour her feeling forth even to a boy, was deeplymoving to him. But howsoever one was moved, one must remember thatsilence was still the order. When one was very young, one must rememberorders first of all. 

"It might be only a newspaper story, " he said. "He says one cannot trustsuch things. If you know him, you know he is very calm. "

"Has he taught you to be calm too?" she said pathetically. "You are onlya boy. Boys are not calm. Neither are women when their hearts are wrung. Oh, my Samavia! Oh, my poor little country! My brave, tortured country!"and with a sudden sob she covered her face with her hands. 

A great lump mounted to Marco's throat. Boys could not cry, but he knewwhat she meant when he said her heart was wrung. 

When she lifted her head, the tears in her eyes made them softer thanever. 

"If I were a million Samavians instead of one woman, I should know whatto do!" she cried. "If your father were a million Samavians, he wouldknow, too. He would find Ivor's descendant, if he is on the earth, andhe would end all this horror!"

"Who would not end it if they could?" cried Marco, quite fiercely. 

"But men like your father, men who are Samavians, must think night andday about it as I do, " she impetuously insisted. "You see, I cannot helppouring my thoughts out even to a boy--because he is a Samavian. OnlySamavians care. Samavia seems so little and unimportant to other people. They don't even seem to know that the blood she is pouring forth poursfrom human veins and beating human hearts. Men like your father mustthink, and plan, and feel that they must--must find a way. Even a womanfeels it. Even a boy must. Stefan Loristan cannot be sitting quietly athome, knowing that Samavian hearts are being shot through and Samavianblood poured forth. He cannot think and say _nothing_!"

Marco started in spite of himself. He felt as if his father had beenstruck in the face. How dare she say such words! Big as he was, suddenlyhe looked bigger, and the beautiful lady saw that he did. 

"He is my father, " he said slowly. 

She was a clever, beautiful person, and saw that she had made a greatmistake. 

"You must forgive me, " she exclaimed. "I used the wrong words because Iwas excited. That is the way with women. You must see that I meant thatI knew he was giving his heart and strength, his whole being, toSamavia, even though he must stay in London. "

She started and turned her head to listen to the sound of some one usingthe latch-key and opening the front door. The some one came in with theheavy step of a man. 

"It is one of the lodgers, " she said. "I think it is the one who livesin the third floor sitting-room. "

"Then you won't be alone when I go, " said Marco. "I am glad some one hascome. I will say good-morning. May I tell my father your name?"

"Tell me that you are not angry with me for expressing myself soawkwardly, " she said. 

"You couldn't have meant it. I know that, " Marco answered boyishly. "Youcouldn't. "

"No, I couldn't, " she repeated, with the same emphasis on the words. 

She took a card from a silver case on the table and gave it to him. 

"Your father will remember my name, " she said. "I hope he will let mesee him and tell him how you took care of me. "

She shook his hand warmly and let him go. But just as he reached thedoor she spoke again. 

"Oh, may I ask you to do one thing more before you leave me?" she saidsuddenly. "I hope you won't mind. Will you run up-stairs into thedrawing-room and bring me the purple book from the small table? I shallnot mind being alone if I have something to read. "

"A purple book? On a small table?" said Marco. 

"Between the two long windows, " she smiled back at him. 

The drawing-room of such houses as these is always to be reached by oneshort flight of stairs. 

Marco ran up lightly. 

XIV

MARCO DOES NOT ANSWER

By the time he turned the corner of the stairs, the beautiful lady hadrisen from her seat in the back room and walked into the dining-room atthe front. A heavily-built, dark-bearded man was standing inside thedoor as if waiting for her. 

"I could do nothing with him, " she said at once, in her soft voice, speaking quite prettily and gently, as if what she said was the mostnatural thing in the world. "I managed the little trick of the sprainedfoot really well, and got him into the house. He is an amiable boy withperfect manners, and I thought it might be easy to surprise him intosaying more than he knew he was saying. You can generally do that withchildren and young things. But he either knows nothing or has beentrained to hold his tongue. He's not stupid, and he's of a high spirit. I made a pathetic little scene about Samavia, because I saw he could beworked up. It did work him up. I tried him with the Lost Prince rumor;but, if there is truth in it, he does not or will not know. I tried tomake him lose his temper and betray something in defending his father, whom he thinks a god, by the way. But I made a mistake. I saw that. It'sa pity. Boys can sometimes be made to tell anything. " She spoke veryquickly under her breath. The man spoke quickly too. 

"Where is he?" he asked. 

"I sent him up to the drawing-room to look for a book. He will look fora few minutes. Listen. He's an innocent boy. He sees me only as a gentleangel. Nothing will _shake_ him so much as to hear me tell him the truthsuddenly. It will be such a shock to him that perhaps you can dosomething with him then. He may lose his hold on himself. He's only aboy. "

"You're right, " said the bearded man. "And when he finds out he is notfree to go, it may alarm him and we may get something worth while. "

"If we could find out what is true, or what Loristan thinks is true, weshould have a clue to work from, " she said. 

"We have not much time, " the man whispered. "We are ordered to Bosnia atonce. Before midnight we must be on the way. "

"Let us go into the other room. He is coming. "

When Marco entered the room, the heavily-built man with the pointed darkbeard was standing by the easy-chair. 

"I am sorry I could not find the book, " he apologized. "I looked on allthe tables. "

"I shall be obliged to go and search for it myself, " said the LovelyPerson. 

She rose from her chair and stood up smiling. And at her first movementMarco saw that she was not disabled in the least. 

"Your foot!" he exclaimed. "It's better?"

"It wasn't hurt, " she answered, in her softly pretty voice and with hersoftly pretty smile. "I only made you think so. "

It was part of her plan to spare him nothing of shock in her suddentransformation. Marco felt his breath leave him for a moment. 

"I made you believe I was hurt because I wanted you to come into thehouse with me, " she added. "I wished to find out certain things I amsure you know. "

"They were things about Samavia, " said the man. "Your father knows them, and you must know something of them at least. It is necessary that weshould hear what you can tell us. We shall not allow you to leave thehouse until you have answered certain questions I shall ask you. "

Then Marco began to understand. He had heard his father speak ofpolitical spies, men and women who were paid to trace the people thatcertain governments or political parties desired to have followed andobserved. He knew it was their work to search out secrets, to disguisethemselves and live among innocent people as if they were merelyordinary neighbors. 

They must be spies who were paid to follow his father because he was aSamavian and a patriot. He did not know that they had taken the housetwo months before, and had accomplished several things during theirapparently innocent stay in it. They had discovered Loristan and hadlearned to know his outgoings and incomings, and also the outgoings andincomings of Lazarus, Marco, and The Rat. But they meant, if possible, to learn other things. If the boy could be startled and terrified intounconscious revelations, it might prove well worth their while to haveplayed this bit of melodrama before they locked the front door behindthem and hastily crossed the Channel, leaving their landlord to discoverfor himself that the house had been vacated. 

In Marco's mind strange things were happening. They were spies! But thatwas not all. The Lovely Person had been right when she said that hewould receive a shock. His strong young chest swelled. In all his life, he had never come face to face with black treachery before. He could notgrasp it. This gentle and friendly being with the grateful soft voiceand grateful soft eyes had betrayed--_betrayed_ him! It seemed impossibleto believe it, and yet the smile on her curved mouth told him that itwas true. When he had sprung to help her, she had been playing a trick!When he had been sorry for her pain and had winced at the sound of herlow exclamation, she had been deliberately laying a trap to harm him. For a few seconds he was stunned--perhaps, if he had not been hisfather's son, he might have been stunned only. But he was more. Whenthe first seconds had passed, there arose slowly within him a sense ofsomething like high, remote disdain. It grew in his deep boy's eyes ashe gazed directly into the pupils of the long soft dark ones. His bodyfelt as if it were growing taller. 

"You are very clever, " he said slowly. Then, after a second's pause, headded, "I was too young to know that there was any one so--clever--inthe world. "

The Lovely Person laughed, but she did not laugh easily. She spoke toher companion. 

"A _grand seigneur_!" she said. "As one looks at him, one half believesit is true. "

The man with the beard was looking very angry. His eyes were savage andhis dark skin reddened. Marco thought that he looked at him as if hehated him, and was made fierce by the mere sight of him, for somemysterious reason. 

"Two days before you left Moscow, " he said, "three men came to see yourfather. They looked like peasants. They talked to him for more than anhour. They brought with them a roll of parchment. Is that not true?"

"I know nothing, " said Marco. 

"Before you went to Moscow, you were in Budapest. You went there fromVienna. You were there for three months, and your father saw manypeople. Some of them came in the middle of the night. "

"I know nothing, " said Marco. 

"You have spent your life in traveling from one country to another, "persisted the man. "You know the European languages as if you were acourier, or the _portier_ in a Viennese hotel. Do you not?"

Marco did not answer. 

The Lovely Person began to speak to the man rapidly in Russian. 

"A spy and an adventurer Stefan Loristan has always been and always willbe, " she said. "We know what he is. The police in every capital inEurope know him as a sharper and a vagabond, as well as a spy. And yet, with all his cleverness, he does not seem to have money. What did he dowith the bribe the Maranovitch gave him for betraying what he knew ofthe old fortress? The boy doesn't even suspect him. Perhaps it's truethat he knows nothing. Or perhaps it is true that he has been soill-treated and flogged from his babyhood that he dare not speak. Thereis a cowed look in his eyes in spite of his childish swagger. He's beenboth starved and beaten. "

The outburst was well done. She did not look at Marco as she pouredforth her words. She spoke with the abruptness and impetuosity of aperson whose feelings had got the better of her. If Marco was sensitiveabout his father, she felt sure that his youth would make his facereveal something if his tongue did not--if he understood Russian, whichwas one of the things it would be useful to find out, because it was afact which would verify many other things. 

Marco's face disappointed her. No change took place in it, and the blooddid not rise to the surface of his skin. He listened with anuninterested air, blank and cold and polite. Let them say what theychose. 

The man twisted his pointed beard and shrugged his shoulders. 

"We have a good little wine-cellar downstairs, " he said. "You are goingdown into it, and you will probably stay there for some time if you donot make up your mind to answer my questions. You think that nothing canhappen to you in a house in a London street where policemen walk up anddown. But you are mistaken. If you yelled now, even if any one chancedto hear you, they would only think you were a lad getting a thrashinghe deserved. You can yell as much as you like in the black littlewine-cellar, and no one will hear at all. We only took this house forthree months, and we shall leave it to-night without mentioning the factto any one. If we choose to leave you in the wine-cellar, you will waitthere until somebody begins to notice that no one goes in and out, andchances to mention it to the landlord--which few people would take thetrouble to do. Did you come here from Moscow?"

"I know nothing, " said Marco. 

"You might remain in the good little black cellar an unpleasantly longtime before you were found, " the man went on, quite coolly. "Do youremember the peasants who came to see your father two nights before youleft?"

"I know nothing, " said Marco. 

"By the time it was discovered that the house was empty and people camein to make sure, you might be too weak to call out and attract theirattention. Did you go to Budapest from Vienna, and were you there forthree months?" asked the inquisitor. 

"I know nothing, " said Marco. 

"You are too good for the little black cellar, " put in the LovelyPerson. "I like you. Don't go into it!"

"I know nothing, " Marco answered, but the eyes which were likeLoristan's gave her just such a look as Loristan would have given her, and she felt it. It made her uncomfortable. 

"I don't believe you were ever ill-treated or beaten, " she said. "I tellyou, the little black cellar will be a hard thing. Don't go there!"

And this time Marco said nothing, but looked at her still as if he weresome great young noble who was very proud. 

He knew that every word the bearded man had spoken was true. To cry outwould be of no use. If they went away and left him behind them, therewas no knowing how many days would pass before the people of theneighborhood would begin to suspect that the place had been deserted, orhow long it would be before it occurred to some one to give warning tothe owner. And in the meantime, neither his father nor Lazarus nor TheRat would have the faintest reason for guessing where he was. And hewould be sitting alone in the dark in the wine-cellar. He did not knowin the least what to do about this thing. He only knew that silence wasstill the order. 

"It is a jet-black little hole, " the man said. "You might crack yourthroat in it, and no one would hear. Did men come to talk with yourfather in the middle of the night when you were in Vienna?"

"I know nothing, " said Marco. 

"He won't tell, " said the Lovely Person. "I am sorry for this boy. "

"He may tell after he has sat in the good little black wine-cellar for afew hours, " said the man with the pointed beard. "Come with me!"

He put his powerful hand on Marco's shoulder and pushed him before him. Marco made no struggle. He remembered what his father had said about thegame not being a game. It wasn't a game now, but somehow he had a stronghaughty feeling of not being afraid. 

He was taken through the hallway, toward the rear, and down thecommonplace flagged steps which led to the basement. Then he was marchedthrough a narrow, ill-lighted, flagged passage to a door in the wall. The door was not locked and stood a trifle ajar. His companion pushed itfarther open and showed part of a wine-cellar which was so dark that itwas only the shelves nearest the door that Marco could faintly see. Hiscaptor pushed him in and shut the door. It was as black a hole as he haddescribed. Marco stood still in the midst of darkness like black velvet. His guard turned the key. 

"The peasants who came to your father in Moscow spoke Samavian and werebig men. Do you remember them?" he asked from outside. 

"I know nothing, " answered Marco. 

"You are a young fool, " the voice replied. "And I believe you know evenmore than we thought. Your father will be greatly troubled when you donot come home. I will come back to see you in a few hours, if it ispossible. I will tell you, however, that I have had disturbing newswhich might make it necessary for us to leave the house in a hurry. I might not have time to come down here again before leaving. "

Marco stood with his back against a bit of wall and remained silent. 

There was stillness for a few minutes, and then there was to be heardthe sound of footsteps marching away. 

When the last distant echo died all was quite silent, and Marco drew along breath. Unbelievable as it may appear, it was in one sense almosta breath of relief. In the rush of strange feeling which had swept overhim when he found himself facing the astounding situation up-stairs, ithad not been easy to realize what his thoughts really were; there wereso many of them and they came so fast. How could he quite believe theevidence of his eyes and ears? A few minutes, only a few minutes, hadchanged his prettily grateful and kindly acquaintance into a subtle andcunning creature whose love for Samavia had been part of a plot to harmit and to harm his father. 

What did she and her companion want to do--what could they do if theyknew the things they were trying to force him to tell?

Marco braced his back against the wall stoutly. 

"What will it be best to think about first?"

This he said because one of the most absorbingly fascinating things heand his father talked about together was the power of the thoughts whichhuman beings allow to pass through their minds--the strange strength ofthem. When they talked of this, Marco felt as if he were listening tosome marvelous Eastern story of magic which was true. In Loristan'stravels, he had visited the far Oriental countries, and he had seen andlearned many things which seemed marvels, and they had taught him deepthinking. He had known, and reasoned through days with men who believedthat when they desired a thing, clear and exalted thought would bring itto them. He had discovered why they believed this, and had learned tounderstand their profound arguments. 

What he himself believed, he had taught Marco quite simply from hischildhood. It was this: he himself--Marco, with the strong boy-body, thethick mat of black hair, and the patched clothes--was the magician. Heheld and waved his wand himself--and his wand was his own Thought. Whenspecial privation or anxiety beset them, it was their rule to say, "Whatwill it be best to think about first?" which was Marco's reason forsaying it to himself now as he stood in the darkness which was likeblack velvet. 

He waited a few minutes for the right thing to come to him. 

"I will think of the very old hermit who lived on the ledge of themountains in India and who let my father talk to him through all onenight, " he said at last. This had been a wonderful story and one of hisfavorites. Loristan had traveled far to see this ancient Buddhist, andwhat he had seen and heard during that one night had made changes in hislife. The part of the story which came back to Marco now was thesewords:

"_Let pass through thy mind, my son, only the image thou wouldst desireto see a truth. Meditate only upon the wish of thy heart, seeing firstthat it can injure no man and is not ignoble. Then will it take earthlyform and draw near to thee. This is the law of that which creates. _"

"I am not afraid, " Marco said aloud. "I shall not be afraid. In some wayI shall get out. "

This was the image he wanted most to keep steadily in his mind--thatnothing could make him afraid, and that in some way he would get out ofthe wine-cellar. 

He thought of this for some minutes, and said the words over severaltimes. He felt more like himself when he had done it. 

"When my eyes are accustomed to the darkness, I shall see if there isany little glimmer of light anywhere, " he said next. 

He waited with patience, and it seemed for some time that he saw noglimmer at all. He put out his hands on either side of him, and foundthat, on the side of the wall against which he stood, there seemed to beno shelves. Perhaps the cellar had been used for other purposes than thestoring of wine, and, if that was true, there might be somewhere someopening for ventilation. The air was not bad, but then the door had notbeen shut tightly when the man opened it. 

"I am not afraid, " he repeated. "I shall not be afraid. In some way Ishall get out. "

He would not allow himself to stop and think about his father waitingfor his return. He knew that would only rouse his emotions and weakenhis courage. He began to feel his way carefully along the wall. Itreached farther than he had thought it would. 

The cellar was not so very small. He crept round it gradually, and, whenhe had crept round it, he made his way across it, keeping his handsextended before him and setting down each foot cautiously. Then he satdown on the stone floor and thought again, and what he thought was ofthe things the old Buddhist had told his father, and that there was away out of this place for him, and he should somehow find it, and, before too long a time had passed, be walking in the street again. 

It was while he was thinking in this way that he felt a startling thing. It seemed almost as if something touched him. It made him jump, thoughthe touch was so light and soft that it was scarcely a touch at all, infact he could not be sure that he had not imagined it. He stood up andleaned against the wall again. Perhaps the suddenness of his movementplaced him at some angle he had not reached before, or perhaps his eyeshad become more completely accustomed to the darkness, for, as he turnedhis head to listen, he made a discovery: above the door there was aplace where the velvet blackness was not so dense. There was somethinglike a slit in the wall, though, as it did not open upon daylight butupon the dark passage, it was not light it admitted so much as a lessershade of darkness. But even that was better than nothing, and Marco drewanother long breath. 

"That is only the beginning. I shall find a way out, " he said. 

"I _shall_. "

He remembered reading a story of a man who, being shut by accident ina safety vault, passed through such terrors before his release that hebelieved he had spent two days and nights in the place when he had beenthere only a few hours. 

"His thoughts did that. I must remember. I will sit down again and beginthinking of all the pictures in the cabinet rooms of the Art HistoryMuseum in Vienna. It will take some time, and then there are theothers, " he said. 

It was a good plan. While he could keep his mind upon the game which hadhelped him to pass so many dull hours, he could think of nothing else, as it required close attention--and perhaps, as the day went on, hiscaptors would begin to feel that it was not safe to run the risk ofdoing a thing as desperate as this would be. They might think better ofit before they left the house at least. In any case, he had learnedenough from Loristan to realize that only harm could come from lettingone's mind run wild. 

"A mind is either an engine with broken and flying gear, or a giantpower under control, " was the thing they knew. 

He had walked in imagination through three of the cabinet rooms and wasturning mentally into a fourth, when he found himself starting againquite violently. This time it was not at a touch but at a sound. Surelyit was a sound. And it was in the cellar with him. But it was thetiniest possible noise, a ghost of a squeak and a suggestion of amovement. It came from the opposite side of the cellar, the side wherethe shelves were. He looked across in the darkness saw a light whichthere could be no mistake about. It _was_ a light, two lights indeed, tworound phosphorescent greenish balls. They were two eyes staring at him. And then he heard another sound. Not a squeak this time, but somethingso homely and comfortable that he actually burst out laughing. It was acat purring, a nice warm cat! And she was curled up on one of the lowershelves purring to some new-born kittens. He knew there were kittensbecause it was plain now what the tiny squeak had been, and it was madeplainer by the fact that he heard another much more distinct one andthen another. They had all been asleep when he had come into the cellar. If the mother had been awake, she had probably been very much afraid. Afterward she had perhaps come down from her shelf to investigate, andhad passed close to him. The feeling of relief which came upon him atthis queer and simple discovery was wonderful. It was so natural andcomfortable an every-day thing that it seemed to make spies andcriminals unreal, and only natural things possible. With a mother catpurring away among her kittens, even a dark wine-cellar was not soblack. He got up and kneeled by the shelf. The greenish eyes did notshine in an unfriendly way. He could feel that the owner of them was anice big cat, and he counted four round little balls of kittens. It wasa curious delight to stroke the soft fur and talk to the mother cat. She answered with purring, as if she liked the sense of friendly humannearness. Marco laughed to himself. 

"It's queer what a difference it makes!" he said. "It is almost likefinding a window. "

The mere presence of these harmless living things was companionship. Hesat down close to the low shelf and listened to the motherly purring, now and then speaking and putting out his hand to touch the warm fur. The phosphorescent light in the green eyes was a comfort in itself. 

"We shall get out of this--both of us, " he said. "We shall not be herevery long, Puss-cat. "

He was not troubled by the fear of being really hungry for some time. Hewas so used to eating scantily from necessity, and to passing long hourswithout food during his journeys, that he had proved to himself thatfasting is not, after all, such a desperate ordeal as most peopleimagine. If you begin by expecting to feel famished and by counting thehours between your meals, you will begin to be ravenous. But he knewbetter. 

The time passed slowly; but he had known it would pass slowly, and hehad made up his mind not to watch it nor ask himself questions about it. He was not a restless boy, but, like his father, could stand or sit orlie still. Now and then he could hear distant rumblings of carts andvans passing in the street. There was a certain degree of companionshipin these also. He kept his place near the cat and his hand where hecould occasionally touch her. He could lift his eyes now and then to theplace where the dim glimmer of something like light showed itself. 

Perhaps the stillness, perhaps the darkness, perhaps the purring of themother cat, probably all three, caused his thoughts to begin to travelthrough his mind slowly and more slowly. At last they ceased and he fellasleep. The mother cat purred for some time, and then fell asleepherself. 

XV

A SOUND IN A DREAM

Marco slept peacefully for several hours. There was nothing to awakenhim during that time. But at the end of it, his sleep was penetrated bya definite sound. He had dreamed of hearing a voice at a distance, and, as he tried in his dream to hear what it said, a brief metallic ringingsound awakened him outright. It was over by the time he was fullyconscious, and at once he realized that the voice of his dream had beena real one, and was speaking still. It was the Lovely Person's voice, and she was speaking rapidly, as if she were in the greatest haste. Shewas speaking through the door. 

"You will have to search for it, " was all he heard. "I have not amoment!" And, as he listened to her hurriedly departing feet, there cameto him with their hastening echoes the words, "You are too good for thecellar. I like you!"

He sprang to the door and tried it, but it was still locked. The feetran up the cellar steps and through the upper hall, and the front doorclosed with a bang. The two people had gone away, as they hadthreatened. The voice had been excited as well as hurried. Something hadhappened to frighten them, and they had left the house in great haste. 

Marco turned and stood with his back against the door. The cat hadawakened and she was gazing at him with her green eyes. She began topurr encouragingly. She really helped Marco to think. He was thinkingwith all his might and trying to remember. 

"What did she come for? She came for something, " he said to himself. "What did she say? I only heard part of it, because I was asleep. Thevoice in the dream was part of it. The part I heard was, 'You will haveto search for it. I have not a moment. ' And as she ran down the passage, she called back, 'You are too good for the cellar. I like you. '" Hesaid the words over and over again and tried to recall exactly how theyhad sounded, and also to recall the voice which had seemed to be part ofa dream but had been a real thing. Then he began to try his favoriteexperiment. As he often tried the experiment of commanding his mind togo to sleep, so he frequently experimented on commanding it to work forhim--to help him to remember, to understand, and to argue about thingsclearly. 

"Reason this out for me, " he said to it now, quite naturally and calmly. "Show me what it means. "

What did she come for? It was certain that she was in too great a hurryto be able, without a reason, to spare the time to come. What was thereason? She had said she liked him. Then she came because she liked him. If she liked him, she came to do something which was not unfriendly. Theonly good thing she could do for him was something which would help himto get out of the cellar. She had said twice that he was too good forthe cellar. If he had been awake, he would have heard all she said andhave understood what she wanted him to do or meant to do for him. Hemust not stop even to think of that. The first words he had heard--whathad they been? They had been less clear to him than her last because hehad heard them only as he was awakening. But he thought he was sure thatthey had been, "You will have to search for it. " Search for it. Forwhat? He thought and thought. What must he search for?

He sat down on the floor of the cellar and held his head in his hands, pressing his eyes so hard that curious lights floated before them. 

"Tell me! Tell me!" he said to that part of his being which the Buddhistanchorite had said held all knowledge and could tell a man everything ifhe called upon it in the right spirit. 

And in a few minutes, he recalled something which seemed so much a partof his sleep that he had not been sure that he had not dreamed it. Theringing sound! He sprang up on his feet with a little gasping shout. The ringing sound! It had been the ring of metal, striking as it fell. Anything made of metal might have sounded like that. She had thrownsomething made of metal into the cellar. She had thrown it through theslit in the bricks near the door. She liked him, and said he was toogood for his prison. She had thrown to him the only thing which couldset him free. She had thrown him the _key_ of the cellar!

For a few minutes the feelings which surged through him were so full ofstrong excitement that they set his brain in a whirl. He knew what hisfather would say--that would not do. If he was to think, he must holdhimself still and not let even joy overcome him. The key was in theblack little cellar, and he must find it in the dark. Even the woman wholiked him enough to give him a chance of freedom knew that she must notopen the door and let him out. There must be a delay. He would have tofind the key himself, and it would be sure to take time. The chanceswere that they would be at a safe enough distance before he could getout. 

"I will kneel down and crawl on my hands and knees, " he said. 

"I will crawl back and forth and go over every inch of the floor with myhands until I find it. If I go over every inch, I shall find it. "

So he kneeled down and began to crawl, and the cat watched him andpurred. 

"We shall get out, Puss-cat, " he said to her. "I told you we should. "

He crawled from the door to the wall at the side of the shelves, andthen he crawled back again. The key might be quite a small one, and itwas necessary that he should pass his hands over every inch, as he hadsaid. The difficulty was to be sure, in the darkness, that he did notmiss an inch. Sometimes he was not sure enough, and then he went overthe ground again. He crawled backward and forward, and he crawledforward and backward. He crawled crosswise and lengthwise, he crawleddiagonally, and he crawled round and round. But he did not find the key. If he had had only a little light, but he had none. He was so absorbedin his search that he did not know he had been engaged in it for severalhours, and that it was the middle of the night. But at last he realizedthat he must stop for a rest, because his knees were beginning to feelbruised, and the skin of his hands was sore as a result of the rubbingon the flags. The cat and her kittens had gone to sleep and awakenedagain two or three times. 

"But it is somewhere!" he said obstinately. "It is inside the cellar. Iheard something fall which was made of metal. That was the ringing soundwhich awakened me. "

When he stood up, he found his body ached and he was very tired. Hestretched himself and exercised his arms and legs. 

"I wonder how long I have been crawling about, " he thought. "But the keyis in the cellar. It is in the cellar. "

He sat down near the cat and her family, and, laying his arm on theshelf above her, rested his head on it. He began to think of anotherexperiment. 

"I am so tired, I believe I shall go to sleep again. 'Thought whichKnows All' "--he was quoting something the hermit had said to Loristanin their midnight talk--"Thought which Knows All! Show me this littlething. Lead me to it when I awake. "

And he did fall asleep, sound and fast. 

 * * * * *

He did not know that he slept all the rest of the night. But he did. When he awakened, it was daylight in the streets, and the milk-cartswere beginning to jingle about, and the early postmen were knocking bigdouble-knocks at front doors. The cat may have heard the milk-carts, butthe actual fact was that she herself was hungry and wanted to go insearch of food. Just as Marco lifted his head from his arm and sat up, she jumped down from her shelf and went to the door. She had expected tofind it ajar as it had been before. When she found it shut, shescratched at it and was disturbed to find this of no use. Because sheknew Marco was in the cellar, she felt she had a friend who would assisther, and she miaued appealingly. 

This reminded Marco of the key. 

"I will when I have found it, " he said. "It is inside the cellar. "

The cat miaued again, this time very anxiously indeed. The kittensheard her and began to squirm and squeak piteously. 

"Lead me to this little thing, " said Marco, as if speaking to somethingin the darkness about him, and he got up. 

He put his hand out toward the kittens, and it touched something lyingnot far from them. It must have been lying near his elbow all nightwhile he slept. 

It was the key! It had fallen upon the shelf, and not on the floor atall. 

Marco picked it up and then stood still a moment. He made the sign ofthe cross. 

Then he found his way to the door and fumbled until he found the keyholeand got the key into it. Then he turned it and pushed the door open--andthe cat ran out into the passage before him. 

XVI

THE RAT TO THE RESCUE

Marco walked through the passage and into the kitchen part of thebasement. The doors were all locked, and they were solid doors. He ranup the flagged steps and found the door at the top shut and bolted also, and that too was a solid door. His jailers had plainly made sure that itshould take time enough for him to make his way into the world, evenafter he got out of the wine-cellar. 

The cat had run away to some part of the place where mice wereplentiful. Marco was by this time rather gnawingly hungry himself. If hecould get into the kitchen, he might find some fragments of food left ina cupboard; but there was no moving the locked door. He tried the outletinto the area, but that was immovable. Then he saw near it a smallerdoor. It was evidently the entrance to the coal-cellar under thepavement. This was proved by the fact that trodden coal-dust marked theflagstones, and near it stood a scuttle with coal in it. 

This coal-scuttle was the thing which might help him! Above the areadoor was a small window which was supposed to light the entry. He couldnot reach it, and, if he reached it, he could not open it. He couldthrow pieces of coal at the glass and break it, and then he could shoutfor help when people passed by. They might not notice or understandwhere the shouts came from at first, but, if he kept them up, some one'sattention would be attracted in the end. 

He picked a large-sized solid piece of coal out of the heap in thescuttle, and threw it with all his force against the grimy glass. Itsmashed through and left a big hole. He threw another, and the entirepane was splintered and fell outside into the area. Then he saw it wasbroad daylight, and guessed that he had been shut up a good many hours. There was plenty of coal in the scuttle, and he had a strong arm and agood aim. He smashed pane after pane, until only the framework remained. When he shouted, there would be nothing between his voice and thestreet. No one could see him, but if he could do something which wouldmake people slacken their pace to listen, then he could call out that hewas in the basement of the house with the broken window. 

"Hallo!" he shouted. "Hallo! Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!"

But vehicles were passing in the street, and the passers-by wereabsorbed in their own business. If they heard a sound, they did not stopto inquire into it. 

"Hallo! Hallo! I am locked in!" yelled Marco, at the topmost power ofhis lungs. "Hallo! Hallo!"

After half an hour's shouting, he began to think that he was wasting hisstrength. 

"They only think it is a boy shouting, " he said. "Some one will noticein time. At night, when the streets are quiet, I might make a policemanhear. But my father does not know where I am. He will be trying to findme--so will Lazarus--so will The Rat. One of them might pass throughthis very street, as I did. What can I do!"

A new idea flashed light upon him. 

"I will begin to sing a Samavian song, and I will sing it very loud. People nearly always stop a moment to listen to music and find out whereit comes from. And if any of my own people came near, they would stop atonce--and now and then I will shout for help. "

Once when they had stopped to rest on Hampstead Heath, he had sung avaliant Samavian song for The Rat. The Rat had wanted to hear how hewould sing when they went on their secret journey. He wanted him to singfor the Squad some day, to make the thing seem real. The Rat had beengreatly excited, and had begged for the song often. It was a stirringmartial thing with a sort of trumpet call of a chorus. Thousands ofSamavians had sung it together on their way to the battle-field, hundreds of years ago. 

He drew back a step or so, and, putting his hands on his hips, began tosing, throwing his voice upward that it might pass through the brokenwindow. He had a splendid and vibrant young voice, though he knewnothing of its fine quality. Just now he wanted only to make it loud. 

In the street outside very few people were passing. An irritable oldgentleman who was taking an invalid walk quite jumped with annoyancewhen the song suddenly trumpeted forth. Boys had no right to yell inthat manner. He hurried his step to get away from the sound. Two orthree other people glanced over their shoulders, but had not time toloiter. A few others listened with pleasure as they drew near and passedon. 

"There's a boy with a fine voice, " said one. 

"What's he singing?" said his companion. "It sounds foreign. "

"Don't know, " was the reply as they went by. But at last a young man whowas a music-teacher, going to give a lesson, hesitated and looked abouthim. The song was very loud and spirited just at this moment. Themusic-teacher could not understand where it came from, and paused tofind out. The fact that he stopped attracted the attention of the nextcomer, who also paused. 

"Who's singing?" he asked. "Where is he singing?"

"I can't make out, " the music-teacher laughed. "Sounds as if it came outof the ground. "

And, because it was queer that a song should seem to be coming out ofthe ground, a costermonger stopped, and then a little boy, and then aworkingwoman, and then a lady. 

There was quite a little group when another person turned the corner ofthe street. He was a shabby boy on crutches, and he had a frantic lookon his face. 

And Marco actually heard, as he drew near to the group, the tap-tap-tapof crutches. 

"It might be, " he thought. "It might be!"

And he sang the trumpet-call of the chorus as if it were meant to reachthe skies, and he sang it again and again. And at the end of it shouted, "Hallo! Hallo! Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!"

[Illustration: The Rat swung himself into the group. "Where is he!""Where is he!" he cried. ]

The Rat swung himself into the group and looked as if he had gone crazy. He hurled himself against the people. 

"Where is he! Where is he!" he cried, and he poured out some breathlesswords; it was almost as if he sobbed them out. 

"We've been looking for him all night!" he shouted. "Where is he! Marco!Marco! No one else sings it but him. Marco! Marco!" And out of the area, as it seemed, came a shout of answer. 

"Rat! Rat! I'm here in the cellar--locked in. I'm here!" and a big pieceof coal came hurtling through the broken window and fell crashing on thearea flags. The Rat got down the steps into the area as if he had notbeen on crutches but on legs, and banged on the door, shouting back:

"Marco! Marco! Here I am! Who locked you in? How can I get the dooropen?"

Marco was close against the door inside. It was The Rat! It wasThe Rat! And he would be in the street again in a few minutes. "Call apoliceman!" he shouted through the keyhole. "The people locked me in onpurpose and took away the keys. "

Then the group of lookers-on began to get excited and press against thearea railings and ask questions. They could not understand what hadhappened to cause the boy with the crutches to look as if he were crazywith terror and relief at the same time. 

And the little boy ran delightedly to fetch a policeman, and found onein the next street, and, with some difficulty, persuaded him that it washis business to come and get a door open in an empty house where a boywho was a street singer had got locked up in a cellar. 

XVII

"IT IS A VERY BAD SIGN"

The policeman was not so much excited as out of temper. He did not knowwhat Marco knew or what The Rat knew. Some common lad had got himselflocked up in a house, and some one would have to go to the landlord andget a key from him. He had no intention of laying himself open to thelaw by breaking into a private house with his truncheon, as The Ratexpected him to do. 

"He got himself in through some of his larks, and he'll have to waittill he's got out without smashing locks, " he growled, shaking the areadoor. "How did you get in there?" he shouted. 

It was not easy for Marco to explain through a keyhole that he had comein to help a lady who had met with an accident. The policeman thoughtthis mere boy's talk. As to the rest of the story, Marco knew that itcould not be related at all without saying things which could not beexplained to any one but his father. He quickly made up his mind thathe must let it be believed that he had been locked in by some queeraccident. It must be supposed that the people had not remembered, intheir haste, that he had not yet left the house. 

When the young clerk from the house agency came with the keys, he wasmuch disturbed and bewildered after he got inside. 

"They've made a bolt of it, " he said. "That happens now and then, butthere's something queer about this. What did they lock these doors inthe basement for, and the one on the stairs? What did they say to you?"he asked Marco, staring at him suspiciously. 

"They said they were obliged to go suddenly, " Marco answered. 

"What were you doing in the basement?"

"The man took me down. "

"And left you there and bolted? He must have been in a hurry. "

"The lady said they had not a moment's time. "

"Her ankle must have got well in short order, " said the young man. 

"I knew nothing about them, " answered Marco. "I had never seen thembefore. "

"The police were after them, " the young man said. "That's what I shouldsay. They paid three months' rent in advance, and they have only beenhere two. Some of these foreign spies lurking about London; that's whatthey were. "

 * * * * *

The Rat had not waited until the keys arrived. He had swung himself athis swiftest pace back through the streets to No. 7 Philibert Place. People turned and stared at his wild pale face as he almost shot pastthem. 

He had left himself barely breath enough to speak with when he reachedthe house and banged on the door with his crutch to save time. 

Both Loristan and Lazarus came to answer. 

The Rat leaned against the door gasping. 

"He's found! He's all right!" he panted. "Some one had locked him in ahouse and left him. They've sent for the keys. I'm going back. BrandonTerrace, No. 10. "

Loristan and Lazarus exchanged glances. Both of them were at the momentas pale as The Rat. 

"Help him into the house, " said Loristan to Lazarus. "He must stay hereand rest. We will go. " The Rat knew it was an order. 

He did not like it, but he obeyed. 

"This is a bad sign, Master, " said Lazarus, as they went out together. 

"It is a very bad one, " answered Loristan. 

"God of the Right, defend us!" Lazarus groaned. 

"Amen!" said Loristan. "Amen!"

The group had become a small crowd by the time they reached BrandonTerrace. Marco had not found it easy to leave the place because he wasbeing questioned. Neither the policeman nor the agent's clerk seemedwilling to relinquish the idea that he could give them some informationabout the absconding pair. 

The entrance of Loristan produced its usual effect. The agent's clerklifted his hat, and the policeman stood straight and made salute. Neither of them realized that the tall man's clothes were worn andthreadbare. They felt only that a personage was before them, and that itwas not possible to question his air of absolute and serene authority. He laid his hand on Marco's shoulder and held it there as he spoke. WhenMarco looked up at him and felt the closeness of his touch, it seemed asif it were an embrace--as if he had caught him to his breast. 

"My boy knew nothing of these people, " he said. "That I can guarantee. He had seen neither of them before. His entering the house was theresult of no boyish trick. He has been shut up in this place for nearlytwenty-four hours and has had no food. I must take him home. This is myaddress. " He handed the young man a card. 

Then they went home together, and all the way to Philibert PlaceLoristan's firm hand held closely to his boy's shoulder as if he couldnot endure to let him go. But on the way they said very little. 

"Father, " Marco said, rather hoarsely, when they first got away from thehouse in the terrace, "I can't talk well in the street. For one thing, Iam so glad to be with you again. It seemed as if--it might turn outbadly. "

"Beloved one, " Loristan said the words in their own Samavian, "until youare fed and at rest, you shall not talk at all. "

Afterward, when he was himself again and was allowed to tell his strangestory, Marco found that both his father and Lazarus had at once hadsuspicions when he had not returned. They knew no ordinary event couldhave kept him. They were sure that he must have been detained againsthis will, and they were also sure that, if he had been so detained, itcould only have been for reasons they could guess at. 

"This was the card that she gave me, " Marco said, and he handed it toLoristan. "She said you would remember the name. " Loristan looked at thelettering with an ironic half-smile. 

"I never heard it before, " he replied. "She would not send me a name Iknew. Probably I have never seen either of them. But I know the workthey do. They are spies of the Maranovitch, and suspect that I knowsomething of the Lost Prince. They believed they could terrify you intosaying things which would be a clue. Men and women of their class willuse desperate means to gain their end. "

"Might they--have left me as they threatened?" Marco asked him. 

"They would scarcely have dared, I think. Too great a hue and cry wouldhave been raised by the discovery of such a crime. Too many detectiveswould have been set at work to track them. "

But the look in his father's eyes as he spoke, and the pressure of thehand he stretched out to touch him, made Marco's heart thrill. He hadwon a new love and trust from his father. When they sat together andtalked that night, they were closer to each other's souls than they hadever been before. 

They sat in the firelight, Marco upon the worn hearth-rug, and theytalked about Samavia--about the war and its heart-rending struggles, andabout how they might end. 

"Do you think that some time we might be exiles no longer?" the boy saidwistfully. "Do you think we might go there together--and see it--youand I, Father?"

There was a silence for a while. Loristan looked into the sinking bed ofred coal. 

"For years--for years I have made for my soul that image, " he saidslowly. "When I think of my friend on the side of the HimalayanMountains, I say, 'The Thought which Thought the World may give us thatalso!'"

XVIII

"CITIES AND FACES"

The hours of Marco's unexplained absence had been terrible to Loristanand to Lazarus. They had reason for fears which it was not possible forthem to express. As the night drew on, the fears took stronger form. They forgot the existence of The Rat, who sat biting his nails in thebedroom, afraid to go out lest he might lose the chance of being givensome errand to do but also afraid to show himself lest he should seem inthe way. 

"I'll stay upstairs, " he had said to Lazarus. "If you just whistle, I'llcome. "

The anguish he passed through as the day went by and Lazarus went outand came in and he himself received no orders, could not have beenexpressed in any ordinary words. He writhed in his chair, he bit hisnails to the quick, he wrought himself into a frenzy of misery andterror by recalling one by one all the crimes his knowledge of Londonpolice-courts supplied him with. He was doing nothing, yet he dare notleave his post. It was his post after all, though they had not given itto him. He must do something. 

In the middle of the night Loristan opened the door of the backsitting-room, because he knew he must at least go upstairs and throwhimself upon his bed even if he could not sleep. 

He started back as the door opened. The Rat was sitting huddled on thefloor near it with his back against the wall. He had a piece of paper inhis hand and his twisted face was a weird thing to see. 

"Why are you here?" Loristan asked. 

"I've been here three hours, sir. I knew you'd have to come out sometimeand I thought you'd let me speak to you. Will you--will you?"

"Come into the room, " said Loristan. "I will listen to anything you wantto say. What have you been drawing on that paper?" as The Rat got up inthe wonderful way he had taught himself. The paper was covered withlines which showed it to be another of his plans. 

"Please look at it, " he begged. "I daren't go out lest you might want tosend me somewhere. I daren't sit doing nothing. I began remembering andthinking things out. I put down all the streets and squares he _might_have walked through on his way home. I've not missed one. If you'lllet me start out and walk through every one of them and talk to thepolicemen on the beat and look at the houses--and think out thingsand work at them--I'll not miss an inch--I'll not miss a brick or aflagstone--I'll--" His voice had a hard sound but it shook, and hehimself shook. 

Loristan touched his arm gently. 

"You are a good comrade, " he said. "It is well for us that you are here. You have thought of a good thing. "

"May I go now?" said The Rat. 

"This moment, if you are ready, " was the answer. The Rat swung himselfto the door. 

Loristan said to him a thing which was like the sudden lighting of agreat light in the very center of his being. 

"You are one of us. Now that I know you are doing this I may even sleep. You are one of us. " And it was because he was following this plan thatThe Rat had turned into Brandon Terrace and heard the Samavian songringing out from the locked basement of Number 10. 

"Yes, he is one of us, " Loristan said, when he told this part of thestory to Marco as they sat by the fire. "I had not been sure before. I wanted to be very sure. Last night I saw into the depths of him and_knew_. He may be trusted. "

From that day The Rat held a new place. Lazarus himself, strangelyenough, did not resent his holding it. The boy was allowed to be nearLoristan as he had never dared to hope to be near. It was not merelythat he was allowed to serve him in many ways, but he was taken into theintimacy which had before enclosed only the three. Loristan talked tohim as he talked to Marco, drawing him within the circle which held somuch that was comprehended without speech. The Rat knew that he wasbeing trained and observed and he realized it with exaltation. His idolhad said that he was "one of them" and he was watching and putting himto tests so that he might find out how much he was one of them. And hewas doing it for some grave reason of his own. This thought possessedThe Rat's whole mind. Perhaps he was wondering if he should find outthat he was to be trusted, as a rock is to be trusted. That he shouldeven think that perhaps he might find that he was like a rock, wasinspiration enough. 

"Sir, " he said one night when they were alone together, because The Rathad been copying a road-map. His voice was very low--"do you thinkthat--sometime--you could trust me as you trust Marco? Could it ever belike that--ever?"

"The time has come, " and Loristan's voice was almost as low as his own, though strong and deep feeling underlay its quiet--"the time has comewhen I can trust you with Marco--to be his companion--to care for him, to stand by his side at any moment. And Marco is--Marco is my son. " Thatwas enough to uplift The Rat to the skies. But there was more to follow. 

"It may not be long before it may be his part to do work in which hewill need a comrade who can be trusted--as a rock can be trusted. "

He had said the very words The Rat's own mind had given to him. 

"A Rock! A Rock!" the boy broke out. "Let me show you, sir. Send me withhim for a servant. The crutches are nothing. You've seen that they're asgood as legs, haven't you? I've trained myself. "

"I know, I know, dear lad. " Marco had told him all of it. He gave him agracious smile which seemed as if it held a sort of fine secret. "Youshall go as his aide-de-camp. It shall be part of the game. "

He had always encouraged "the game, " and during the last weeks had evenfound time to help them in their plannings for the mysterious journeyof the Secret Two. He had been so interested that once or twice he hadcalled on Lazarus as an old soldier and Samavian to give his opinionsof certain routes--and of the customs and habits of people in townsand villages by the way. Here they would find simple pastoral folk whodanced, sang after their day's work, and who would tell all they knew;here they would find those who served or feared the Maranovitch and whowould not talk at all. In one place they would meet with hospitality, in another with unfriendly suspicion of all strangers. Through talk andstories The Rat began to know the country almost as Marco knew it. Thatwas part of the game too--because it was always "the game, " they calledit. Another part was The Rat's training of his memory, and bringing homehis proofs of advance at night when he returned from his walk and coulddescribe, or recite, or roughly sketch all he had seen in his passagefrom one place to another. Marco's part was to recall and sketch faces. Loristan one night gave him a number of photographs of people to committo memory. Under each face was written the name of a place. 

"Learn these faces, " he said, "until you would know each one of them atonce wheresoever you met it. Fix them upon your mind, so that it will beimpossible for you to forget them. You must be able to sketch any one ofthem and recall the city or town or neighborhood connected with it. "

Even this was still called "the game, " but Marco began to know in hissecret heart that it was so much more, that his hand sometimes trembledwith excitement as he made his sketches over and over again. To makeeach one many times was the best way to imbed it in his memory. The Ratknew, too, though he had no reason for knowing, but mere instinct. Heused to lie awake in the night and think it over and remember whatLoristan had said of the time coming when Marco might need a comrade inhis work. What was his work to be? It was to be something like "thegame. " And they were being prepared for it. And though Marco often layawake on his bed when The Rat lay awake on his sofa, neither boy spoketo the other of the thing his mind dwelt on. And Marco worked as he hadnever worked before. The game was very exciting when he could prove hisprowess. The four gathered together at night in the back sitting-room. Lazarus was obliged to be with them because a second judge was needed. Loristan would mention the name of a place, perhaps a street in Paris ora hotel in Vienna, and Marco would at once make a rapid sketch of theface under whose photograph the name of the locality had been written. It was not long before he could begin his sketch without more than amoment's hesitation. And yet even when this had become the case, theystill played the game night after night. There was a great hotel nearthe Place de la Concorde in Paris, of which Marco felt he should neverhear the name during all his life without there starting up before hismental vision a tall woman with fierce black eyes and a delicatehigh-bridged nose across which the strong eyebrows almost met. InVienna there was a palace which would always bring back at once a palecold-faced man with a heavy blonde lock which fell over his forehead. A certain street in Munich meant a stout genial old aristocrat witha sly smile; a village in Bavaria, a peasant with a vacant and simplecountenance. A curled and smoothed man who looked like a hair-dresserbrought up a place in an Austrian mountain town. He knew them all as heknew his own face and No. 7 Philibert Place. 

But still night after night the game was played. 

Then came a night when, out of a deep sleep, he was awakened by Lazarustouching him. He had so long been secretly ready to answer any call thathe sat up straight in bed at the first touch. 

"Dress quickly and come down stairs, " Lazarus said. "The Prince is hereand wishes to speak with you. "

Marco made no answer but got out of bed and began to slip on hisclothes. 

Lazarus touched The Rat. 

The Rat was as ready as Marco and sat upright as he had done. 

"Come down with the young Master, " he commanded. "It is necessary thatyou should be seen and spoken to. " And having given the order he wentaway. 

No one heard the shoeless feet of the two boys as they stole down thestairs. 

An elderly man in ordinary clothes, but with an unmistakable face, wassitting quietly talking to Loristan who with a gesture called bothforward. 

"The Prince has been much interested in what I have told him of yourgame, " he said in his lowest voice. "He wishes to see you make yoursketches, Marco. "

Marco looked very straight into the Prince's eyes which were fixedintently on him as he made his bow. 

"His Highness does me honor, " he said, as his father might have said it. He went to the table at once and took from a drawer his pencils andpieces of cardboard. 

"I should know he was your son and a Samavian, " the Prince remarked. 

Then his keen and deep-set eyes turned themselves on the boy with thecrutches. 

"This, " said Loristan, "is the one who calls himself The Rat. He is oneof us. "

The Rat saluted. 

"Please tell him, sir, " he whispered, "that the crutches don't matter. "

"He has trained himself to an extraordinary activity, " Loristan said. "He can do anything. "

The keen eyes were still taking The Rat in. 

"They are an advantage, " said the Prince at last. 

Lazarus had nailed together a light, rough easel which Marco used inmaking his sketches when the game was played. Lazarus was standing instate at the door, and he came forward, brought the easel from itscorner, and arranged the necessary drawing materials upon it. 

Marco stood near it and waited the pleasure of his father and hisvisitor. They were speaking together in low tones and he waited severalminutes. What The Rat noticed was what he had noticed before--that thebig boy could stand still in perfect ease and silence. It was notnecessary for him to say things or to ask questions--to look at peopleas if he felt restless if they did not speak to or notice him. He didnot seem to require notice, and The Rat felt vaguely that, young as hewas, this very freedom from any anxiety to be looked at or addressedmade him somehow look like a great gentleman. 

Loristan and the Prince advanced to where he stood. 

"L'Hotel de Marigny, " Loristan said. 

Marco began to sketch rapidly. He began the portrait of the handsomewoman with the delicate high-bridged nose and the black brows whichalmost met. As he did it, the Prince drew nearer and watched the workover his shoulder. It did not take very long and, when it was finished, the inspector turned, and after giving Loristan a long and strange look, nodded twice. 

"It is a remarkable thing, " he said. "In that rough sketch she is not tobe mistaken. "

Loristan bent his head. 

Then he mentioned the name of another street in another place--andMarco sketched again. This time it was the peasant with the simple face. The Prince bowed again. Then Loristan gave another name, and after thatanother and another; and Marco did his work until it was at an end, andLazarus stood near with a handful of sketches which he had silentlytaken charge of as each was laid aside. 

"You would know these faces wheresoever you saw them?" said the Prince. "If you passed one in Bond Street or in the Marylebone Road, you wouldrecognize it at once?"

"As I know yours, sir, " Marco answered. 

Then followed a number of questions. Loristan asked them as he had oftenasked them before. They were questions as to the height and build of theoriginals of the pictures, of the color of their hair and eyes, and theorder of their complexions. Marco answered them all. He knew all but thenames of these people, and it was plainly not necessary that he shouldknow them, as his father had never uttered them. 

After this questioning was at an end the Prince pointed to The Rat whohad leaned on his crutches against the wall, his eyes fiercely eagerlike a ferret's. 

"And he?" the Prince said. "What can he do?"

"Let me try, " said The Rat. "Marco knows. "

Marco looked at his father. 

"May I help him to show you?" he asked. 

"Yes, " Loristan answered, and then, as he turned to the Prince, he saidagain in his low voice: "_he is one of us_. "

Then Marco began a new form of the game. He held up one of the picturedfaces before The Rat, and The Rat named at once the city and placeconnected with it, he detailed the color of eyes and hair, the height, the build, all the personal details as Marco himself had detailed them. To these he added descriptions of the cities, and points concerning thepolice system, the palaces, the people. His face twisted itself, hiseyes burned, his voice shook, but he was amazing in his readiness ofreply and his exactness of memory. 

"I can't draw, " he said at the end. "But I can remember. I didn't wantany one to be bothered with thinking I was trying to learn it. So onlyMarco knew. "

This he said to Loristan with appeal in his voice. 

"It was he who invented 'the game, '" said Loristan. "I showed you hisstrange maps and plans. "

"It is a good game, " the Prince answered in the manner of a manextraordinarily interested and impressed. "They know it well. They canbe trusted. "

"No such thing has ever been done before, " Loristan said. "It is as newas it is daring and simple. "

"Therein lies its safety, " the Prince answered. 

"Perhaps only boyhood, " said Loristan, "could have dared to imagine it. "

"The Prince thanks you, " he said after a few more words spoken aside tohis visitor. "We both thank you. You may go back to your beds. "

And the boys went. 

XIX

"THAT IS ONE!"

A week had not passed before Marco brought to The Rat in their bedrooman envelope containing a number of slips of paper on each of which waswritten something. 

"This is another part of the game, " he said gravely. "Let us sit downtogether by the table and study it. "

They sat down and examined what was written on the slips. At the head ofeach was the name of one of the places with which Marco had connected aface he had sketched. Below were clear and concise directions as to howit was to be reached and the words to be said when each individual wasencountered. 

"This person is to be found at his stall in the market, " was written ofthe vacant-faced peasant. "You will first attract his attention byasking the price of something. When he is looking at you, touch yourleft thumb lightly with the forefinger of your right hand. Then utter ina low distinct tone the words 'The Lamp is lighted. ' That is all you areto do. "

Sometimes the directions were not quite so simple, but they were allinstructions of the same order. The originals of the sketches were to besought out--always with precaution which should conceal that they werebeing sought at all, and always in such a manner as would cause anencounter to appear to be mere chance. Then certain words were to beuttered, but always without attracting the attention of any bystander orpasser-by. 

The boys worked at their task through the entire day. They concentratedall their powers upon it. They wrote and re-wrote--they repeated toeach other what they committed to memory as if it were a lesson. Marcoworked with the greater ease and more rapidly, because exercise of thisorder had been his practice and entertainment from his babyhood. TheRat, however, almost kept pace with him, as he had been born with aphenomenal memory and his eagerness and desire were a fury. 

But throughout the entire day neither of them once referred to what theywere doing as anything but "the game. "

At night, it is true, each found himself lying awake and thinking. Itwas The Rat who broke the silence from his sofa. 

"It is what the messengers of the Secret Party would be ordered to dowhen they were sent out to give the Sign for the Rising, " he said. "I made that up the first day I invented the party, didn't I?"

"Yes, " answered Marco. 

 * * * * *

After a third day's concentration they knew by heart everything given tothem to learn. That night Loristan put them through an examination. 

"Can you write these things?" he asked, after each had repeated them andemerged safely from all cross-questioning. 

Each boy wrote them correctly from memory. 

"Write yours in French--in German--in Russian--in Samavian, " Loristansaid to Marco. 

"All you have told me to do and to learn is part of myself, Father, "Marco said in the end. "It is part of me, as if it were my hand or myeyes--or my heart. "

"I believe that is true, " answered Loristan. 

He was pale that night and there was a shadow on his face. His eyes helda great longing as they rested on Marco. It was a yearning which had asort of dread in it. 

Lazarus also did not seem quite himself. He was red instead of pale, andhis movements were uncertain and restless. He cleared his throatnervously at intervals and more than once left his chair as if to lookfor something. 

It was almost midnight when Loristan, standing near Marco, put his armround his shoulders. 

"The Game"--he began, and then was silent a few moments while Marco felthis arm tighten its hold. Both Marco and The Rat felt a hard quick beatin their breasts, and, because of this and because the pause seemedlong, Marco spoke. 

"The Game--yes, Father?" he said. 

"The Game is about to give you work to do--both of you, " Loristananswered. 

Lazarus cleared his throat and walked to the easel in the corner of theroom. But he only changed the position of a piece of drawing-paper onit and then came back. 

"In two days you are to go to Paris--as you, " to The Rat, "planned inthe game. "

"As I planned?" The Rat barely breathed the words. 

"Yes, " answered Loristan. "The instructions you have learned you willcarry out. There is no more to be done than to manage to approachcertain persons closely enough to be able to utter certain words tothem. "

"Only two young strollers whom no man could suspect, " put in Lazarusin an astonishingly rough and shaky voice. "They could pass near theEmperor himself without danger. The young Master--" his voice became sohoarse that he was obligated to clear it loudly--"the young Master mustcarry himself less finely. It would be well to shuffle a little andslouch as if he were of the common people. "

"Yes, " said The Rat hastily. "He must do that. I can teach him. He holdshis head and his shoulders like a gentleman. He must look like a streetlad. "

"I will look like one, " said Marco, with determination. 

"I will trust you to remind him, " Loristan said to The Rat, and he saidit with gravity. "That will be your charge. "

As he lay upon his pillow that night, it seemed to Marco as if a loadhad lifted itself from his heart. It was the load of uncertainty andlonging. He had so long borne the pain of feeling that he was too youngto be allowed to serve in any way. His dreams had never been wildones--they had in fact always been boyish and modest, howsoeverromantic. But now no dream which could have passed through his brainwould have seemed so wonderful as this--that the hour had come--the hourhad come--and that he, Marco, was to be its messenger. He was to do nodramatic deed and be announced by no flourish of heralds. No one wouldknow what he did. What he achieved could only be attained if he remainedobscure and unknown and seemed to every one only a common ordinary boywho knew nothing whatever of important things. But his father had givento him a gift so splendid that he trembled with awe and joy as hethought of it. The Game had become real. He and The Rat were to carrywith them The Sign, and it would be like carrying a tiny lamp to setaflame lights which would blaze from one mountain-top to another untilhalf the world seemed on fire. 

As he had awakened out of his sleep when Lazarus touched him, so heawakened in the middle of the night again. But he was not arousedby a touch. When he opened his eyes he knew it was a look which hadpenetrated his sleep--a look in the eyes of his father who was standingby his side. In the road outside there was the utter silence he hadnoticed the night of the Prince's first visit--the only light was thatof the lamp in the street, but he could see Loristan's face clearlyenough to know that the mere intensity of his gaze had awakened him. TheRat was sleeping profoundly. Loristan spoke in Samavian and under hisbreath. 

"Beloved one, " he said. "You are very young. Because I am yourfather--just at this hour I can feel nothing else. I have trained youfor this through all the years of your life. I am proud of your youngmaturity and strength but--Beloved--you are a child! Can I do thisthing!"

For the moment, his face and his voice were scarcely like his own. 

He kneeled by the bedside, and, as he did it, Marco half sitting upcaught his hand and held it hard against his breast. 

"Father, I know!" he cried under his breath also. "It is true. I am achild but am I not a man also? You yourself said it. I always knew thatyou were teaching me to be one--for some reason. It was my secret thatI knew it. I learned well because I never forgot it. And I learned. DidI not?"

He was so eager that he looked more like a boy than ever. But his youngstrength and courage were splendid to see. Loristan knew him through andthrough and read every boyish thought of his. 

"Yes, " he answered slowly. "You did your part--and now if I--drewback--you would feel that I _had failed you--failed you_. "

"You!" Marco breathed it proudly. "You _could_ not fail even the weakestthing in the world. "

There was a moment's silence in which the two pairs of eyes dwelt oneach other with the deepest meaning, and then Loristan rose to his feet. 

"The end will be all that our hearts most wish, " he said. "To-morrowyou may begin the new part of 'the Game. ' You may go to Paris. "

 * * * * *

When the train which was to meet the boat that crossed from Dover toCalais steamed out of the noisy Charing Cross Station, it carried in athird-class carriage two shabby boys. One of them would have been ahandsome lad if he had not carried himself slouchingly and walked with astreet lad's careless shuffling gait. The other was a cripple who movedslowly, and apparently with difficulty, on crutches. There was nothingremarkable or picturesque enough about them to attract attention. Theysat in the corner of the carriage and neither talked much nor seemed tobe particularly interested in the journey or each other. When they wenton board the steamer, they were soon lost among the commoner passengersand in fact found for themselves a secluded place which was notadvantageous enough to be wanted by any one else. 

"What can such a poor-looking pair of lads be going to Paris for?" someone asked his companion. 

"Not for pleasure, certainly; perhaps to get work, " was the casualanswer. 

In the evening they reached Paris, and Marco led the way to a small caféin a side-street where they got some cheap food. In the same side-streetthey found a bed they could share for the night in a tiny room over abaker's shop. 

The Rat was too much excited to be ready to go to bed early. He beggedMarco to guide him about the brilliant streets. They went slowly alongthe broad Avenue des Champs Elysees under the lights glittering amongthe horse-chestnut trees. The Rat's sharp eyes took it all in--the lightof the cafés among the embowering trees, the many carriages rolling by, the people who loitered and laughed or sat at little tables drinkingwine and listening to music, the broad stream of life which flowed on tothe Arc de Triomphe and back again. 

"It's brighter and clearer than London, " he said to Marco. "The peoplelook as if they were having more fun than they do in England. "

The Place de la Concorde spreading its stately spaces--a world ofillumination, movement, and majestic beauty--held him as though by afascination. He wanted to stand and stare at it, first from one point ofview and then from another. It was bigger and more wonderful than he hadbeen able to picture it when Marco had described it to him and told himof the part it had played in the days of the French Revolution when theguillotine had stood in it and the tumbrils had emptied themselves atthe foot of its steps. 

He stood near the Obelisk a long time without speaking. 

"I can see it all happening, " he said at last, and he pulled Marco away. 

Before they returned home, they found their way to a large house whichstood in a courtyard. In the iron work of the handsome gates which shutit in was wrought a gilded coronet. The gates were closed and the housewas not brightly lighted. 

They walked past it and round it without speaking, but, when they nearedthe entrance for the second time, The Rat said in a low tone:

"She is five feet seven, has black hair, a nose with a high bridge, hereyebrows are black and almost meet across it, she has a pale olive skinand holds her head proudly. "

"That is the one, " Marco answered. 

They were a week in Paris and each day passed this big house. There werecertain hours when great ladies were more likely to go out and come inthan they were at others. Marco knew this, and they managed to be withinsight of the house or to pass it at these hours. For two days they sawno sign of the person they wished to see, but one morning the gates werethrown open and they saw flowers and palms being taken in. 

"She has been away and is coming back, " said Marco. The next day theypassed three times--once at the hour when fashionable women drive out todo their shopping, once at the time when afternoon visiting is mostlikely to begin, and once when the streets were brilliant with lightsand the carriages had begun to roll by to dinner-parties and theaters. 

Then, as they stood at a little distance from the iron gates, a carriagedrove through them and stopped before the big open door which was thrownopen by two tall footmen in splendid livery. 

"She is coming out, " said The Rat. 

They would be able to see her plainly when she came, because the lightsover the entrance were so bright. 

Marco slipped from under his coat sleeve a carefully made sketch. 

He looked at it and The Rat looked at it. 

A footman stood erect on each side of the open door. The footman who satwith the coachman had got down and was waiting by the carriage. Marcoand The Rat glanced again with furtive haste at the sketch. A handsomewoman appeared upon the threshold. She paused and gave some order to thefootman who stood on the right. Then she came out in the full light andgot into the carriage which drove out of the courtyard and quite nearthe place where the two boys waited. 

When it was gone, Marco drew a long breath as he tore the sketch intovery small pieces indeed. He did not throw them away but put them intohis pocket. 

The Rat drew a long breath also. 

"Yes, " he said positively. 

"Yes, " said Marco. 

When they were safely shut up in their room over the baker's shop, theydiscussed the chances of their being able to pass her in such a way aswould seem accidental. Two common boys could not enter the courtyard. There was a back entrance for tradespeople and messengers. When shedrove, she would always enter her carriage from the same place. Unlessshe sometimes walked, they could not approach her. What should be done?The thing was difficult. After they had talked some time, The Rat satand gnawed his nails. 

"To-morrow afternoon, " he broke out at last, "we'll watch and see if hercarriage drives in for her--then, when she comes to the door, I'll go inand begin to beg. The servant will think I'm a foreigner and don't knowwhat I'm doing. You can come after me to tell me to come away, becauseyou know better than I do that I shall be ordered out. She may be agood-natured woman and listen to us--and you might get near her. "

"We might try it, " Marco answered. "It might work. We will try it. "

The Rat never failed to treat him as his leader. He had begged Loristanto let him come with Marco as his servant, and his servant he had beenmore than willing to be. When Loristan had said he should be hisaide-de-camp, he had felt his trust lifted to a military dignity whichuplifted him with it. As his aide-de-camp he must serve him, watch him, obey his lightest wish, make everything easy for him. Sometimes, Marcowas troubled by the way in which he insisted on serving him, this queer, once dictatorial and cantankerous lad who had begun by throwing stonesat him. 

"You must not wait on me, " he said to him. "I must wait upon myself. "

The Rat rather flushed. 

"He told me that he would let me come with you as your aide-de camp, " hesaid. "It--it's part of the game. It makes things easier if we keep upthe game. "

It would have attracted attention if they had spent too much time in thevicinity of the big house. So it happened that the next afternoon thegreat lady evidently drove out at an hour when they were not watchingfor her. They were on their way to try if they could carry out theirplan, when, as they walked together along the Rue Royale, The Ratsuddenly touched Marco's elbow. 

"The carriage stands before the shop with lace in the windows, " hewhispered hurriedly. 

Marco saw and recognized it at once. The owner had evidently gone intothe shop to buy something. This was a better chance than they had hopedfor, and, when they approached the carriage itself, they saw that therewas another point in their favor. Inside were no less than threebeautiful little Pekingese spaniels that looked exactly alike. They wereall trying to look out of the window and were pushing against eachother. They were so perfect and so pretty that few people passed bywithout looking at them. What better excuse could two boys have forlingering about a place?

They stopped and, standing a little distance away, began to look at anddiscuss them and laugh at their excited little antics. Through theshop-window Marco caught a glimpse of the great lady. 

"She does not look much interested. She won't stay long, " he whispered, and added aloud, "that little one is the master. See how he pushes theothers aside! He is stronger than the other two, though he is so small. "

"He can snap, too, " said The Rat. 

"She is coming now, " warned Marco, and then laughed aloud as if at thePekingese, which, catching sight of their mistress at the shop-door, began to leap and yelp for joy. 

Their mistress herself smiled, and was smiling as Marco drew near her. 

"May we look at them, Madame?" he said in French, and, as she made anamiable gesture of acquiescence and moved toward the carriage with him, he spoke a few words, very low but very distinctly, in Russian. 

"The Lamp is lighted, " he said. 

The Rat was looking at her keenly, but he did not see her face change atall. What he noticed most throughout their journey was that each personto whom they gave the Sign had complete control over his or hercountenance, if there were bystanders, and never betrayed by any changeof expression that the words meant anything unusual. 

The great lady merely went on smiling, and spoke only of the dogs, allowing Marco and himself to look at them through the window of thecarriage as the footman opened the door for her to enter. 

"They are beautiful little creatures, " Marco said, lifting his cap, and, as the footman turned away, he uttered his few Russian words once moreand moved off without even glancing at the lady again. 

"That is _one_!" he said to The Rat that night before they went to sleep, and with a match he burned the scraps of the sketch he had torn and putinto his pocket. 

XX

MARCO GOES TO THE OPERA

Their next journey was to Munich, but the night before they left Parisan unexpected thing happened. 

To reach the narrow staircase which led to their bedroom it wasnecessary to pass through the baker's shop itself. 

The baker's wife was a friendly woman who liked the two boy lodgers whowere so quiet and gave no trouble. More than once she had given them ahot roll or so or a freshly baked little tartlet with fruit in thecenter. When Marco came in this evening, she greeted him with a nod andhanded him a small parcel as he passed through. 

"This was left for you this afternoon, " she said. "I see you are makingpurchases for your journey. My man and I are very sorry you are going. "

"Thank you, Madame. We also are sorry, " Marco answered, taking theparcel. "They are not large purchases, you see. "

But neither he nor The Rat had bought anything at all, though theordinary-looking little package was plainly addressed to him and borethe name of one of the big cheap shops. It felt as if it containedsomething soft. 

When he reached their bedroom, The Rat was gazing out of the windowwatching every living thing which passed in the street below. He who hadnever seen anything but London was absorbed by the spell of Paris andwas learning it by heart. 

"Something has been sent to us. Look at this, " said Marco. 

The Rat was at his side at once. "What is it? Where did it come from?"

They opened the package and at first sight saw only several pairs ofquite common woolen socks. As Marco took up the sock in the middle ofthe parcel, he felt that there was something inside it--something laidflat and carefully. He put his hand in and drew out a number offive-franc notes--not new ones, because new ones would have betrayedthemselves by crackling. These were old enough to be soft. But therewere enough of them to amount to a substantial sum. 

"It is in small notes because poor boys would have only small ones. Noone will be surprised when we change these, " The Rat said. 

Each of them believed the package had been sent by the great lady, butit had been done so carefully that not the slightest clue was furnished. 

To The Rat, part of the deep excitement of "the Game" was the workingout of the plans and methods of each person concerned. He could not haveslept without working out some scheme which might have been used in thiscase. It thrilled him to contemplate the difficulties the great ladymight have found herself obliged to overcome. 

"Perhaps, " he said, after thinking it over for some time, "she went to abig common shop dressed as if she were an ordinary woman and bought thesocks and pretended she was going to carry them home herself. She woulddo that so that she could take them into some corner and slip the moneyin. Then, as she wanted to have them sent from the shop, perhaps shebought some other things and asked the people to deliver the packages todifferent places. The socks were sent to us and the other things to someone else. She would go to a shop where no one knew her and no one wouldexpect to see her and she would wear clothes which looked neither richnor too poor. "

He created the whole episode with all its details and explained them toMarco. It fascinated him for the entire evening and he felt relievedafter it and slept well. 

Even before they had left London, certain newspapers had swept out ofexistence the story of the descendant of the Lost Prince. This had beendone by derision and light handling--by treating it as a romanticlegend. 

At first, The Rat had resented this bitterly, but one day at a meal, when he had been producing arguments to prove that the story must be atrue one, Loristan somehow checked him by his own silence. 

"If there is such a man, " he said after a pause, "it is well for himthat his existence should not be believed in--for some time at least. "

The Rat came to a dead stop. He felt hot for a moment and then feltcold. He saw a new idea all at once. He had been making a mistake intactics. 

No more was said but, when they were alone afterwards, he poured himselfforth to Marco. 

"I was a fool!" he cried out. "Why couldn't I see it for myself! ShallI tell you what I believe has been done? There is some one who hasinfluence in England and who is a friend to Samavia. They've got thenewspapers to make fun of the story so that it won't be believed. If itwas believed, both the Iarovitch and the Maranovitch would be on thelookout, and the Secret Party would lose their chances. What a fool Iwas not to think of it! There's some one watching and working here whois a friend to Samavia. "

"But there is some one in Samavia who has begun to suspect that it mightbe true, " Marco answered. "If there were not, I should not have beenshut in the cellar. Some one thought my father knew something. The spieshad orders to find out what it was. "

"Yes. Yes. That's true, too!" The Rat answered anxiously. "We shall haveto be very careful. "

In the lining of the sleeve of Marco's coat there was a slit into whichhe could slip any small thing he wished to conceal and also wished to beable to reach without trouble. In this he had carried the sketch of thelady which he had torn up in Paris. When they walked in the streets ofMunich, the morning after their arrival, he carried still anothersketch. It was the one picturing the genial-looking old aristocrat withthe sly smile. 

One of the things they had learned about this one was that his chiefcharacteristic was his passion for music. He was a patron of musiciansand he spent much time in Munich because he loved its musical atmosphereand the earnestness of its opera-goers. 

"The military band plays in the Feldherrn-halle at midday. Whensomething very good is being played, sometimes people stop theircarriages so that they can listen. We will go there, " said Marco. 

"It's a chance, " said The Rat. "We mustn't lose anything like a chance. "

The day was brilliant and sunny, the people passing through the streetslooked comfortable and homely, the mixture of old streets and modernones, of ancient corners and shops and houses of the day was picturesqueand cheerful. The Rat swinging through the crowd on his crutches wasfull of interest and exhilaration. He had begun to grow, and the changein his face and expression which had begun in London had become morenoticeable. He had been given his "place, " and a work to do whichentitled him to hold it. 

No one could have suspected them of carrying a strange and vital secretwith them as they strolled along together. They seemed only two ordinaryboys who looked in at shop windows and talked over their contents, andwho loitered with upturned faces in the Marien-Platz before the ornateGothic Rathaus to hear the eleven o'clock chimes play and see thepainted figures of the King and Queen watch from their balcony thepassing before them of the automatic tournament procession with itstrumpeters and tilting knights. When the show was over and the automaticcock broke forth into his lusty farewell crow, they laughed just as anyother boys would have laughed. Sometimes it would have been easy for TheRat to forget that there was anything graver in the world than the newplaces and new wonders he was seeing, as if he were a wandering minstrelin a story. 

But in Samavia bloody battles were being fought, and bloody plans werebeing wrought out, and in anguished anxiety the Secret Party and theForgers of the Sword waited breathlessly for the Sign for which they hadwaited so long. And inside the lining of Marco's coat was hidden thesketched face, as the two unnoticed lads made their way to theFeldherrn-halle to hear the band play and see who might chance to beamong the audience. 

Because the day was sunny, and also because the band was playing aspecially fine programme, the crowd in the square was larger than usual. Several vehicles had stopped, and among them were one or two which werenot merely hired cabs but were the carriages of private persons. 

One of them had evidently arrived early, as it was drawn up in a goodposition when the boys reached the corner. It was a big open carriageand a grand one, luxuriously upholstered in green. The footman andcoachman wore green and silver liveries and seemed to know that peoplewere looking at them and their master. 

He was a stout, genial-looking old aristocrat with a sly smile, though, as he listened to the music, it almost forgot to be sly. In the carriagewith him were a young officer and a little boy, and they also listenedattentively. Standing near the carriage door were several people whowere plainly friends or acquaintances, as they occasionally spoke tohim. Marco touched The Rat's coat sleeve as the two boys approached. 

"It would not be easy to get near him, " he said. "Let us go and stand asclose to the carriage as we can get without pushing. Perhaps we may hearsome one say something about where he is going after the music is over. "

Yes, there was no mistaking him. He was the right man. Each of them knewby heart the creases on his stout face and the sweep of his graymoustache. But there was nothing noticeable in a boy looking for amoment at a piece of paper, and Marco sauntered a few steps to a bit ofspace left bare by the crowd and took a last glance at his sketch. Hisrule was to make sure at the final moment. The music was very good andthe group about the carriage was evidently enthusiastic. There was talkand praise and comment, and the old aristocrat nodded his headrepeatedly in applause. 

"The Chancellor is music mad, " a looker-on near the boys said toanother. "At the opera every night unless serious affairs keep him away!There you may see him nodding his old head and bursting his gloves withapplauding when a good thing is done. He ought to have led an orchestraor played a 'cello. He is too big for first violin. "

There was a group about the carriage to the last, when the music came toan end and it drove away. There had been no possible opportunity ofpassing close to it even had the presence of the young officer and theboy not presented an insurmountable obstacle. 

Marco and The Rat went on their way and passed by the Hof-Theater andread the bills. "Tristan and Isolde" was to be presented at night and agreat singer would sing _Isolde_. 

"He will go to hear that, " both boys said at once. "He will be sure togo. "

It was decided between them that Marco should go on his quest alone whennight came. One boy who hung around the entrance of the Opera would beobserved less than two. 

"People notice crutches more than they notice legs, " The Rat said. "I'dbetter keep out of the way unless you need me. My time hasn't come yet. Even if it doesn't come at all I've--I've been on duty. I've gone withyou and I've been ready--that's what an aide-de-camp does. "

He stayed at home and read such English papers as he could lay hands onand he drew plans and re-fought battles on paper. 

Marco went to the opera. Even if he had not known his way to the squarenear the place where the Hof-Theater stood, he could easily have foundit by following the groups of people in the streets who all seemedwalking in one direction. There were students in their odd caps walkingthree or four abreast, there were young couples and older ones, and hereand there whole families; there were soldiers of all ages, officers andprivates; and, when talk was to be heard in passing, it was always talkabout music. 

For some time Marco waited in the square and watched the carriages rollup and pass under the huge pillared portico to deposit their contents atthe entrance and at once drive away in orderly sequence. He must makesure that the grand carriage with the green and silver liveries rolledup with the rest. If it came, he would buy a cheap ticket and go inside. 

It was rather late when it arrived. People in Munich are not late forthe opera if it can be helped, and the coachman drove up hurriedly. Thegreen and silver footman leaped to the ground and opened the carriagedoor almost before it stopped. The Chancellor got out looking lessgenial than usual because he was afraid that he might lose some of theoverture. A rosy-cheeked girl in a white frock was with him and she wasevidently trying to soothe him. 

"I do not think we are really late, Father, " she said. "Don't feelcross, dear. It will spoil the music for you. "

This was not a time in which a man's attention could be attractedquietly. Marco ran to get the ticket which would give him a place amongthe rows of young soldiers, artists, male and female students, andmusicians who were willing to stand four or five deep throughout theperformance of even the longest opera. He knew that, unless they were inone of the few boxes which belonged only to the court, the Chancellorand his rosy-cheeked daughter would be in the best seats in the frontcurve of the balcony which were the most desirable of the house. He soonsaw them. They had secured the central places directly below the largeroyal box where two quiet princesses and their attendants were alreadyseated. 

When he found he was not too late to hear the overture, the Chancellor'sface become more genial than ever. He settled himself down to an eveningof enjoyment and evidently forgot everything else in the world. Marcodid not lose sight of him. When the audience went out between acts topromenade in the corridors, he might go also and there might be a chanceto pass near to him in the crowd. He watched him closely. Sometimes hisfine old face saddened at the beautiful woe of the music, sometimes itlooked enraptured, and it was always evident that every note reached hissoul. 

The pretty daughter who sat beside him was attentive but not soenthralled. After the first act two glittering young officers appearedand made elegant and low bows, drawing their heels together as theykissed her hand. They looked sorry when they were obliged to return totheir seats again. 

After the second act the Chancellor sat for a few minutes as if he werein a dream. The people in the seats near him began to rise from theirseats and file out into the corridors. The young officers were to beseen rising also. The rosy daughter leaned forward and touched herfather's arm gently. 

"She wants him to take her out, " Marco thought. "He will take herbecause he is good-natured. "

He saw him recall himself from his dream with a smile and then he roseand, after helping to arrange a silvery blue scarf round the girl'sshoulders, gave her his arm just as Marco skipped out of his fourth-rowstanding-place. 

It was a rather warm night and the corridors were full. By the timeMarco had reached the balcony floor, the pair had issued from the littledoor and were temporarily lost in the moving numbers. 

Marco quietly made his way among the crowd trying to look as if hebelonged to somebody. Once or twice his strong body and his dense blackeyes and lashes made people glance at him, but he was not the only boywho had been brought to the opera so he felt safe enough to stop at thefoot of the stairs and watch those who went up and those who passed by. Such a miscellaneous crowd as it was made up of--good unfashionablemusic-lovers mixed here and there with grand people of the court and thegay world. 

Suddenly he heard a low laugh and a moment later a hand lightly touchedhim. 

"You _did_ get out, then?" a soft voice said. 

When he turned he felt his muscles stiffen. He ceased to slouch and didnot smile as he looked at the speaker. What he felt was a wave of fierceand haughty anger. It swept over him before he had time to control it. 

A lovely person who seemed swathed in several shades of soft violetdrapery was smiling at him with long, lovely eyes. 

It was the woman who had trapped him into No. 10 Brandon Terrace. 

XXI

"HELP!"

Did it take you so long to find it? asked the Lovely Person with thesmile. "Of course I knew you would find it in the end. But we had togive ourselves time. How long did it take?"

Marco removed himself from beneath the touch of her hand. It was quietlydone, but there was a disdain in his young face which made her wincethough she pretended to shrug her shoulders amusedly. 

"You refuse to answer?" she laughed. 

"I refuse. "

At that very moment he saw at the curve of the corridor the Chancellorand his daughter approaching slowly. The two young officers were talkinggaily to the girl. They were on their way back to their box. Was hegoing to lose them? Was he?

The delicate hand was laid on his shoulder again, but this time he feltthat it grasped him firmly. 

"Naughty boy!" the soft voice said. "I am going to take you home withme. If you struggle I shall tell these people that you are my bad boywho is here without permission. What will you answer? My escort iscoming down the staircase and will help me. Do you see?" And in factthere appeared in the crowd at the head of the staircase the figure ofthe man he remembered. 

He did see. A dampness broke out on the palms of his hands. If she didthis bold thing, what could he say to those she told her lie to? Howcould he bring proof or explain who he was--and what story dare he tell?His protestations and struggles would merely amuse the lookers-on, whowould see in them only the impotent rage of an insubordinate youngster. 

There swept over him a wave of remembrance which brought back, as if hewere living through it again, the moment when he had stood in thedarkness of the wine cellar with his back against the door and heard theman walk away and leave him alone. He felt again as he had donethen--but now he was in another land and far away from his father. Hecould do nothing to help himself unless Something showed him a way. 

He made no sound, and the woman who held him saw only a flame leap underhis dense black lashes. 

But something within him called out. It was as if he heard it. It wasthat strong self--the self that was Marco, and it called--it called asif it shouted. 

"Help!" it called--to that Unknown Stranger Thing which had made worldsand which he and his father so often talked of and in whose power theyso believed. "Help!"

The Chancellor was drawing nearer. Perhaps! Should he--?

"You are too proud to kick and shout, " the voice went on. "And peoplewould only laugh. Do you see?"

The stairs were crowded and the man who was at the head of them couldonly move slowly. But he had seen the boy. 

Marco turned so that he could face his captor squarely as if he weregoing to say something in answer to her. But he was not. 

Even as he made the movement of turning, the help he had called for cameand he knew what he should do. And he could do two things at once--savehimself and give his Sign--because, the Sign once given, the Chancellorwould understand. 

"He will be here in a moment. He has recognized you, " the woman said. 

As he glanced up the stairs, the delicate grip of her hand unconsciouslyslackened. 

Marco whirled away from her. The bell rang which was to warn theaudience that they must return to their seats and he saw the Chancellorhasten his pace. 

A moment later, the old aristocrat found himself amazedly looking downat the pale face of a breathless lad who spoke to him in German and insuch a manner that he could not but pause and listen. 

"Sir, " he was saying, "the woman in violet at the foot of the stairs isa spy. She trapped me once and she threatens to do it again. Sir, may Ibeg you to protect me?"

He said it low and fast. No one else could hear his words. 

"What! What!" the Chancellor exclaimed. 

And then, drawing a step nearer and quite as low and rapidly but withperfect distinctness, Marco uttered four words:

"The Lamp is lighted. "

The Help cry had been answered instantly. Marco saw it at once in theold man's eyes, notwithstanding that he turned to look at the woman atthe foot of the staircase as if she only concerned him. 

"What! What!" he said again, and made a movement toward her, pulling hislarge moustache with a fierce hand. 

Then Marco recognized that a curious thing happened. The Lovely Personsaw the movement and the gray moustache, and that instant her smile diedaway and she turned quite white--so white, that under the brilliantelectric light she was almost green and scarcely looked lovely at all. She made a sign to the man on the staircase and slipped through thecrowd like an eel. She was a slim flexible creature and never was adisappearance more wonderful in its rapidity. Between stout matrons andtheir thin or stout escorts and families she made her way and lostherself--but always making toward the exit. In two minutes there was nosight of her violet draperies to be seen. She was gone and so, evidently, was her male companion. 

It was plain to Marco that to follow the profession of a spy was not byany means a safe thing. The Chancellor had recognized her--she hadrecognized the Chancellor who turned looking ferociously angry and spoketo one of the young officers. 

"She and the man with her are two of the most dangerous spies in Europe, She is a Rumanian and he is a Russian. What they wanted of this innocentlad I don't pretend to know. What did she threaten?" to Marco. 

Marco was feeling rather cold and sick and had lost his healthy colorfor the moment. 

"She said she meant to take me home with her and would pretend I was herson who had come here without permission, " he answered. "She believes Iknow something I do not. " He made a hesitating but grateful bow. "Thethird act, sir--I must not keep you. Thank you! Thank you!"

The Chancellor moved toward the entrance door of the balcony seats, buthe did it with his hand on Marco's shoulder. 

"See that he gets home safely, " he said to the younger of the twoofficers. "Send a messenger with him. He's young to be attacked bycreatures of that kind. "

Polite young officers naturally obey the commands of Chancellors andsuch dignitaries. This one found without trouble a young private whomarched with Marco through the deserted streets to his lodgings. He wasa stolid young Bavarian peasant and seemed to have no curiosity or evenany interest in the reason for the command given him. He was in factthinking of his sweetheart who lived near Konigsee and who had skatedwith him on the frozen lake last winter. He scarcely gave a glance tothe schoolboy he was to escort, he neither knew nor wondered why. 

The Rat had fallen asleep over his papers and lay with his head on hisfolded arms on the table. But he was awakened by Marco's coming into theroom and sat up blinking his eyes in the effort to get them open. 

"Did you see him? Did you get near enough?" he drowsed. 

"Yes, " Marco answered. "I got near enough. "

The Rat sat upright suddenly. 

"It's not been easy, " he exclaimed. "I'm sure somethinghappened--something went wrong. "

"Something nearly went wrong--_very_ nearly, " answered Marco. But as hespoke he took the sketch of the Chancellor out of the slit in his sleeveand tore it and burned it with a match. "But I did get near enough. Andthat's _two_. "

 * * * * *

They talked long, before they went to sleep that night. The Rat grewpale as he listened to the story of the woman in violet. 

"I ought to have gone with you!" he said. "I see now. An aide-de-campmust always be in attendance. It would have been harder for her tomanage two than one. I must always be near to watch, even if I am notclose by you. If you had not come back--if you had not come back!" Hestruck his clenched hands together fiercely. "What should I have done!"

When Marco turned toward him from the table near which he was standing, he looked like his father. 

"You would have gone on with the Game just as far as you could, " hesaid. "You could not leave it. You remember the places, and the faces, and the Sign. There is some money; and when it was all gone, you couldhave begged, as we used to pretend we should. We have not had to do ityet; and it was best to save it for country places and villages. But youcould have done it if you were obliged to. The Game would have to goon. "

The Rat caught at his thin chest as if he had been struck breathless. 

"Without you?" he gasped. "Without you?"

"Yes, " said Marco. "And we must think of it, and plan in case anythinglike that should happen. "

He stopped himself quite suddenly, and sat down, looking straight beforehim, as if at some far away thing he saw. 

"Nothing will happen, " he said. "Nothing can. "

"What are you thinking of?" The Rat gulped, because his breath had notquite come back. "Why will nothing happen?"

"Because--" the boy spoke in an almost matter-of-fact tone--in quite anunexalted tone at all events, "you see I can always make a strong call, as I did tonight. "

"Did you shout?" The Rat asked. "I didn't know you shouted. "

"I didn't. I said nothing aloud. But I--the myself that is in me, " Marcotouched himself on the breast, "called out, 'Help! Help!' with all itsstrength. And help came. "

The Rat regarded him dubiously. 

"What did it call to?" he asked. 

"To the Power--to the Strength-place--to the Thought that does things. The Buddhist hermit, who told my father about it, called it 'The Thoughtthat thought the World. '"

A reluctant suspicion betrayed itself in The Rat's eyes. 

"Do you mean you prayed?" he inquired, with a slight touch of disfavor. 

Marco's eyes remained fixed upon him in vague thoughtfulness for amoment or so of pause. 

"I don't know, " he said at last. "Perhaps it's the same thing--when youneed something so much that you cry out loud for it. But it's not words, it's a strong thing without a name. I called like that when I was shutin the wine-cellar. I remembered some of the things the old Buddhisttold my father. "

The Rat moved restlessly. 

"The help came that time, " he admitted. "How did it come to-night?"

"In that thought which flashed into my mind almost the next second. Itcame like lightning. All at once I knew if I ran to the Chancellor andsaid the woman was a spy, it would startle him into listening to me; andthat then I could give him the Sign; and that when I gave him the Sign, he would know I was speaking the truth and would protect me. "

"It was a splendid thought!" The Rat said. "And it was quick. But it wasyou who thought of it. "

"All thinking is part of the Big Thought, " said Marco slowly. "It_knows_--It _knows_. And the outside part of us somehow broke the chainthat linked us to It. And we are always trying to mend the chain, without knowing it. That is what our thinking is--trying to mend thechain. But we shall find out how to do it sometime. The old Buddhisttold my father so--just as the sun was rising from behind a high peak ofthe Himalayas. " Then he added hastily, "I am only telling you what myfather told me, and he only told me what the old hermit told him. "

"Does your father believe what he told him?" The Rat's bewilderment hadbecome an eager and restless thing. 

"Yes, he believes it. He always thought something like it, himself. Thatis why he is so calm and knows so well how to wait. "

"Is _that_ it!" breathed The Rat. "Is that why? Has--has he mended thechain?" And there was awe in his voice, because of this one man to whomhe felt any achievement was possible. 

"I believe he has, " said Marco. "Don't you think so yourself?"

"He has done something, " The Rat said. 

He seemed to be thinking things over before he spoke again--and theneven more slowly than Marco. 

"If he could mend the chain, " he said almost in a whisper, "he couldfind out where the descendant of the Lost Prince is. He would know whatto do for Samavia!"

He ended the words with a start, and his whole face glowed with a new, amazed light. 

"Perhaps he does know!" he cried. "If the help comes like thoughts--asyours did--perhaps his thought of letting us give the Sign was part ofit. We--just we two every-day boys--are part of it!"

"The old Buddhist said--" began Marco. 

"Look here!" broke in The Rat. "Tell me the whole story. I want to hearit. "

It was because Loristan had heard it, and listened and believed, thatThe Rat had taken fire. His imagination seized upon the idea, as itwould have seized on some theory of necromancy proved true and workable. 

With his elbows on the table and his hands in his hair, he leanedforward, twisting a lock with restless fingers. His breath quickened. 

"Tell it, " he said, "I want to hear it all!"

"I shall have to tell it in my own words, " Marco said. "And it won't beas wonderful as it was when my father told it to me. This is what Iremember:

"My father had gone through much pain and trouble. A great load was uponhim, and he had been told he was going to die before his work was done. He had gone to India, because a man he was obliged to speak to had gonethere to hunt, and no one knew when he would return. My father followedhim for months from one wild place to another, and, when he found him, the man would not hear or believe what he had come so far to say. Thenhe had jungle-fever and almost died. Once the natives left him for deadin a bungalow in the forest, and he heard the jackals howling round himall the night. Through all the hours he was only alive enough to beconscious of two things--all the rest of him seemed gone from his body:his thought knew that his work was unfinished--and his body heard thejackals howl!"

"Was the work for Samavia?" The Rat put in quickly. "If he had died thatnight, the descendant of the Lost Prince never would have beenfound--never!" The Rat bit his lip so hard that a drop of blood startedfrom it. 

"When he was slowly coming alive again, a native, who had gone back andstayed to wait upon him, told him that near the summit of a mountain, about fifty miles away, there was a ledge which jutted out into spaceand hung over the valley, which was thousands of feet below. On theledge there was a hut in which there lived an ancient Buddhist, who wasa holy man, as they called him, and who had been there during time whichhad not been measured. They said that their grandparents andgreat-grandparents had known of him, though very few persons had everseen him. It was told that the most savage beast was tame before him. They said that a man-eating tiger would stop to salute him, and that athirsty lioness would bring her whelps to drink at the spring near hishut. "

"That was a lie, " said The Rat promptly. 

Marco neither laughed nor frowned. 

"How do we _know_?" he said. "It was a native's story, and it might beanything. My father neither said it was true nor false. He listened toall that was told him by natives. They said that the holy man was thebrother of the stars. He knew all things past and to come, and couldheal the sick. But most people, especially those who had sinfulthoughts, were afraid to go near him. "

"I'd like to have seen--" The Rat pondered aloud, but he did not finish. 

"Before my father was well, he had made up his mind to travel to theledge if he could. He felt as if he must go. He thought that if he weregoing to die, the hermit might tell him some wise thing to do forSamavia. "

"He might have given him a message to leave to the Secret Ones, " saidThe Rat. 

"He was so weak when he set out on his journey that he wondered if hewould reach the end of it. Part of the way he traveled by bullock cart, and part, he was carried by natives. But at last the bearers came to aplace more than halfway up the mountain, and would go no further. Thenthey went back and left him to climb the rest of the way himself. Theyhad traveled slowly and he had got more strength, but he was weak yet. The forest was more wonderful than anything he had ever seen. There weretropical trees with foliage like lace, and some with huge leaves, andsome of them seemed to reach the sky. Sometimes he could barely seegleams of blue through them. And vines swung down from their highbranches, and caught each other, and matted together; and there were hotscents, and strange flowers, and dazzling birds darting about, and thickmoss, and little cascades bursting out. The path grew narrower andsteeper, and the flower scents and the sultriness made it like walkingin a hothouse. He heard rustlings in the undergrowth, which might havebeen made by any kind of wild animal; once he stepped across a deadlysnake without seeing it. But it was asleep and did not hurt him. He knewthe natives had been convinced that he would not reach the ledge; butfor some strange reason he believed he should. He stopped and restedmany times, and he drank some milk he had brought in a canteen. Thehigher he climbed, the more wonderful everything was, and a strangefeeling began to fill him. He said his body stopped being tired andbegan to feel very light. And his load lifted itself from his heart, asif it were not his load any more but belonged to something stronger. Even Samavia seemed to be safe. As he went higher and higher, and lookeddown the abyss at the world below, it appeared as if it were not realbut only a dream he had wakened from--only a dream. "

The Rat moved restlessly. 

"Perhaps he was light-headed with the fever, " he suggested. 

"The fever had left him, and the weakness had left him, " Marco answered. "It seemed as if he had never really been ill at all--as if no onecould be ill, because things like that were only dreams, just as theworld was. "

"I wish I'd been with him! Perhaps I could have thrown these away--downinto the abyss!" And The Rat shook his crutches which rested against thetable. "I feel as if I was climbing, too. Go on. "

Marco had become more absorbed than The Rat. He had lost himself in thememory of the story. 

"I felt that _I_ was climbing, when he told me, " he said. "I felt as ifI were breathing in the hot flower-scents and pushing aside the bigleaves and giant ferns. There had been a rain, and they were wet andshining with big drops, like jewels, that showered over him as he thrusthis way through and under them. And the stillness and the height--thestillness and the height! I can't make it real to you as he made it tome! I can't! I was there. He took me. And it was so high--and sostill--and so beautiful that I could scarcely bear it. "

But the truth was, that with some vivid boy-touch he had carried hishearer far. The Rat was deadly quiet. Even his eyes had not moved. Hespoke almost as if he were in a sort of trance. "It's real, " he said. "I'm there now. As high as you--go on--go on. I want to climb higher. "

And Marco, understanding, went on. 

"The day was over and the stars were out when he reached the place werethe ledge was. He said he thought that during the last part of the climbhe never looked on the earth at all. The stars were so immense that hecould not look away from them. They seemed to be drawing him up. And alloverhead was like violet velvet, and they hung there like great lamps ofradiance. Can you see them? You must see them. My father saw them allnight long. They were part of the wonder. "

"I see them, " The Rat answered, still in his trance-like voice andwithout stirring, and Marco knew he did. 

"And there, with the huge stars watching it, was the hut on the ledge. And there was no one there. The door was open. And outside it was a lowbench and table of stone. And on the table was a meal of dates and rice, waiting. Not far from the hut was a deep spring, which ran away in aclear brook. My father drank and bathed his face there. Then he went outon the ledge, and sat down and waited, with his face turned up to thestars. He did not lie down, and he thought he saw the stars all the timehe waited. He was sure he did not sleep. He did not know how long he satthere alone. But at last he drew his eyes from the stars, as if he hadbeen commanded to do it. And he was not alone any more. A yard or soaway from him sat the holy man. He knew it was the hermit because hiseyes were different from any human eyes he had ever beheld. They were asstill as the night was, and as deep as the shadows covering the worldthousands of feet below, and they had a far, far look, and a strangelight was in them. "

"What did he say?" asked The Rat hoarsely. 

"He only said, 'Rise, my son. I awaited thee. Go and eat the food Iprepared for thee, and then we will speak together. ' He didn't move orspeak again until my father had eaten the meal. He only sat on the mossand let his eyes rest on the shadows over the abyss. When my father wentback, he made a gesture which meant that he should sit near him. 

"Then he sat still for several minutes, and let his eyes rest on myfather, until he felt as if the light in them were set in the midst ofhis own body and his soul. Then he said, 'I cannot tell thee all thouwouldst know. That I may not do. ' He had a wonderful gentle voice, likea deep soft bell. 'But the work will be done. Thy life and thy son'slife will set it on its way. '

"They sat through the whole night together. And the stars hung quitenear, as if they listened. And there were sounds in the bushes ofstealthy, padding feet which wandered about as if the owners of themlistened too. And the wonderful, low, peaceful voice of the holy manwent on and on, telling of wonders which seemed like miracles but whichwere to him only the 'working of the Law. '"

"What is the Law?" The Rat broke in. 

"There were two my father wrote down, and I learned them. The first wasthe law of The One. I'll try to say that, " and he covered his eyes andwaited through a moment of silence. 

It seemed to The Rat as if the room held an extraordinary stillness. 

"Listen!" came next. "This is it:

"'_There are a myriad worlds. There is but One Thought out of which theygrew. Its Law is Order which cannot swerve. Its creatures are free tochoose. Only they can create Disorder, which in itself is Pain and Woeand Hate and Fear. These they alone can bring forth. The Great One is aGolden Light. It is not remote but near. Hold thyself within its glowand thou wilt behold all things clearly. First, with all thy breathingbeing, know one thing! That thine own thought--when so thou standest--isone with That which thought the Worlds!_'"

"What?" gasped The Rat. "_My_ thought--the things _I_ think!"

"Your thoughts--boys' thoughts--anybody's thoughts. "

"You're giving me the jim-jams!"

"He said it, " answered Marco. "And it was then he spoke about the brokenLink--and about the greatest books in the world--that in all theirdifferent ways, they were only saying over and over again one thingthousands of times. Just this thing--'Hate not, Fear not, Love. ' And hesaid that was Order. And when it was disturbed, suffering came--povertyand misery and catastrophe and wars. "

"Wars!" The Rat said sharply. "The World couldn't do without war--andarmies and defences! What about Samavia?"

"My father asked him that. And this is what he answered. I learned thattoo. Let me think again, " and he waited as he had waited before. Then helifted his head. "Listen! This is it:

"_'Out of the blackness of Disorder and its outpouring of human misery, there will arise the Order which is Peace. When Man learns that he isone with the Thought which itself creates all beauty, all power, allsplendor, and all repose, he will not fear that his brother can rob himof his heart's desire. He will stand in the Light and draw to himselfhis own. '_"

"Draw to himself?" The Rat said. "Draw what he wants? I don't believeit!"

"Nobody does, " said Marco. "We don't know. He said we stood in the darkof the night--without stars--and did not know that the broken chainswung just above us. "

"I don't believe it!" said The Rat. "It's too big!"

Marco did not say whether he believed it or not. He only went onspeaking. 

"My father listened until he felt as if he had stopped breathing. Justat the stillest of the stillness the Buddhist stopped speaking. Andthere was a rustling of the undergrowth a few yards away, as ifsomething big was pushing its way through--and there was the soft pad offeet. The Buddhist turned his head and my father heard him say softly:'Come forth, Sister. '

"And a huge leopardess with two cubs walked out on to the ledge and cameto him and threw herself down with a heavy lunge near his feet. "

"Your father saw that!" cried out The Rat. "You mean the old fellow knewsomething that made wild beasts afraid to touch him or any one nearhim?"

"Not afraid. They knew he was their brother, and that he was one withthe Law. He had lived so long with the Great Thought that all darknessand fear had left him forever. He had mended the Chain. "

The Rat had reached deep waters. He leaned forward--his hands burrowingin his hair, his face scowling and twisted, his eyes boring into space. He had climbed to the ledge at the mountain-top; he had seen theluminous immensity of the stars, and he had looked down into the shadowsfilling the world thousands of feet below. Was there some remote deep inhim from whose darkness a slow light was rising? All that Loristan hadsaid he knew must be true. But the rest of it--?

Marco got up and came over to him. He looked like his father again. 

"If the descendant of the Lost Prince is brought back to rule Samavia, he will teach his people the Law of the One. It was for that the holyman taught my father until the dawn came. "

"Who will--who will teach the Lost Prince--the new King--when he isfound?" The Rat cried. "Who will teach him?"

"The hermit said my father would. He said he would also teach hisson--and that son would teach his son--and he would teach his. Andthrough such as they were, the whole world would come to know the Orderand the Law. "

Never had The Rat looked so strange and fierce a thing. A whole world atpeace! No tactics--no battles--no slaughtered heroes--no clash of arms, and fame! It made him feel sick. And yet--something set his chestheaving. 

"And your father would teach him that--when he was found! So that hecould teach his sons. Your father _believes_ in it?"

"Yes, " Marco answered. He said nothing but "Yes. " The Rat threw himselfforward on the table, face downward. 

"Then, " he said, "he must make me believe it. He must teach me--if hecan. "

They heard a clumping step upon the staircase, and, when it reached thelanding, it stopped at their door. Then there was a solid knock. 

When Marco opened the door, the young soldier who had escorted him fromthe Hof-Theater was standing outside. He looked as uninterested andstolid as before, as he handed in a small flat package. 

"You must have dropped it near your seat at the Opera, " he said. "I wasto give it into your own hands. It is your purse. "

After he had clumped down the staircase again, Marco and The Rat drew aquick breath at one and the same time. 

"I had no seat and I had no purse, " Marco said. "Let us open it. "

There was a flat limp leather note-holder inside. In it was a paper, atthe head of which were photographs of the Lovely Person and hercompanion. Beneath were a few lines which stated that they were the wellknown spies, Eugenia Karovna and Paul Varel, and that the bearer must beprotected against them. It was signed by the Chief of the Police. On aseparate sheet was written the command: "Carry this with you asprotection. "

"That is help, " The Rat said. "It would protect us, even in anothercountry. The Chancellor sent it--but you made the strong call--and it'shere!"

There was no street lamp to shine into their windows when they went atlast to bed. When the blind was drawn up, they were nearer the sky thanthey had been in the Marylebone Road. The last thing each of them saw, as he went to sleep, was the stars--and in their dreams, they saw themgrow larger and larger, and hang like lamps of radiance against theviolet--velvet sky above a ledge of a Himalayan Mountain, where theylistened to the sound of a low voice going on and on and on. 

XXII

THE NIGHT VIGIL

On a hill in the midst of a great Austrian plain, around which high Alpswait watching through the ages stands a venerable fortress, almost morebeautiful than anything one has ever seen. Perhaps, if it were not forthe great plain flowering broadly about it with its wide-spread beautiesof meadow-land, and wood, and dim toned buildings gathered about farms, and its dream of a small ancient city at its feet, it might--though itis to be doubted--seem something less a marvel of medievalpicturesqueness. But out of the plain rises the low hill, andsurrounding it at a stately distance stands guard the giant majesty ofAlps, with shoulders in the clouds and god-like heads above them, looking on--always looking on--sometimes themselves ethereal clouds ofsnow-whiteness, some times monster bare crags which pierce the blue, andwhose unchanging silence seems to know the secret of the everlasting. And on the hill which this august circle holds in its embrace, as thoughit enclosed a treasure, stands the old, old, towered fortress built as acitadel for the Prince Archbishops, who were kings in their domain inthe long past centuries when the splendor and power of ecclesiasticalprinces was among the greatest upon earth. 

And as you approach the town--and as you leave it--and as you walkthrough its streets, the broad calm empty-looking ones, or the narrowthoroughfares whose houses seem so near to each other, whether you climbor descend--or cross bridges, or gaze at churches, or step out on yourbalcony at night to look at the mountains and the moon--always it seemsthat from some point you can see it gazing down at you--the citadel ofHohen-Salzburg. 

It was to Salzburg they went next, because at Salzburg was to be foundthe man who looked like a hair-dresser and who worked in a barber'sshop. Strange as it might seem, to him also must be carried the Sign. 

"There may be people who come to him to be shaved--soldiers, or men whoknow things, " The Rat worked it out, "and he can speak to them when heis standing close to them. It will be easy to get near him. You can goand have your hair cut. "

The journey from Munich was not a long one, and during the latter partof it they had the wooden-seated third-class carriage to themselves. Even the drowsy old peasant who nodded and slept in one corner got outwith his bundles at last. To Marco the mountains were long-known wonderswhich could never grow old. They had always and always been so old!Surely they had been the first of the world! Surely they had beenstanding there waiting when it was said "Let there be Light. " The Lighthad known it would find them there. They were so silent, and yet itseemed as if they said some amazing thing--something which would takeyour breath from you if you could hear it. And they never changed. Theclouds changed, they wreathed them, and hid them, and trailed down them, and poured out storm torrents on them, and thundered against them, anddarted forked lightnings round them. But the mountains stood thereafterwards as if such things had not been and were not in the world. Winds roared and tore at them, centuries passed over them--centuries ofmillions of lives, of changing of kingdoms and empires, of battles andworld-wide fame which grew and died and passed away; and templescrumbled, and kings' tombs were forgotten, and cities were buried andothers built over them after hundreds of years--and perhaps a few stonesfell from a mountain side, or a fissure was worn, which the people belowcould not even see. And that was all. There they stood, and perhapstheir secret was that they had been there for ever and ever. That waswhat the mountains said to Marco, which was why he did not want to talkmuch, but sat and gazed out of the carriage window. 

The Rat had been very silent all the morning. He had been silent whenthey got up, and he had scarcely spoken when they made their way to thestation at Munich and sat waiting for their train. It seemed to Marcothat he was thinking so hard that he was like a person who was far awayfrom the place he stood in. His brows were drawn together and his eyesdid not seem to see the people who passed by. Usually he saw everythingand made shrewd remarks on almost all he saw. But to-day he was somehowotherwise absorbed. He sat in the train with his forehead against thewindow and stared out. He moved and gasped when he found himself staringat the Alps, but afterwards he was even strangely still. It was notuntil after the sleepy old peasant had gathered his bundles and got outat a station that he spoke, and he did it without turning his head. 

"You only told me one of the two laws, " he said. "What was the otherone?"

Marco brought himself back from his dream of reaching the highestmountain-top and seeing clouds float beneath his feet in the sun. He hadto come back a long way. 

"Are you thinking of that? I wondered what you had been thinking of allthe morning, " he said. 

"I couldn't stop thinking of it. What was the second one?" said The Rat, but he did not turn his head. 

"It was called the Law of Earthly Living. It was for every day, " saidMarco. "It was for the ordering of common things--the small things wethink don't matter, as well as the big ones. I always remember that onewithout any trouble. This was it:

"_'Let pass through thy mind, my son, only the image thou wouldst desireto see become a truth. Meditate only upon the wish of thy heart--seeingfirst that it is such as can wrong no man and is not ignoble. Then willit take earthly form and draw near to thee. _

"_'This is the Law of That which Creates. '_"

Then The Rat turned round. He had a shrewdly reasoning mind. 

"That sounds as if you could get anything you wanted, if you think aboutit long enough and in the right way, " he said. "But perhaps it onlymeans that, if you do it, you'll be happy after you're dead. My fatherused to shout with laughing when he was drunk and talked about thingslike that and looked at his rags. "

He hugged his knees for a few minutes. He was remembering the rags, andthe fog-darkened room in the slums, and the loud, hideous laughter. 

"What if you want something that will harm somebody else?" he said next. "What if you hate some one and wish you could kill him?"

"That was one of the questions my father asked that night on the ledge. The holy man said people always asked it, " Marco answered. "This was theanswer:

"_'Let him who stretcheth forth his hand to draw the lightning to hisbrother recall that through his own soul and body will pass the bolt. '_"

"Wonder if there's anything in it?" The Rat pondered. "It'd make a chapcareful if he believed it! Revenging yourself on a man would be likeholding him against a live wire to kill him and getting all the voltsthrough yourself. "

A sudden anxiety revealed itself in his face. 

"Does your father believe it?" he asked. "Does he?"

"He knows it is true, " Marco said. 

"I'll own up, " The Rat decided after further reflection--"I'll own upI'm glad that there isn't any one left that I've a grudge against. Thereisn't any one--now. "

Then he fell again into silence and did not speak until their journeywas at an end. As they arrived early in the day, they had plenty of timeto wander about the marvelous little old city. But through the widestreets and through the narrow ones, under the archways into the marketgardens, across the bridge and into the square where the "glockenspiel"played its old tinkling tune, everywhere the Citadel looked down andalways The Rat walked on in his dream. 

They found the hair-dresser's shop in one of the narrow streets. Therewere no grand shops there, and this particular shop was a modest one. They walked past it once, and then went back. It was a shop so humblethat there was nothing remarkable in two common boys going into it tohave their hair cut. An old man came forward to receive them. He wasevidently glad of their modest patronage. He undertook to attend to TheRat himself, but, having arranged him in a chair, he turned about andcalled to some one in the back room. 

"Heinrich, " he said. 

In the slit in Marco's sleeve was the sketch of the man with smoothcurled hair, who looked like a hair-dresser. They had found a corner inwhich to take their final look at it before they turned back to come in. Heinrich, who came forth from the small back room, had smooth curledhair. He looked extremely like a hair-dresser. He had features likethose in the sketch--his nose and mouth and chin and figure were likewhat Marco had drawn and committed to memory. But--

He gave Marco a chair and tied the professional white covering aroundhis neck. Marco leaned back and closed his eyes a moment. 

"That is _not_ the man!" he was saying to himself. "He is _not_ the man. "

How he knew he was not, he could not have explained, but he felt sure. It was a strong conviction. But for the sudden feeling, nothing wouldhave been easier than to give the Sign. And if he could not give it now, where was the one to whom it must be spoken, and what would be theresult if that one could not be found? And if there were two who were somuch alike, how could he be sure?

Each owner of each of the pictured faces was a link in a powerful secretchain; and if a link were missed, the chain would be broken. Each timeHeinrich came within the line of his vision, he recorded every featureafresh and compared it with the remembered sketch. Each time theresemblance became more close, but each time some persistent innerconviction repeated, "No; the Sign is not for him!"

It was disturbing, also, to find that The Rat was all at once asrestless as he had previously been silent and preoccupied. He moved inhis chair, to the great discomfort of the old hair-dresser. He keptturning his head to talk. He asked Marco to translate divers questionshe wished him to ask the two men. They were questions about theCitadel--about the Monchsberg--the Residenz--the Glockenspiel--themountains. He added one query to another and could not sit still. 

"The young gentleman will get an ear snipped, " said the old man toMarco. "And it will not be my fault. "

"What shall I do?" Marco was thinking. "He is not the man. "

He did not give the Sign. He must go away and think it out, though wherehis thoughts would lead him he did not know. This was a more difficultproblem than he had ever dreamed of facing. There was no one to askadvice of. Only himself and The Rat, who was nervously wriggling andtwisting in his chair. 

"You must sit still, " he said to him. "The hair-dresser is afraid youwill make him cut you by accident. "

"But I want to know who lives at the Residenz?" said The Rat. "These mencan tell us things if you ask them. "

"It is done now, " said the old hair-dresser with a relieved air. "Perhaps the cutting of his hair makes the young gentleman nervous. Itis sometimes so. "

The Rat stood close to Marco's chair and asked questions until Heinrichalso had done his work. Marco could not understand his companion'schange of mood. He realized that, if he had wished to give the Sign, hehad been allowed no opportunity. He could not have given it. Therestless questioning had so directed the older man's attention to hisson and Marco that nothing could have been said to Heinrich without hisobserving it. 

"I could not have spoken if he had been the man, " Marco said to himself. 

Their very exit from the shop seemed a little hurried. When they werefairly in the street, The Rat made a clutch at Marco's arm. 

"You didn't give it?" he whispered breathlessly. "I kept talking andtalking to prevent you. "

Marco tried not to feel breathless, and he tried to speak in a low andlevel voice with no hint of exclamation in it. 

"Why did you say that?" he asked. 

The Rat drew closer to him. 

"That was not the man!" he whispered. "It doesn't matter how much helooks like him, he isn't the right one. "

He was pale and swinging along swiftly as if he were in a hurry. 

"Let's get into a quiet place, " he said. "Those queer things you've beentelling me have got hold of me. How did I know? How could I know--unlessit's because I've been trying to work that second law? I've been sayingto myself that we should be told the right things to do--for the Gameand for your father--and so that I could be the right sort ofaide-de-camp. I've been working at it, and, when he came out, I knew hewas not the man in spite of his looks. And I couldn't be sure you knew, and I thought, if I kept on talking and interrupting you with sillyquestions, you could be prevented from speaking. "

"There's a place not far away where we can get a look at the mountains. Let's go there and sit down, " said Marco. "I knew it was not the rightone, too. It's the Help over again. "

"Yes, it's the Help--it's the Help--it must be, " muttered The Rat, walking fast and with a pale, set face. "It could not be anything else. "

They got away from the streets and the people and reached the quietplace where they could see the mountains. There they sat down by thewayside. The Rat took off his cap and wiped his forehead, but it was notonly the quick walking which had made it damp. 

"The queerness of it gave me a kind of fright, " he said. "When he cameout and he was near enough for me to see him, a sudden strong feelingcame over me. It seemed as if I knew he wasn't the man. Then I said tomyself--'but he looks like him'--and I began to get nervous. And then Iwas sure again--and then I wanted to try to stop you from giving him theSign. And then it all seemed foolishness--and the next second all thethings you had told me rushed back to me at once--and I remembered whatI had been thinking ever since--and I said--'Perhaps it's the Lawbeginning to work, ' and the palms of my hands got moist. "

Marco was very quiet. He was looking at the farthest and highest peaksand wondering about many things. 

"It was the expression of his face that was different, " he said. "Andhis eyes. They are rather smaller than the right man's are. The light inthe shop was poor, and it was not until the last time he bent over methat I found out what I had not seen before. His eyes are gray--theother ones are brown. "

"Did you see that!" The Rat exclaimed. "Then we're sure! We're safe!"

"We're not safe till we've found the right man, " Marco said. "Where ishe? Where is he? Where is he?"

He said the words dreamily and quietly, as if he were lost inthought--but also rather as if he expected an answer. And he stilllooked at the far-off peaks. The Rat, after watching him a moment or so, began to look at them also. They were like a loadstone to him too. Therewas something stilling about them, and when your eyes had rested uponthem a few moments they did not want to move away. 

"There must be a ledge up there somewhere, " he said at last. 

"Let's go up and look for it and sit there and think and think--aboutfinding the right man. "

There seemed nothing fantastic in this to Marco. To go into some quietplace and sit and think about the thing he wanted to remember or to findout was an old way of his. To be quiet was always the best thing, hisfather had taught him. It was like listening to something which couldspeak without words. 

"There is a little train which goes up the Gaisberg, " he said. "When youare at the top, a world of mountains spreads around you. Lazarus wentonce and told me. And we can lie out on the grass all night. Let us go, Aide-de-camp. "

So they went, each one thinking the same thought, and each boy-mindholding its own vision. Marco was the calmer of the two, because hisbelief that there was always help to be found was an accustomed one andhad ceased to seem to partake of the supernatural. He believed quitesimply that it was the working of a law, not the breaking of one, whichgave answer and led him in his quests. The Rat, who had known nothing oflaws other than those administered by police-courts, was at once awedand fascinated by the suggestion of crossing some borderland of theUnknown. The law of the One had baffled and overthrown him, with itssweeping away of the enmities of passions which created wars and calledfor armies. But the Law of Earthly Living seemed to offer practicalbenefits if you could hold on to yourself enough to work it. 

"You wouldn't get everything for nothing, as far as I can make out, " hehad said to Marco. "You'd have to sweep all the rubbish out of yourmind--sweep it as if you did it with a broom--and then keep on thinkingstraight and believing you were going to get things--and working forthem--and they'd come. "

Then he had laughed a short ugly laugh because he recalled something. 

"There was something in the Bible that my father used to jeerabout--something about a man getting what he prayed for if he believedit, " he said. 

"Oh, yes, it's there, " said Marco. "That if a man pray believing heshall receive what he asks it shall be given him. All the books saysomething like it. It's been said so often it makes you believe it. "

"He didn't believe it, and I didn't, " said The Rat. 

"Nobody does--really, " answered Marco, as he had done once before. "It'sbecause we don't know. "

They went up the Gaisberg in the little train, which pushed and draggedand panted slowly upward with them. It took them with it stubbornly andgradually higher and higher until it had left Salzburg and the Citadelbelow and had reached the world of mountains which rose and spread andlifted great heads behind each other and beside each other and beyondeach other until there seemed no other land on earth but that onmountain sides and backs and shoulders and crowns. And also one felt theabsurdity of living upon flat ground, where life must be aninsignificant thing. 

There were only a few sight-seers in the small carriages, and they weregoing to look at the view from the summit. They were not in search of aledge. 

The Rat and Marco were. When the little train stopped at the top, theygot out with the rest. They wandered about with them over the shortgrass on the treeless summit and looked out from this viewpoint and theother. The Rat grew more and more silent, and his silence was not merelya matter of speechlessness but of expression. He _looked_ silent and as ifhe were no longer aware of the earth. They left the sight-seers at lastand wandered away by themselves. They found a ledge where they could sitor lie and where even the world of mountains seemed below them. They hadbrought some simple food with them, and they laid it behind a juttingbit of rock. When the sight-seers boarded the laboring little trainagain and were dragged back down the mountain, their night of vigilwould begin. 

That was what it was to be. A night of stillness on the heights, wherethey could wait and watch and hold themselves ready to hear any thoughtwhich spoke to them. 

The Rat was so thrilled that he would not have been surprised if he hadheard a voice from the place of the stars. But Marco only believed thatin this great stillness and beauty, if he held his boy-soul quietenough, he should find himself at last thinking of something that wouldlead him to the place which held what it was best that he should find. The people returned to the train and it set out upon its way down thesteepness. 

They heard it laboring on its way, as though it was forced to make asmuch effort to hold itself back as it had made to drag itself upward. 

Then they were alone, and it was a loneness such as an eagle might feelwhen it held itself poised high in the curve of blue. And they sat andwatched. They saw the sun go down and, shade by shade, deepen and makeradiant and then draw away with it the last touches of color--rose-gold, rose-purple, and rose-gray. 

One mountain-top after another held its blush a few moments and lost it. It took long to gather them all but at length they were gone and themarvel of night fell. 

The breath of the forests below was sweet about them, and soundlessnessenclosed them which was of unearthly peace. The stars began to showthemselves, and presently the two who waited found their faces turnedupward to the sky and they both were speaking in whispers. 

"The stars look large here, " The Rat said. 

"Yes, " answered Marco. "We are not as high as the Buddhist was, but itseems like the top of the world. "

"There is a light on the side of the mountain yonder which is not astar, " The Rat whispered. 

"It is a light in a hut where the guides take the climbers to rest andto spend the night, " answered Marco. 

"It is so still, " The Rat whispered again after a silence, and Marcowhispered back:

"It is so still. "

They had eaten their meal of black bread and cheese after the setting ofthe sun, and now they lay down on their backs and looked up until thefirst few stars had multiplied themselves into myriads. They began alittle low talk, but the soundlessness was stronger than themselves. 

"How am I going to hold on to that second law?" The Rat said restlessly. "'Let pass through thy mind only the image thou wouldst see become atruth. ' The things that are passing through my mind are not the things Iwant to come true. What if we don't find him--don't find the right one, I mean!"

"Lie still--still--and look up at the stars, " whispered Marco. "Theygive you a _sure_ feeling. "

There was something in the curious serenity of him which calmed even hisaide-de-camp. The Rat lay still and looked--and looked--and thought. Andwhat he thought of was the desire of his heart. The soundlessnessenwrapped him and there was no world left. That there was a spark oflight in the mountain-climbers' rest-hut was a thing forgotten. 

They were only two boys, and they had begun their journey on theearliest train and had been walking about all day and thinking of greatand anxious things. 

"It is so still, " The Rat whispered again at last. 

"It is so still, " whispered Marco. 

And the mountains rising behind each other and beside each other andbeyond each other in the night, and also the myriads of stars which hadso multiplied themselves, looking down knew that they were asleep--assleep the human things which do not watch forever. 

 * * * * *

"Some one is smoking, " Marco found himself saying in a dream. Afterwhich he awakened and found that the smoke was not part of a dream atall. It came from the pipe of a young man who had an alpenstock and wholooked as if he had climbed to see the sun rise. He wore the clothes ofa climber and a green hat with a tuft at the back. He looked down at thetwo boys, surprised. 

"Good day, " he said. "Did you sleep here so that you could see the sunget up?"

"Yes, " answered Marco. 

"Were you cold?"

"We slept too soundly to know. And we brought our thick coats. "

"I slept half-way down the mountains, " said the smoker. "I am a guidein these days, but I have not been one long enough to miss a sunrise itis no work to reach. My father and brother think I am mad about suchthings. They would rather stay in their beds. Oh! he is awake, is he?"turning toward The Rat, who had risen on one elbow and was staring athim. "What is the matter? You look as if you were afraid of me. "

Marco did not wait for The Rat to recover his breath and speak. 

"I know why he looks at you so, " he answered for him. "He is startled. Yesterday we went to a hair-dresser's shop down below there, and we sawa man who was almost exactly like you--only--" he added, looking up, "his eyes were gray and yours are brown. "

"He was my twin brother, " said the guide, puffing at his pipecheerfully. "My father thought he could make hair-dressers of us both, and I tried it for four years. But I always wanted to be climbing themountains and there were not holidays enough. So I cut my hair, andwashed the pomade out of it, and broke away. I don't look like ahair-dresser now, do I?"

He did not. Not at all. But Marco knew him. He was the man. There was noone on the mountain-top but themselves, and the sun was just showing arim of gold above the farthest and highest giant's shoulders. One neednot be afraid to do anything, since there was no one to see or hear. Marco slipped the sketch out of the slit in his sleeve. He looked at itand he looked at the guide, and then he showed it to him. 

"That is not your brother. It is you!" he said. 

The man's face changed a little--more than any other face had changedwhen its owner had been spoken to. On a mountain-top as the sun risesone is not afraid. 

"The Lamp is lighted, " said Marco. "The Lamp is lighted. "

"God be thanked!" burst forth the man. And he took off his hat and baredhis head. Then the rim behind the mountain's shoulder leaped forth intoa golden torrent of splendor. 

And The Rat stood up, resting his weight on his crutches in uttersilence, and stared and stared. 

"That is three!" said Marco. 

XXIII

THE SILVER HORN

During the next week, which they spent in journeying towards Vienna, they gave the Sign to three different persons at places which were onthe way. In a village across the frontier in Bavaria they found a giantof an old man sitting on a bench under a tree before his mountain"Gasthaus" or inn; and when the four words were uttered, he stood up andbared his head as the guide had done. When Marco gave the Sign in somequiet place to a man who was alone, he noticed that they all did thisand said their "God be thanked" devoutly, as if it were part of somereligious ceremony. In a small town a few miles away he had to searchsome hours before he found a stalwart young shoemaker with bright redhair and a horseshoe-shaped scar on his forehead. He was not in hisworkshop when the boys first passed it, because, as they found outlater, he had been climbing a mountain the day before, and had beendetained in the descent because his companion had hurt himself. 

When Marco went in and asked him to measure him for a pair of shoes, hewas quite friendly and told them all about it. 

"There are some good fellows who should not climb, " he said. "When theyfind themselves standing on a bit of rock jutting out over emptiness, their heads begin to whirl round--and then, if they don't turn head overheels a few thousand feet, it is because some comrade is near enough todrag them back. There can be no ceremony then and they sometimes gethurt--as my friend did yesterday. "

"Did you never get hurt yourself?" The Rat asked. 

"When I was eight years old I did that, " said the young shoemaker, touching the scar on his forehead. "But it was not much. My father was aguide and took me with him. He wanted me to begin early. There isnothing like it--climbing. I shall be at it again. This won't do for me. I tried shoemaking because I was in love with a girl who wanted me tostay at home. She married another man. I am glad of it. Once a guide, always a guide. " He knelt down to measure Marco's foot, and Marco bent alittle forward. 

"The Lamp is lighted, " he said. 

There was no one in the shop, but the door was open and people werepassing in the narrow street; so the shoemaker did not lift his redhead. He went on measuring. 

"God be thanked!" he said, in a low voice. "Do you want these shoesreally, or did you only want me to take your measure?"

"I cannot wait until they are made, " Marco answered. "I must go on. "

"Yes, you must go on, " answered the shoemaker. "But I'll tell you whatI'll do--I'll make them and keep them. Some great day might come when Ishall show them to people and swagger about them. " He glanced roundcautiously, and then ended, still bending over his measuring. "They willbe called the shoes of the Bearer of the Sign. And I shall say, 'He wasonly a lad. This was the size of his foot. '" Then he stood up with agreat smile. 

"There'll be climbing enough to be done now, " he said, "and I look tosee you again somewhere. "

When the boys went away, they talked it over. 

"The hair-dresser didn't want to be a hair-dresser, and the shoemakerdidn't want to make shoes, " said The Rat. "They both wanted to bemountain-climbers. There are mountains in Samavia and mountains on theway to it. You showed them to me on the map. 

"Yes; and secret messengers who can climb anywhere, and cross dangerousplaces, and reconnoiter from points no one else can reach, can find outthings and give signals other men cannot, " said Marco. 

"That's what I thought out, " The Rat answered. "That was what he meantwhen he said, 'There will be climbing enough to be done now. '"

Strange were the places they went to and curiously unlike each otherwere the people to whom they carried their message. The most singular ofall was an old woman who lived in so remote a place that the road whichwound round and round the mountain, wound round it for miles and miles. It was not a bad road and it was an amazing one to travel, dragged in asmall cart by a mule, when one could be dragged, and clambering slowlywith rests between when one could not: the tree-covered precipices onelooked down, the tossing whiteness of waterfalls, or the green foamingof rushing streams, and the immensity of farm- and village-scatteredplains spreading themselves to the feet of other mountains shutting themin were breath-taking beauties to look down on, as the road mounted andwound round and round and higher and higher. 

"How can any one live higher than this?" said The Rat as they sat on thethick moss by the wayside after the mule and cart had left them. "Lookat the bare crags looming up above there. Let us look at her again. Herpicture looked as if she were a hundred years old. "

Marco took out his hidden sketch. It seemed surely one of the strangestthings in the world that a creature as old as this one seemed couldreach such a place, or, having reached it, could ever descend to theworld again to give aid to any person or thing. 

Her old face was crossed and recrossed with a thousand wrinkles. Herprofile was splendid yet and she had been a beauty in her day. Her eyeswere like an eagle's--and not an old eagle's. And she had a long neckwhich held her old head high. 

"How could she get here?" exclaimed The Rat. 

"Those who sent us know, though we don't, " said Marco. "Will you sithere and rest while I go on further?"

"No!" The Rat answered stubbornly. "I didn't train myself to staybehind. But we shall come to bare-rock climbing soon and then I shall beobliged to stop, " and he said the last bitterly. He knew that, if Marcohad come alone, he would have ridden in no cart but would have trudgedupward and onward sturdily to the end of his journey. 

But they did not reach the crags, as they had thought must beinevitable. Suddenly half-way to the sky, as it seemed, they came to abend in the road and found themselves mounting into a new greenworld--an astonishing marvel of a world, with green velvet slopes andsoft meadows and thick woodland, and cows feeding in velvet pastures, and--as if it had been snowed down from the huge bare mountain cragswhich still soared above into heaven--a mysterious, ancient, huddledvillage which, being thus snowed down, might have caught among the rocksand rested there through all time. 

There it stood. There it huddled itself. And the monsters in the blueabove it themselves looked down upon it as if it were an incrediblething--this ancient, steep-roofed, hanging-balconied, crumbling clusterof human nests, which seemed a thousand miles from the world. Marco andThe Rat stood and stared at it. Then they sat down and stared at it. 

"How did it get here?" The Rat cried. 

Marco shook his head. He certainly could see no explanation of its beingthere. Perhaps some of the oldest villages could tell stories of how itsfirst chalets had gathered themselves together. 

An old peasant driving a cow came down a steep path. He looked with adull curiosity at The Rat and his crutches; but when Marco advanced andspoke to him in German, he did not seem to understand, but shook hishead saying something in a sort of dialect Marco did not know. 

"If they all speak like that, we shall have to make signs when we wantto ask anything, " The Rat said. "What will she speak?"

"She will know the German for the Sign or we should not have been senthere, " answered Marco. "Come on. "

They made their way to the village, which huddled itself togetherevidently with the object of keeping itself warm when through the wintermonths the snows strove to bury it and the winds roared down from thehuge mountain crags and tried to tear it from among its rocks. The doorsand windows were few and small, and glimpses of the inside of the housesshowed earthen floors and dark rooms. It was plain that it was counted amore comfortable thing to live without light than to let in the cold. 

It was easy enough to reconnoiter. The few people they saw wereevidently not surprised that strangers who discovered their unexpectedexistence should be curious and want to look at them and their houses. 

The boys wandered about as if they were casual explorers, who havingreached the place by chance were interested in all they saw. They wentinto the little Gasthaus and got some black bread and sausage and somemilk. The mountaineer owner was a brawny fellow who understood someGerman. He told them that few strangers knew of the village but thatbold hunters and climbers came for sport. In the forests on the mountainsides were bears and, in the high places, chamois. Now and again, somegreat gentlemen came with parties of the daring kind--very greatgentlemen indeed, he said, shaking his head with pride. There was onewho had castles in other mountains, but he liked best to come here. Marco began to wonder if several strange things might not be true ifgreat gentlemen sometimes climbed to the mysterious place. But he hadnot been sent to give the Sign to a great gentleman. He had been sent togive it to an old woman with eyes like an eagle which was young. 

He had a sketch in his sleeve, with that of her face, of hersteep-roofed, black-beamed, balconied house. If they walked about alittle, they would be sure to come upon it in this tiny place. Then hecould go in and ask her for a drink of water. 

They roamed about for an hour after they left the Gasthaus. They wentinto the little church and looked at the graveyard and wondered if itwas not buried out of all sight in the winter. After they had done this, they sauntered out and walked through the huddled clusters of houses, examining each one as they drew near it and passed. 

"I see it!" The Rat exclaimed at last. "It is that very old-looking onestanding a little way from the rest. It is not as tumbled down as mostof them. And there are some red flowers on the balcony. "

"Yes! That's it!" said Marco. 

They walked up to the low black door and, as he stopped on thethreshold, Marco took off his cap. He did this because, sitting in thedoorway on a low wooden chair, the old, old woman with the eagle eyeswas sitting knitting. 

There was no one else in the room and no one anywhere within sight. Whenthe old, old woman looked up at him with her young eagle's eyes, holdingher head high on her long neck, Marco knew he need not ask for water orfor anything else. 

"The Lamp is lighted, " he said, in his low but strong and clear youngvoice. 

She dropped her knitting upon her knees and gazed at him a moment insilence. She knew German it was clear, for it was in German she answeredhim. 

"God be thanked!" she said. "Come in, young Bearer of the Sign, andbring your friend in with you. I live alone and not a soul is withinhearing. "

She was a wonderful old woman. Neither Marco nor The Rat would live longenough to forget the hours they spent in her strange dark house. Shekept them and made them spend the night with her. 

"It is quite safe, " she said. "I live alone since my man fell into thecrevasse and was killed because his rope broke when he was trying tosave his comrade. So I have two rooms to spare and sometimes climbersare glad to sleep in them. Mine is a good warm house and I am well knownin the village. You are very young, " she added shaking her head. "Youare very young. You must have good blood in your veins to be trustedwith this. "

"I have my father's blood, " answered Marco. 

"You are like some one I once saw, " the old woman said, and her eagleeyes set themselves hard upon him. "Tell me your name. "

There was no reason why he should not tell it to her. 

"It is Marco Loristan, " he said. 

"What! It is that!" she cried out, not loud but low. 

To Marco's amazement she got up from her chair and stood before him, showing what a tall old woman she really was. There was a startled, evenan agitated, look in her face. And suddenly she actually made a sort ofcurtsey to him--bending her knee as peasants do when they pass a shrine. 

"It is that!" she said again. "And yet they dare let you go on a journeylike this! That speaks for your courage and for theirs. "

But Marco did not know what she meant. Her strange obeisance made himfeel awkward. He stood up because his training had told him that when awoman stands a man also rises. 

"The name speaks for the courage, " he said, "because it is my father's. "

She watched him almost anxiously. 

"You do not even know!" she breathed--and it was an exclamation and nota question. 

"I know what I have been told to do, " he answered. "I do not askanything else. "

"Who is that?" she asked, pointing to The Rat. 

"He is the friend my father sent with me, " said Marco smiling. "Hecalled him my aide-de-camp. It was a sort of joke because we had playedsoldiers together. "

It seemed as if she were obliged to collect her thoughts. She stood withher hand at her mouth, looking down at the earth floor. 

"God guard you!" she said at last. "You are very--very young!"

"But all his years, " The Rat broke in, "he has been in training for justthis thing. He did not know it was training, but it was. A soldier whohad been trained for thirteen years would know his work. "

He was so eager that he forgot she could not understand English. Marcotranslated what he said into German and added: "What he says is true. "

She nodded her head, still with questioning and anxious eyes. 

"Yes. Yes, " she muttered. "But you are very young. " Then she asked in ahesitating way:

"Will you not sit down until I do?"

"No, " answered Marco. "I would not sit while my mother or grandmotherstood. "

"Then I must sit--and forget, " she said. 

She passed her hand over her face as though she were sweeping away thesudden puzzled trouble in her expression. Then she sat down, as if shehad obliged herself to become again the old peasant she had been whenthey entered. 

"All the way up the mountain you wondered why an old woman should begiven the Sign, " she said. "You asked each other how she could be ofuse. "

Neither Marco nor The Rat said anything. 

"When I was young and fresh, " she went on. "I went to a castle over thefrontier to be foster-mother to a child who was born a great noble--onewho was near the throne. He loved me and I loved him. He was a strongchild and he grew up a great hunter and climber. When he was not tenyears old, my man taught him to climb. He always loved these mountainsbetter than his own. He comes to see me as if he were only a youngmountaineer. He sleeps in the room there, " with a gesture over hershoulder into the darkness. "He has great power and, if he chooses to doa thing, he will do it--just as he will attack the biggest bear or climbthe most dangerous peak. He is one who can bring things about. It isvery safe to talk in this room. "

Then all was quite clear. Marco and The Rat understood. 

No more was said about the Sign. It had been given and that was enough. The old woman told them that they must sleep in one of her bedrooms. Thenext morning one of her neighbors was going down to the valley with acart and he would help them on their way. The Rat knew that she wasthinking of his crutches and he became restless. 

"Tell her, " he said to Marco, "how I have trained myself until I can dowhat any one else can. And tell her I am growing stronger every day. Tell her I'll show her what I can do. Your father wouldn't have let mecome as your aide if I hadn't proved to him that I wasn't a cripple. Tell her. She thinks I'm no use. "

Marco explained and the old woman listened attentively. When The Rat gotup and swung himself about up and down the steep path near her house sheseemed relieved. His extraordinary dexterity and firm swiftnessevidently amazed her and gave her a confidence she had not felt atfirst. 

"If he has taught himself to be like that just for love of your father, he will go to the end, " she said. "It is more than one could believe, that a pair of crutches could do such things. "

The Rat was pacified and could afterwards give himself up to watchingher as closely as he wished to. He was soon "working out" certain thingsin his mind. What he watched was her way of watching Marco. It was as ifshe were fascinated and could not keep her eyes from him. She told themstories about the mountains and the strangers who came to climb withguides or to hunt. She told them about the storms, which sometimesseemed about to put an end to the little world among the crags. Shedescribed the winter when the snow buried them and the strong ones wereforced to dig out the weak and some lived for days under the masses ofsoft whiteness, glad to keep their cows or goats in their rooms thatthey might share the warmth of their bodies. The villages were forced tobe good neighbors to each other, for the man who was not ready to digout a hidden chimney or buried door to-day might be left to freeze andstarve in his snow tomb next week. Through the worst part of the winterno creature from the world below could make way to them to find outwhether they were all dead or alive. 

While she talked, she watched Marco as if she were always asking herselfsome question about him. The Rat was sure that she liked him and greatlyadmired his strong body and good looks. It was not necessary for him tocarry himself slouchingly in her presence and he looked glowing andnoble. There was a sort of reverence in her manner when she spoke tohim. She reminded him of Lazarus more than once. When she gave themtheir evening meal, she insisted on waiting on him with a certainrespectful ceremony. She would not sit at table with him, and The Ratbegan to realize that she felt that he himself should be standing toserve him. 

"She thinks I ought to stand behind your chair as Lazarus stands behindyour father's, " he said to Marco. "Perhaps an aide ought to do it. ShallI? I believe it would please her. "

"A Bearer of the Sign is not a royal person, " answered Marco. "My fatherwould not like it--and I should not. We are only two boys. "

It was very wonderful when, after their supper was over, they all threesat together before the fire. 

The red glow of the bed of wood-coal and the orange yellow of the flamefrom the big logs filled the room with warm light, which made a mellowbackground for the figure of the old woman as she sat in her low chairand told them more and more enthralling stories. 

Her eagle eyes glowed and her long neck held her head splendidly high asshe described great feats of courage and endurance or almost superhumandaring in aiding those in awesome peril, and, when she glowed most inthe telling, they always knew that the hero of the adventure had beenher foster-child who was the baby born a great noble and near thethrone. To her, he was the most splendid and adorable of human beings. Almost an emperor, but so warm and tender of heart that he never forgotthe long-past days when she had held him on her knee and told him talesof chamois- and bear-hunting, and of the mountain-tops in midwinter. He was her sun-god. 

"Yes! Yes!" she said. "'Good Mother, ' he calls me. And I bake him acake on the hearth, as I did when he was ten years old and my man wasteaching him to climb. And when he chooses that a thing shall bedone--done it is! He is a great lord. "

The flames had died down and only the big bed of red coal made the roomglow, and they were thinking of going to bed when the old woman startedvery suddenly, turning her head as if to listen. 

Marco and The Rat heard nothing, but they saw that she did and they satso still that each held his breath. So there was utter stillness for afew moments. Utter stillness. 

Then they did hear something--a clear silver sound, piercing the puremountain air. 

The old woman sprang upright with the fire of delight in her eyes. 

"It is his silver horn!" she cried out striking her hands together. "Itis his own call to me when he is coming. He has been hunting somewhereand wants to sleep in his good bed here. Help me to put on morefaggots, " to The Rat, "so that he will see the flame of them through theopen door as he comes. "

"Shall we be in the way?" said Marco. "We can go at once. "

She was going towards the door to open it and she stopped a moment andturned. 

"No, no!" she said. "He must see your face. He will want to see it. Iwant him to see--how young you are. "

She threw the door wide open and they heard the silver horn send out itsgay call again. The brushwood and faggots The Rat had thrown on thecoals crackled and sparkled and roared into fine flames, which casttheir light into the road and threw out in fine relief the old figurewhich stood on the threshold and looked so tall. 

And in but a few minutes her great lord came to her. And in his greenhunting-suit with its green hat and eagle's feather he was as splendidas she had said he was. He was big and royal-looking and laughing andhe bent and kissed her as if he had been her own son. 

"Yes, good Mother, " they heard him say. "I want my warm bed and one ofyour good suppers. I sent the others to the Gasthaus. "

He came into the redly glowing room and his head almost touched theblackened rafters. Then he saw the two boys. 

"Who are these, good Mother?" he asked. 

She lifted his hand and kissed it. 

"They are the Bearers of the Sign, " she said rather softly. "'The Lampis lighted. '"

Then his whole look changed. His laughing face became quite grave andfor a moment looked even anxious. Marco knew it was because he wasstartled to find them only boys. He made a step forward to look at themmore closely. 

"The Lamp is lighted! And you two bear the Sign!" he exclaimed. Marcostood out in the fire glow that he might see him well. He saluted withrespect. 

"My name is Marco Loristan, Highness, " he said. "And my father sent me. "

The change which came upon his face then was even greater than at first. For a second, Marco even felt that there was a flash of alarm in it. Butalmost at once that passed. 

"Loristan is a great man and a great patriot, " he said. "If he sent you, it is because he knows you are the one safe messenger. He has worked toolong for Samavia not to know what he does. "

Marco saluted again. He knew what it was right to say next. 

"If we have your Highness's permission to retire, " he said, "we willleave you and go to bed. We go down the mountain at sunrise. "

"Where next?" asked the hunter, looking at him with curious intentness. 

"To Vienna, Highness, " Marco answered. 

His questioner held out his hand, still with the intent interest in hiseyes. 

"Good night, fine lad, " he said. "Samavia has need to vaunt itself onits Sign-bearer. God go with you. "

He stood and watched him as he went toward the room in which he and hisaide-de-camp were to sleep. The Rat followed him closely. At the littleback door the old, old woman stood, having opened it for them. As Marcopassed and bade her good night, he saw that she again made the strangeobeisance, bending the knee as he went by. 

XXIV

"HOW SHALL WE FIND HIM?"

In Vienna they came upon a pageant. In celebration of a century-pastvictory the Emperor drove in state and ceremony to attend at the greatcathedral and to do honor to the ancient banners and laurel-wreathedstatue of a long-dead soldier-prince. The broad pavements of the hugechief thoroughfare were crowded with a cheering populace watching themartial pomp and splendor as it passed by with marching feet, prancinghorses, and glitter of scabbard and chain, which all seemed somehow partof music in triumphant bursts. 

The Rat was enormously thrilled by the magnificence of the imperialplace. Its immense spaces, the squares and gardens, reigned over bystatues of emperors, and warriors, and queens made him feel that allthings on earth were possible. The palaces and stately piles ofarchitecture, whose surmounting equestrian bronzes ramped high in theair clear cut and beautiful against the sky, seemed to sweep out of hisworld all atmosphere but that of splendid cities down whose broadavenues emperors rode with waving banners, tramping, jangling soldierybefore and behind, and golden trumpets blaring forth. It seemed as if itmust always be like this--that lances and cavalry and emperors wouldnever cease to ride by. "I should like to stay here a long time, " hesaid almost as if he were in a dream. "I should like to see it all. "

He leaned on his crutches in the crowd and watched the glitter of thepassing pageant. Now and then he glanced at Marco, who watched also witha steady eye which, The Rat saw, nothing would escape: How absorbed healways was in the Game! How impossible it was for him to forget it or toremember it only as a boy would! Often it seemed that he was not a boyat all. And the Game, The Rat knew in these days, was a game no more buta thing of deep and deadly earnest--a thing which touched kings andthrones, and concerned the ruling and swaying of great countries. Andthey--two lads pushed about by the crowd as they stood and stared at thesoldiers--carried with them that which was even now lighting the Lamp. The blood in The Rat's veins ran quickly and made him feel hot as heremembered certain thoughts which had forced themselves into his mindduring the past weeks. As his brain had the trick of "working thingsout, " it had, during the last fortnight at least, been following awonderful even if rather fantastic and feverish fancy. A mere trifle hadset it at work, but, its labor once begun, things which might have onceseemed to be trifles appeared so no longer. When Marco was asleep, TheRat lay awake through thrilled and sometimes almost breathless midnighthours, looking backward and recalling every detail of their lives sincethey had known each other. Sometimes it seemed to him that almosteverything he remembered--the Game from first to last above all--hadpointed to but one thing. And then again he would all at once feel thathe was a fool and had better keep his head steady. Marco, he knew, hadno wild fancies. He had learned too much and his mind was too wellbalanced. He did not try to "work out things. " He only thought of whathe was under orders to do. 

"But, " said The Rat more than once in these midnight hours, "if it evercomes to a draw whether he is to be saved or I am, he is the one thatmust come to no harm. Killing can't take long--and his father sent mewith him. "

This thought passed through his mind as the tramping feet went by. As asudden splendid burst of approaching music broke upon his ear, a queerlook twisted his face. He realized the contrast between this day andthat first morning behind the churchyard, when he had sat on hisplatform among the Squad and looked up and saw Marco in the arch at theend of the passage. And because he had been good-looking and had heldhimself so well, he had thrown a stone at him. Yes--blind gutter-bredfool that he'd been:--his first greeting to Marco had been a stone, justbecause he was what he was. As they stood here in the crowd in thisfar-off foreign city, it did not seem as if it could be true that it washe who had done it. 

He managed to work himself closer to Marco's side. "Isn't it splendid?"he said, "I wish I was an emperor myself. I'd have these fellows outlike this every day. " He said it only because he wanted to saysomething, to speak, as a reason for getting closer to him. He wanted tobe near enough to touch him and feel that they were really together andthat the whole thing was not a sort of magnificent dream from which hemight awaken to find himself lying on his heap of rags in his corner ofthe room in Bone Court. 

The crowd swayed forward in its eagerness to see the principal featureof the pageant--the Emperor in his carriage. The Rat swayed forward withthe rest to look as it passed. 

A handsome white-haired and mustached personage in splendid uniformdecorated with jeweled orders and with a cascade of emerald-green plumesnodding in his military hat gravely saluted the shouting people oneither side. By him sat a man uniformed, decorated, and emerald-plumedalso, but many years younger. 

Marco's arm touched The Rat's almost at the same moment that his owntouched Marco. Under the nodding plumes each saw the rather tired andcynical pale face, a sketch of which was hidden in the slit in Marco'ssleeve. 

"Is the one who sits with the Emperor an Archduke?" Marco asked the mannearest to him in the crowd. The man answered amiably enough. No, he wasnot, but he was a certain Prince, a descendant of the one who was thehero of the day. He was a great favorite of the Emperor's and was also agreat personage, whose palace contained pictures celebrated throughoutEurope. 

"He pretends it is only pictures he cares for, " he went on, shrugginghis shoulders and speaking to his wife, who had begun to listen, "but heis a clever one, who amuses himself with things he professes not toconcern himself about--big things. It's his way to look bored, andinterested in nothing, but it's said he's a wizard for knowing dangeroussecrets. "

"Does he live at the Hofburg with the Emperor?" asked the woman, craningher neck to look after the imperial carriage. 

"No, but he's often there. The Emperor is lonely and bored too, nodoubt, and this one has ways of making him forget his troubles. It'sbeen told me that now and then the two dress themselves roughly, likecommon men, and go out into the city to see what it's like to rubshoulders with the rest of the world. I daresay it's true. I should liketo try it myself once in a while, if I had to sit on a throne and wear acrown. "

The two boys followed the celebration to its end. They managed to getnear enough to see the entrance to the church where the service washeld and to get a view of the ceremonies at the banner-draped andlaurel-wreathed statue. They saw the man with the pale face severaltimes, but he was always so enclosed that it was not possible to getwithin yards of him. It happened once, however, that he looked througha temporary break in the crowding people and saw a dark strong-featuredand remarkably intent boy's face, whose vivid scrutiny of him caught hiseye. There was something in the fixedness of its attention which causedhim to look at it curiously for a few seconds, and Marco met his gazesquarely. 

"Look at me! Look at me!" the boy was saying to him mentally. "I have amessage for you. A message!"

The tired eyes in the pale face rested on him with a certain growinglight of interest and curiosity, but the crowding people moved and thetemporary break closed up, so that the two could see each other no more. Marco and The Rat were pushed backward by those taller and stronger thanthemselves until they were on the outskirts of the crowd. 

"Let us go to the Hofburg, " said Marco. "They will come back there, andwe shall see him again even if we can't get near. "

To the Hofburg they made their way through the less crowded streets, andthere they waited as near to the great palace as they could get. Theywere there when, the ceremonies at an end, the imperial carriagesreturned, but, though they saw their man again, they were at somedistance from him and he did not see them. 

Then followed four singular days. They were singular days because theywere full of tantalizing incidents. Nothing seemed easier than to heartalk of, and see the Emperor's favorite, but nothing was more impossiblethan to get near to him. He seemed rather a favorite with the populace, and the common people of the shopkeeping or laboring classes were givento talking freely of him--of where he was going and what he was doing. To-night he would be sure to be at this great house or that, at thisball or that banquet. There was no difficulty in discovering that hewould be sure to go to the opera, or the theatre, or to drive toSchönbrunn with his imperial master. Marco and The Rat heard casualspeech of him again and again, and from one part of the city to theother they followed and waited for him. But it was like chasing awill-o'-the-wisp. He was evidently too brilliant and important a personto be allowed to move about alone. There were always people with him whoseemed absorbed in his languid cynical talk. Marco thought that he neverseemed to care much for his companions, though they on their part alwaysseemed highly entertained by what he was saying. It was noticeable thatthey laughed a great deal, though he himself scarcely even smiled. 

"He's one of those chaps with the trick of saying witty things as if hedidn't see the fun in them himself, " The Rat summed him up. "Chaps likethat are always cleverer than the other kind. "

"He's too high in favor and too rich not to be followed about, " theyheard a man in a shop say one day, "but he gets tired of it. Sometimes, when he's too bored to stand it any longer, he gives it out that he'sgone into the mountains somewhere, and all the time he's shut up alonewith his pictures in his own palace. "

That very night The Rat came in to their attic looking pale anddisappointed. He had been out to buy some food after a long and arduousday in which they had covered much ground, had seen their man threetimes, and each time under circumstances which made him moreinaccessible than ever. They had come back to their poor quarters bothtired and ravenously hungry. 

The Rat threw his purchase on to the table and himself into a chair. 

"He's gone to Budapest, " he said. "_Now_ how shall we find him?"

Marco was rather pale also, and for a moment he looked paler. The dayhad been a hard one, and in their haste to reach places at a longdistance from each other they had forgotten their need of food. 

They sat silent for a few moments because there seemed to be nothing tosay. "We are too tired and hungry to be able to think well, " Marco saidat last. "Let us eat our supper and then go to sleep. Until we've had arest, we must 'let go. '"

"Yes. There's no good in talking when you're tired, " The Rat answered atrifle gloomily. "You don't reason straight. We must 'let go. '"

Their meal was simple but they ate well and without words. 

Even when they had finished and undressed for the night, they said verylittle. 

"Where do our thoughts go when we are asleep, " The Rat inquired casuallyafter he was stretched out in the darkness. "They must go somewhere. Let's send them to find out what to do next. "

"It's not as still as it was on the Gaisberg. You can hear the cityroaring, " said Marco drowsily from his dark corner. "We must make aledge--for ourselves. "

Sleep made it for them--deep, restful, healthy sleep. If they had beenmore resentful of their ill luck and lost labor, it would have come lesseasily and have been less natural. In their talks of strange things theyhad learned that one great secret of strength and unflagging courage isto know how to "let go"--to cease thinking over an anxiety until theright moment comes. It was their habit to "let go" for hours sometimes, and wander about looking at places and things--galleries, museums, palaces, giving themselves up with boyish pleasure and eagerness to allthey saw. Marco was too intimate with the things worth seeing, and TheRat too curious and feverishly wide-awake to allow of their missingmuch. 

The Rat's image of the world had grown until it seemed to know noboundaries which could hold its wealth of wonders. He wanted to go onand on and see them all. 

When Marco opened his eyes in the morning, he found The Rat lyinglooking at him. Then they both sat up in bed at the same time. 

"I believe we are both thinking the same thing, " Marco said. 

They frequently discovered that they were thinking the same things. 

"So do I, " answered The Rat. "It shows how tired we were that we didn'tthink of it last night. "

"Yes, we are thinking the same thing, " said Marco. "We have bothremembered what we heard about his shutting himself up alone with hispictures and making people believe he had gone away. "

"He's in his palace now, " The Rat announced. 

"Do you feel sure of that, too?" asked Marco. "Did you wake up and feelsure of it the first thing?"

"Yes, " answered The Rat. "As sure as if I'd heard him say it himself. "

"So did I, " said Marco. 

"That's what our thoughts brought back to us, " said The Rat, "when we'let go' and sent them off last night. " He sat up hugging his knees andlooking straight before him for some time after this, and Marco did notinterrupt his meditations. 

The day was a brilliant one, and, though their attic had only onewindow, the sun shone in through it as they ate their breakfast. Afterit, they leaned on the window's ledge and talked about the Prince'sgarden. They talked about it because it was a place open to the publicand they had walked round it more than once. The palace, which was not alarge one, stood in the midst of it. The Prince was good-natured enoughto allow quiet and well-behaved people to saunter through. It was not afashionable promenade but a pleasant retreat for people who sometimestook their work or books and sat on the seats placed here and thereamong the shrubs and flowers. 

"When we were there the first time, I noticed two things, " Marco said. "There is a stone balcony which juts out from the side of the palacewhich looks on the Fountain Garden. That day there were chairs on it asif the Prince and his visitors sometimes sat there. Near it, there was avery large evergreen shrub and I saw that there was a hollow placeinside it. If some one wanted to stay in the gardens all night to watchthe windows when they were lighted and see if any one came out aloneupon the balcony, he could hide himself in the hollow place and staythere until the morning. "

"Is there room for two inside the shrub?" The Rat asked. 

"No. I must go alone, " said Marco. 

XXV

A VOICE IN THE NIGHT

Late that afternoon there wandered about the gardens two quiet, inconspicuous, rather poorly dressed boys. They looked at the palace, the shrubs, and the flower-beds, as strangers usually did, and they saton the seats and talked as people were accustomed to seeing boys talktogether. It was a sunny day and exceptionally warm, and there were moresaunterers and sitters than usual, which was perhaps the reason why the_portier_ at the entrance gates gave such slight notice to the pair thathe did not observe that, though two boys came in, only one went out. Hedid not, in fact, remember, when he saw The Rat swing by on his crutchesat closing-time, that he had entered in company with a dark-haired ladwho walked without any aid. It happened that, when The Rat passed out, the _portier_ at the entrance was much interested in the aspect of thesky, which was curiously threatening. There had been heavy cloudshanging about all day and now and then blotting out the sunshineentirely, but the sun had refused to retire altogether. Just now, however, the clouds had piled themselves in thunderous, purplishmountains, and the sun had been forced to set behind them. 

"It's been a sort of battle since morning, " the _portier_ said. "Therewill be some crashes and cataracts to-night. " That was what The Rat hadthought when they had sat in the Fountain Garden on a seat which gavethem a good view of the balcony and the big evergreen shrub, which theyknew had the hollow in the middle, though its circumference was soimposing. "If there should be a big storm, the evergreen will not saveyou much, though it may keep off the worst, " The Rat said. "I wish therewas room for two. "

He would have wished there was room for two if he had seen Marcomarching to the stake. As the gardens emptied, the boys rose and walkedround once more, as if on their way out. By the time they had saunteredtoward the big evergreen, nobody was in the Fountain Garden, and thelast loiterers were moving toward the arched stone entrance to thestreets. 

When they drew near one side of the evergreen, the two were together. When The Rat swung out on the other side of it, he was alone! No onenoticed that anything had happened; no one looked back. So The Rat swungdown the walks and round the flower-beds and passed into the street. Andthe _portier_ looked at the sky and made his remark about the "crashes"and "cataracts. "

As the darkness came on, the hollow in the shrub seemed a very safeplace. It was not in the least likely that any one would enter theclosed gardens; and if by rare chance some servant passed through, hewould not be in search of people who wished to watch all night in themiddle of an evergreen instead of going to bed and to sleep. The hollowwas well inclosed with greenery, and there was room to sit down when onewas tired of standing. 

Marco stood for a long time because, by doing so, he could see plainlythe windows opening on the balcony if he gently pushed aside someflexible young boughs. He had managed to discover in his first visit tothe gardens that the windows overlooking the Fountain Garden were thosewhich belonged to the Prince's own suite of rooms. Those which opened onto the balcony lighted his favorite apartment, which contained hisbest-loved books and pictures and in which he spent most of his secludedleisure hours. 

Marco watched these windows anxiously. If the Prince had not gone toBudapest, --if he were really only in retreat, and hiding from his gayworld among his treasures, --he would be living in his favorite rooms andlights would show themselves. And if there were lights, he might passbefore a window because, since he was inclosed in his garden, he neednot fear being seen. The twilight deepened into darkness and, because ofthe heavy clouds, it was very dense. Faint gleams showed themselves inthe lower part of the palace, but none was lighted in the windows Marcowatched. He waited so long that it became evident that none was to belighted at all. At last he loosed his hold on the young boughs and, after standing a few moments in thought, sat down upon the earth in themidst of his embowered tent. The Prince was not in his retreat; he wasprobably not in Vienna, and the rumor of his journey to Budapest had nodoubt been true. So much time lost through making a mistake--but it wasbest to have made the venture. Not to have made it would have been tolose a chance. The entrance was closed for the night and there was nogetting out of the gardens until they were opened for the next day. Hemust stay in his hiding-place until the time when people began to comeand bring their books and knitting and sit on the seats. Then he couldstroll out without attracting attention. But he had the night before himto spend as best he could. That would not matter at all. He could tuckhis cap under his head and go to sleep on the ground. He could commandhimself to waken once every half-hour and look for the lights. He wouldnot go to sleep until it was long past midnight--so long past that therewould not be one chance in a hundred that anything could happen. But theclouds which made the night so dark were giving forth low rumblinggrowls. At intervals a threatening gleam of light shot across them and asudden swish of wind rushed through the trees in the garden. Thishappened several times, and then Marco began to hear the patter ofraindrops. They were heavy and big drops, but few at first, and thenthere was a new and more powerful rush of wind, a jagged dart of lightin the sky, and a tremendous crash. After that the clouds torethemselves open and poured forth their contents in floods. After theprotracted struggle of the day it all seemed to happen at once, as if ahorde of huge lions had at one moment been let loose: flame after flameof lightning, roar and crash and sharp reports of thunder, shrieks ofhurricane wind, torrents of rain, as if some tidal-wave of the skies hadgathered and rushed and burst upon the earth. It was such a storm aspeople remember for a lifetime and which in few lifetimes is seen atall. 

Marco stood still in the midst of the rage and flooding, blinding roarof it. After the first few minutes he knew he could do nothing to shieldhimself. Down the garden paths he heard cataracts rushing. He held hiscap pressed against his eyes because he seemed to stand in the midst ofdarting flames. The crashes, cannon reports and thunderings, and thejagged streams of light came so close to one another that he seemeddeafened as well as blinded. He wondered if he should ever be able tohear human voices again when it was over. That he was drenched to theskin and that the water poured from his clothes as if he were himself acataract was so small a detail that he was scarcely aware of it. Hestood still, bracing his body, and waited. If he had been a Samaviansoldier in the trenches and such a storm had broken upon him and hiscomrades, they could only have braced themselves and waited. This waswhat he found himself thinking when the tumult and downpour were attheir worst. There were men who had waited in the midst of a rain ofbullets. 

It was not long after this thought had come to him that there occurredthe first temporary lull in the storm. Its fury perhaps reached itsheight and broke at that moment. A yellow flame had torn its jagged wayacross the heavens, and an earth-rending crash had thundered itself intorumblings which actually died away before breaking forth again. Marcotook his cap from his eyes and drew a long breath. He drew two longbreaths. It was as he began drawing a third and realizing the strangefeeling of the almost stillness about him that he heard a new kind ofsound at the side of the garden nearest his hiding-place. It soundedlike the creak of a door opening somewhere in the wall behind the laurelhedge. Some one was coming into the garden by a private entrance. Hepushed aside the young boughs again and tried to see, but the darknesswas too dense. Yet he could hear if the thunder would not break again. There was the sound of feet on the wet gravel, the footsteps of morethan one person coming toward where he stood, but not as if afraid ofbeing heard; merely as if they were at liberty to come in by whatentrance they chose. Marco remained very still. A sudden hope gave him ashock of joy. If the man with the tired face chose to hide himself fromhis acquaintances, he might choose to go in and out by a privateentrance. The footsteps drew near, crushing the wet gravel, passed by, and seemed to pause somewhere near the balcony; and them flame lit upthe sky again and the thunder burst forth once more. 

But this was its last great peal. The storm was at an end. Only fainterand fainter rumblings and mutterings and paler and paler darts followed. Even they were soon over, and the cataracts in the paths had rushedthemselves silent. But the darkness was still deep. 

It was deep to blackness in the hollow of the evergreen. Marco stood init, streaming with rain, but feeling nothing because he was full ofthought. He pushed aside his greenery and kept his eyes on the place inthe blackness where the windows must be, though he could not see them. It seemed that he waited a long time, but he knew it only seemed soreally. He began to breathe quickly because he was waiting forsomething. 

Suddenly he saw exactly where the windows were--because they were alllighted!

His feeling of relief was great, but it did not last very long. It wastrue that something had been gained in the certainty that his man hadnot left Vienna. But what next? It would not be so easy to follow him ifhe chose only to go out secretly at night. What next? To spend the restof the night watching a lighted window was not enough. To-morrow nightit might not be lighted. But he kept his gaze fixed upon it. He tried tofix all his will and thought-power on the person inside the room. Perhaps he could reach him and make him listen, even though he would notknow that any one was speaking to him. He knew that thoughts were strongthings. If angry thoughts in one man's mind will create anger in themind of another, why should not sane messages cross the line?

"I must speak to you. I must speak to you!" he found himself saying in alow intense voice. "I am outside here waiting. Listen! I must speak toyou!"

He said it many times and kept his eyes fixed upon the window whichopened on to the balcony. Once he saw a man's figure cross the room, buthe could not be sure who it was. The last distant rumblings of thunderhad died away and the clouds were breaking. It was not long before thedark mountainous billows broke apart, and a brilliant full moon showedherself sailing in the rift, suddenly flooding everything with light. Parts of the garden were silver white, and the tree shadows were likeblack velvet. A silvery lance pierced even into the hollow of Marco'severgreen and struck across his face. 

Perhaps it was this sudden change which attracted the attention of thoseinside the balconied room. A man's figure appeared at the long windows. Marco saw now that it was the Prince. He opened the windows and steppedout on to the balcony. 

"It is all over, " he said quietly. And he stood with his face lifted, looking at the great white sailing moon. 

He stood very still and seemed for the moment to forget the world andhimself. It was a wonderful, triumphant queen of a moon. But somethingbrought him back to earth. A low, but strong and clear, boy-voice cameup to him from the garden path below. 

"The Lamp is lighted. The Lamp is lighted, " it said, and the wordssounded almost as if some one were uttering a prayer. They seemed tocall to him, to arrest him, to draw him. 

He stood still a few seconds in dead silence. Then he bent over thebalustrade. The moonlight had not broken the darkness below. 

"That is a boy's voice, " he said in a low tone, "but I cannot see who isspeaking. "

"Yes, it is a boy's voice, " it answered, in a way which somehow movedhim, because it was so ardent. "It is the son of Stefan Loristan. TheLamp is lighted. "

[Illustration: "It is the son of Stefan Loristan. The Lamp is lighted!"]

"Wait. I am coming down to you, " the Prince said. 

In a few minutes Marco heard a door open gently not far from where hestood. Then the man he had been following so many days appeared at hisside. 

"How long have you been here?" he asked. 

"Before the gates closed. I hid myself in the hollow of the big shrubthere, Highness, " Marco answered. 

"Then you were out in the storm?"

"Yes, Highness. "

The Prince put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I cannot see you--butit is best to stand in the shadow. You are drenched to the skin. "

"I have been able to give your Highness--the Sign, " Marco whispered. "Astorm is nothing. "

There was a silence. Marco knew that his companion was pausing to turnsomething over in his mind. 

"So-o?" he said slowly, at length. "The Lamp is lighted. And _you_ aresent to bear the Sign. " Something in his voice made Marco feel that hewas smiling. 

"What a race you are! What a race--you Samavian Loristans!"

He paused as if to think the thing over again. 

"I want to see your face, " he said next. "Here is a tree with a shaft ofmoonlight striking through the branches. Let us step aside and standunder it. "

Marco did as he was told. The shaft of moonlight fell upon his upliftedface and showed its young strength and darkness, quite splendid for themoment in a triumphant glow of joy in obstacles overcome. Raindrops hungon his hair, but he did not look draggled, only very wet andpicturesque. He had reached his man. He had given the Sign. 

The Prince looked him over with interested curiosity. 

"Yes, " he said in his cool, rather dragging voice. "You are the son ofStefan Loristan. Also you must be taken care of. You must come with me. I have trained my household to remain in its own quarters until Irequire its service. I have attached to my own apartments a good safelittle room where I sometimes keep people. You can dry your clothes andsleep there. When the gardens are opened again, the rest will be easy. "

But though he stepped out from under the trees and began to move towardsthe palace in the shadow, Marco noticed that he moved hesitatingly, asif he had not quite decided what he should do. He stopped rathersuddenly and turned again to Marco, who was following him. 

"There is some one in the room I just now left, " he said, "an oldman--whom it might interest to see you. It might also be a good thingfor him to feel interest in you. I choose that he shall see you--as youare. "

"I am at your command, Highness, " Marco answered. He knew his companionwas smiling again. 

"You have been in training for more centuries than you know, " he said;"and your father has prepared you to encounter the unexpected withoutsurprise. "

They passed under the balcony and paused at a low stone doorway hiddenbehind shrubs. The door was a beautiful one, Marco saw when it wasopened, and the corridor disclosed was beautiful also, though it had anair of quiet and aloofness which was not so much secret as private. Aperfect though narrow staircase mounted from it to the next floor. Afterascending it, the Prince led the way through a short corridor andstopped at the door at the end of it. "We are going in here, " he said. 

It was a wonderful room--the one which opened on to the balcony. Eachpiece of furniture in it, the hangings, the tapestries, and pictures onthe wall were all such as might well have found themselves adorning amuseum. Marco remembered the common report of his escort's favoriteamusement of collecting wonders and furnishing his house with the thingsothers exhibited only as marvels of art and handicraft. The place wasrich and mellow with exquisitely chosen beauties. 

In a massive chair upon the heart sat a figure with bent head. It was atall old man with white hair and moustache. His elbows rested upon thearm of his chair and he leaned his forehead on his hand as if he wereweary. 

Marco's companion crossed the room and stood beside him, speaking in alowered voice. Marco could not at first hear what he said. He himselfstood quite still, waiting. The white-haired man lifted his head andlistened. It seemed as though almost at once he was singularlyinterested. The lowered voice was slightly raised at last and Marcoheard the last two sentences:

"The only son of Stefan Loristan. Look at him. "

The old man in the chair turned slowly and looked, steadily, and withquestioning curiosity touched with grave surprise. He had keen and clearblue eyes. 

Then Marco, still erect and silent, waited again. The Prince had merelysaid to him, "an old man whom it might interest to see you. " He hadplainly intended that, whatsoever happened, he must make no outward signof seeing more than he had been told he would see--"an old man. " It wasfor him to show no astonishment or recognition. He had been brought herenot to see but to be seen. The power of remaining still under scrutiny, which The Rat had often envied him, stood now in good stead because hehad seen the white head and tall form not many days before, surmountedby brilliant emerald plumes, hung with jeweled decorations, in the royalcarriage, escorted by banners, and helmets, and following troops whosetramping feet kept time to bursts of military music while the populacebared their heads and cheered. 

"He is like his father, " this personage said to the Prince. "But if anyone but Loristan had sent him--His looks please me. " Then suddenly toMarco, "You were waiting outside while the storm was going on?"

"Yes, sir, " Marco answered. 

Then the two exchanged some words still in the lowered voice. 

"You read the news as you made your journey?" he was asked. "You knowhow Samavia stands?"

"She does not stand, " said Marco. "The Iarovitch and the Maranovitchhave fought as hyenas fight, until each has torn the other intofragments--and neither has blood or strength left. "

The two glanced at each other. 

"A good simile, " said the older person. "You are right. If a strongparty rose--and a greater power chose not to interfere--the countrymight see better days. " He looked at him a few moments longer and thenwaved his hand kindly. 

"You are a fine Samavian, " he said. "I am glad of that. You may go. Goodnight. "

Marco bowed respectfully and the man with the tired face led him out ofthe room. 

It was just before he left him in the small quiet chamber in which hewas to sleep that the Prince gave him a final curious glance. "Iremember now, " he said. "In the room, when you answered the questionabout Samavia, I was sure that I had seen you before. It was the day ofthe celebration. There was a break in the crowd and I saw a boy lookingat me. It was you. "

"Yes, " said Marco, "I have followed you each time you have gone outsince then, but I could never get near enough to speak. To-night seemedonly one chance in a thousand. "

"You are doing your work more like a man than a boy, " was the nextspeech, and it was made reflectively. "No man could have behaved moreperfectly than you did just now, when discretion and composure werenecessary. " Then, after a moment's pause, "He was deeply interested anddeeply pleased. Good night. "

 * * * * *

When the gardens had been thrown open the next morning and people werepassing in and out again, Marco passed out also. He was obliged to tellhimself two or three times that he had not wakened from an amazingdream. He quickened his pace after he had crossed the street, because hewanted to get home to the attic and talk to The Rat. There was a narrowside-street it was necessary for him to pass through if he wished tomake a short cut. As he turned into it, he saw a curious figure leaningon crutches against a wall. It looked damp and forlorn, and he wonderedif it could be a beggar. It was not. It was The Rat, who suddenly sawwho was approaching and swung forward. His face was pale and haggard andhe looked worn and frightened. He dragged off his cap and spoke in avoice which was hoarse as a crow's. 

"God be thanked!" he said. "God be thanked!" as people always said itwhen they received the Sign, alone. But there was a kind of anguish inhis voice as well as relief. 

"Aide-de-camp!" Marco cried out--The Rat had begged him to call him so. "What have you been doing? How long have you been here?"

"Ever since I left you last night, " said The Rat clutching tremblinglyat his arm as if to make sure he was real. "If there was not room fortwo in the hollow, there was room for one in the street. Was it my placeto go off duty and leave you alone--was it?"

"You were out in the storm?"

"Weren't you?" said The Rat fiercely. "I huddled against the wall aswell as I could. What did I care? Crutches don't prevent a fellowwaiting. I wouldn't have left you if you'd given me orders. And thatwould have been mutiny. When you did not come out as soon as the gatesopened, I felt as if my head got on fire. How could I know what hadhappened? I've not the nerve and backbone you have. I go half mad. " Fora second or so Marco did not answer. But when he put his hand on thedamp sleeve, The Rat actually started, because it seemed as though hewere looking into the eyes of Stefan Loristan. 

"You look just like your father!" he exclaimed, in spite of himself. "How tall you are!"

"When you are near me, " Marco said, in Loristan's own voice, "when youare near me, I feel--I feel as if I were a royal prince attended by anarmy. You _are_ my army. " And he pulled off his cap with quick boyishnessand added, "God be thanked!"

The sun was warm in the attic window when they reached their lodging, and the two leaned on the rough sill as Marco told his story. It tooksome time to relate; and when he ended, he took an envelope from hispocket and showed it to The Rat. It contained a flat package of money. 

"He gave it to me just before he opened the private door, " Marcoexplained. "And he said to me, 'It will not be long now. After Samavia, go back to London as quickly as you can--_as quickly as you can_!'"

"I wonder--what he meant?" The Rat said, slowly. A tremendous thoughthad shot through his mind. But it was not a thought he could speak of toMarco. 

"I cannot tell. I thought that it was for some reason he did not expectme to know, " Marco said. "We will do as he told us. As quickly as wecan. " They looked over the newspapers, as they did every day. All thatcould be gathered from any of them was that the opposing armies ofSamavia seemed each to have reached the culmination of disaster andexhaustion. Which party had the power left to take any final step whichcould call itself a victory, it was impossible to say. Never had acountry been in a more desperate case. 

"It is the time!" said The Rat, glowering over his map. "If the SecretParty rises suddenly now, it can take Melzarr almost without a blow. It can sweep through the country and disarm both armies. They'reweakened--they're half starved--they're bleeding to death; they _want_ tobe disarmed. Only the Iarovitch and the Maranovitch keep on with thestruggle because each is fighting for the power to tax the people andmake slaves of them. If the Secret Party does not rise, the people will, and they'll rush on the palaces and kill every Maranovitch and Iarovitchthey find. And serve them right!"

"Let us spend the rest of the day in studying the road-map again, " saidMarco. "To-night we must be on the way to Samavia!"

XXVI

ACROSS THE FRONTIER

That one day, a week later, two tired and travel-worn boy-mendicantsshould drag themselves with slow and weary feet across the frontier linebetween Jiardasia and Samavia, was not an incident to awaken suspicionor even to attract attention. War and hunger and anguish had left thecountry stunned and broken. Since the worst had happened, no one wascurious as to what would befall them next. If Jiardasia herself hadbecome a foe, instead of a friendly neighbor, and had sent across theborder galloping hordes of soldiery, there would only have been moreshrieks, and home-burnings, and slaughter which no one dare resist. But, so far, Jiardasia had remained peaceful. The two boys--one of them oncrutches--had evidently traveled far on foot. Their poor clothes weredusty and travel-stained, and they stopped and asked for water at thefirst hut across the line. The one who walked without crutches had somecoarse bread in a bag slung over his shoulder, and they sat on theroadside and ate it as if they were hungry. The old grandmother wholived alone in the hut sat and stared at them without any curiosity. Shemay have vaguely wondered why any one crossed into Samavia in thesedays. But she did not care to know their reason. Her big son had livedin a village which belonged to the Maranovitch and he had been calledout to fight for his lords. He had not wanted to fight and had not knownwhat the quarrel was about, but he was forced to obey. He had kissed hishandsome wife and four sturdy children, blubbering aloud when he leftthem. His village and his good crops and his house must be left behind. Then the Iarovitch swept through the pretty little cluster of homesteadswhich belonged to their enemy. They were mad with rage because they hadmet with great losses in a battle not far away, and, as they swoopedthrough, they burned and killed, and trampled down fields and vineyards. The old woman's son never saw either the burned walls of his house orthe bodies of his wife and children, because he had been killed himselfin the battle for which the Iarovitch were revenging themselves. Onlythe old grandmother who lived in the hut near the frontier line andstared vacantly at the passers-by remained alive. She wearily gazed atpeople and wondered why she did not hear news from her son and hergrandchildren. But that was all. 

When the boys were over the frontier and well on their way along theroads, it was not difficult to keep out of sight if it seemed necessary. The country was mountainous and there were deep and thick forests by theway--forests so far-reaching and with such thick undergrowth thatfull-grown men could easily have hidden themselves. It was because ofthis, perhaps, that this part of the country had seen little fighting. There was too great opportunity for secure ambush for a foe. As the twotravelers went on, they heard of burned villages and towns destroyed, but they were towns and villages nearer Melzarr and otherfortress-defended cities, or they were in the country surrounding thecastles and estates of powerful nobles and leaders. It was true, asMarco had said to the white-haired personage, that the Maranovitch andIarovitch had fought with the savageness of hyenas until at last theforces of each side lay torn and bleeding, their strength, theirresources, their supplies exhausted. 

Each day left them weaker and more desperate. Europe looked on withsmall interest in either party but with growing desire that the disordershould end and cease to interfere with commerce. All this and much moreMarco and The Rat knew, but, as they made their cautious way throughbyways of the maimed and tortured little country, they learned otherthings. They learned that the stories of its beauty and fertility werenot romances. Its heaven-reaching mountains, its immense plains of richverdure on which flocks and herds might have fed by thousands, itssplendor of deep forest and broad clear rushing rivers had a primevalmajesty such as the first human creatures might have found on earth inthe days of the Garden of Eden. The two boys traveled through forest andwoodland when it was possible to leave the road. It was safe to thread away among huge trees and tall ferns and young saplings. It was notalways easy but it was safe. Sometimes they saw a charcoal-burner's hutor a shelter where a shepherd was hiding with the few sheep left to him. Each man they met wore the same look of stony suffering in his face;but, when the boys begged for bread and water, as was their habit, noone refused to share the little he had. It soon became plain to themthat they were thought to be two young fugitives whose homes hadprobably been destroyed and who were wandering about with no thought butthat of finding safety until the worst was over. That one of themtraveled on crutches added to their apparent helplessness, and that hecould not speak the language of the country made him more an object ofpity. The peasants did not know what language he spoke. Sometimes aforeigner came to find work in this small town or that. The poor ladmight have come to the country with his father and mother and then havebeen caught in the whirlpool of war and tossed out on the worldparent-less. But no one asked questions. Even in their desolation theywere silent and noble people who were too courteous for curiosity. 

"In the old days they were simple and stately and kind. All doors wereopen to travelers. The master of the poorest hut uttered a blessing anda welcome when a stranger crossed his threshold. It was the custom ofthe country, " Marco said. "I read about it in a book of my father's. About most of the doors the welcome was carved in stone. It wasthis--'The Blessing of the Son of God, and Rest within these Walls. '"

"They are big and strong, " said The Rat. "And they have good faces. Theycarry themselves as if they had been drilled--both men and women. "

It was not through the blood-drenched part of the unhappy land their wayled them, but they saw hunger and dread in the villages they passed. Crops which should have fed the people had been taken from them for theuse of the army; flocks and herds had been driven away, and faces weregaunt and gray. Those who had as yet only lost crops and herds knew thathomes and lives might be torn from them at any moment. Only old men andwomen and children were left to wait for any fate which the chances ofwar might deal out to them. 

When they were given food from some poor store, Marco would offer alittle money in return. He dare not excite suspicion by offering much. He was obliged to let it be imagined that in his flight from his ruinedhome he had been able to snatch at and secrete some poor hoard whichmight save him from starvation. Often the women would not take what heoffered. Their journey was a hard and hungry one. They must make it allon foot and there was little food to be found. But each of them knew howto live on scant fare. They traveled mostly by night and slept among theferns and undergrowth through the day. They drank from running brooksand bathed in them. Moss and ferns made soft and sweet-smelling beds, and trees roofed them. Sometimes they lay long and talked while theyrested. And at length a day came when they knew they were nearing theirjourney's end. 

"It is nearly over now, " Marco said, after they had thrown themselvesdown in the forest in the early hours of one dewy morning. "He said'After Samavia, go back to London as quickly as you can--_as quickly asyou can_. ' He said it twice. As if--something were going to happen. "

"Perhaps it will happen more suddenly than we think--the thing hemeant, " answered The Rat. 

Suddenly he sat up on his elbow and leaned towards Marco. 

"We are in Samavia!" he said "We two are in Samavia! And we are near theend!"

Marco rose on his elbow also. He was very thin as a result of hardtravel and scant feeding. His thinness made his eyes look immense andblack as pits. But they burned and were beautiful with their own fire. 

"Yes, " he said, breathing quickly. "And though we do not know what theend will be, we have obeyed orders. The Prince was next to the last one. There is only one more. The old priest. "

"I have wanted to see him more than I have wanted to see any of theothers, " The Rat said. 

"So have I, " Marco answered. "His church is built on the side of thismountain. I wonder what he will say to us. "

Both had the same reason for wanting to see him. In his youth he hadserved in the monastery over the frontier--the one which, till it wasdestroyed in a revolt, had treasured the five-hundred-year-old story ofthe beautiful royal lad brought to be hidden among the brotherhood bythe ancient shepherd. In the monastery the memory of the Lost Prince wasas the memory of a saint. It had been told that one of the earlybrothers, who was a decorator and a painter, had made a picture of himwith a faint halo shining about his head. The young acolyte who hadserved there must have heard wonderful legends. But the monastery hadbeen burned, and the young acolyte had in later years crossed thefrontier and become the priest of a few mountaineers whose little churchclung to the mountain side. He had worked hard and faithfully and wasworshipped by his people. Only the secret Forgers of the Sword knew thathis most ardent worshippers were those with whom he prayed and to whomhe gave blessings in dark caverns under the earth, where arms piledthemselves and men with dark strong faces sat together in the dim lightand laid plans and wrought schemes. 

This Marco and The Rat did not know as they talked of their desire tosee him. 

"He may not choose to tell us anything, " said Marco. "When we have givenhim the Sign, he may turn away and say nothing as some of the othersdid. He may have nothing to say which we should hear. Silence may be theorder for him, too. "

It would not be a long or dangerous climb to the little church on therock. They could sleep or rest all day and begin it at twilight. Soafter they had talked of the old priest and had eaten their black bread, they settled themselves to sleep under cover of the thick tall ferns. 

It was a long and deep sleep which nothing disturbed. So few humanbeings ever climbed the hill, except by the narrow rough path leading tothe church, that the little wild creatures had not learned to be afraidof them. Once, during the afternoon, a hare hopping along under theferns to make a visit stopped by Marco's head, and, after looking at hima few seconds with his lustrous eyes, began to nibble the ends of hishair. He only did it from curiosity and because he wondered if it mightbe a new kind of grass, but he did not like it and stopped nibblingalmost at once, after which he looked at it again, moving the softsensitive end of his nose rapidly for a second or so, and then hoppedaway to attend to his own affairs. A very large and handsome greenstag-beetle crawled from one end of The Rat's crutches to the other, but, having done it, he went away also. Two or three times a bird, searching for his dinner under the ferns, was surprised to find the twosleeping figures, but, as they lay so quietly, there seemed nothing tobe frightened about. A beautiful little field mouse running pastdiscovered that there were crumbs lying about and ate all she could findon the moss. After that she crept into Marco's pocket and found someexcellent ones and had quite a feast. But she disturbed nobody and theboys slept on. 

It was a bird's evening song which awakened them both. The bird alightedon the branch of a tree near them and her trill was rippling clear andsweet. The evening air had freshened and was fragrant with hillsidescents. When Marco first rolled over and opened his eyes, he thought themost delicious thing on earth was to waken from sleep on a hillside atevening and hear a bird singing. It seemed to make exquisitely real tohim the fact that he was in Samavia--that the Lamp was lighted and hiswork was nearly done. The Rat awakened when he did, and for a fewminutes both lay on their backs without speaking. At last Marco said, "The stars are coming out. We can begin to climb, Aide-de-camp. "

Then they both got up and looked at each other. 

"The last one!" The Rat said. "To-morrow we shall be on our way back toLondon--Number 7 Philibert Place. After all the places we've beento--what will it look like?"

"It will be like wakening out of a dream, " said Marco. "It's notbeautiful--Philibert Place. But _he_ will be there, " And it was as if alight lighted itself in his face and shone through the very darkness ofit. 

And The Rat's face lighted in almost exactly the same way. And he pulledoff his cap and stood bare-headed. "We've obeyed orders, " he said. "We've not forgotten one. No one has noticed us, no one has thought ofus. We've blown through the countries as if we had been grains of dust. "

Marco's head was bared, too, and his face was still shining. "God bethanked!" he said. "Let us begin to climb. "

They pushed their way through the ferns and wandered in and out throughtrees until they found the little path. The hill was thickly clothedwith forest and the little path was sometimes dark and steep; but theyknew that, if they followed it, they would at last come out to a placewhere there were scarcely any trees at all, and on a crag they wouldfind the tiny church waiting for them. The priest might not be there. They might have to wait for him, but he would be sure to come back formorning Mass and for vespers, wheresoever he wandered between times. 

There were many stars in the sky when at last a turn of the path showedthem the church above them. It was little and built of rough stone. Itlooked as if the priest himself and his scattered flock might havebroken and carried or rolled bits of the hill to put it together. It hadthe small, round, mosque-like summit the Turks had brought into Europein centuries past. It was so tiny that it would hold but a very smallcongregation--and close to it was a shed-like house, which was of coursethe priest's. 

The two boys stopped on the path to look at it. 

"There is a candle burning in one of the little windows, " said Marco. 

"There is a well near the door--and some one is beginning to drawwater, " said The Rat, next. "It is too dark to see who it is. Listen!"

They listened and heard the bucket descend on the chains, and splash inthe water. Then it was drawn up, and it seemed some one drank long. Thenthey saw a dim figure move forward and stand still. Then they heard avoice begin to pray aloud, as if the owner, being accustomed to uttersolitude, did not think of earthly hearers. 

"Come, " Marco said. And they went forward. 

Because the stars were so many and the air so clear, the priest heardtheir feet on the path, and saw them almost as soon as he heard them. Heended his prayer and watched them coming. A lad on crutches, who movedas lightly and easily as a bird--and a lad who, even yards away, wasnoticeable for a bearing of his body which was neither haughty nor proudbut set him somehow aloof from every other lad one had ever seen. Amagnificent lad--though, as he drew near, the starlight showed his facethin and his eyes hollow as if with fatigue or hunger. 

"And who is this one?" the old priest murmured to himself. "_Who_?"

Marco drew up before him and made a respectful reverence. Then he liftedhis black head, squared his shoulders and uttered his message for thelast time. 

"The Lamp is lighted, Father, " he said. "The Lamp is lighted. "

The old priest stood quite still and gazed into his face. The nextmoment he bent his head so that he could look at him closely. It seemedalmost as if he were frightened and wanted to make sure of something. Atthe moment it flashed through The Rat's mind that the old, old woman onthe mountain-top had looked frightened in something the same way. 

"I am an old man, " he said. "My eyes are not good. If I had alight"--and he glanced towards the house. 

It was The Rat who, with one whirl, swung through the door and seizedthe candle. He guessed what he wanted. He held it himself so that theflare fell on Marco's face. 

The old priest drew nearer and nearer. He gasped for breath. "You arethe son of Stefan Loristan!" he cried. "It is _his son_ who brings theSign. "

He fell upon his knees and hid his face in his hands. Both the boysheard him sobbing and praying--praying and sobbing at once. 

They glanced at each other. The Rat was bursting with excitement, but hefelt a little awkward also and wondered what Marco would do. An oldfellow on his knees, crying, made a chap feel as if he didn't know whatto say. Must you comfort him or must you let him go on?

Marco only stood quite still and looked at him with understanding andgravity. 

"Yes, Father, " he said. "I am the son of Stefan Loristan, and I havegiven the Sign to all. You are the last one. The Lamp is lighted. Icould weep for gladness, too. "

The priest's tears and prayers ended. He rose to his feet--arugged-faced old man with long and thick white hair which fell on hisshoulders--and smiled at Marco while his eyes were still wet. 

"You have passed from one country to another with the message?" he said. "You were under orders to say those four words?"

"Yes, Father, " answered Marco. 

"That was all? You were to say no more?"

"I know no more. Silence has been the order since I took my oath ofallegiance when I was a child. I was not old enough to fight, or serve, or reason about great things. All I could do was to be silent, and totrain myself to remember, and be ready when I was called. When my fathersaw I was ready, he trusted me to go out and give the Sign. He told methe four words. Nothing else. "

The old man watched him with a wondering face. 

"If Stefan Loristan does not know best, " he said, "who does?"

"He always knows, " answered Marco proudly. "Always. " He waved his handlike a young king toward The Rat. He wanted each man they met tounderstand the value of The Rat. "He chose for me this companion, " headded. "I have done nothing alone. "

"He let me call myself his aide-de-camp!" burst forth The Rat. "I wouldbe cut into inch-long strips for him. "

Marco translated. 

Then the priest looked at The Rat and slowly nodded his head. "Yes, " hesaid. "He knew best. He always knows best. That I see. "

"How did you know I was my father's son?" asked Marco. "You have seenhim?"

"No, " was the answer; "but I have seen a picture which is said to be hisimage--and you are the picture's self. It is, indeed, a strange thingthat two of God's creatures should be so alike. There is a purpose init. " He led them into his bare small house and made them rest, and drinkgoat's milk, and eat food. As he moved about the hut-like place, therewas a mysterious and exalted look on his face. 

"You must be refreshed before we leave here, " he said at last. "I amgoing to take you to a place hidden in the mountains where there are menwhose hearts will leap at the sight of you. To see you will give themnew power and courage and new resolve. To-night they meet as they ortheir ancestors have met for centuries, but now they are nearing the endof their waiting. And I shall bring them the son of Stefan Loristan, whois the Bearer of the Sign!"

They ate the bread and cheese and drank the goat's milk he gave them, but Marco explained that they did not need rest as they had slept allday. They were prepared to follow him when he was ready. 

The last faint hint of twilight had died into night and the stars wereat their thickest when they set out together. The white-haired old mantook a thick knotted staff in his hand and led the way. He knew it well, though it was a rugged and steep one with no track to mark it. Sometimesthey seemed to be walking around the mountain, sometimes they wereclimbing, sometimes they dragged themselves over rocks or fallen trees, or struggled through almost impassable thickets; more than once theydescended into ravines and, almost at the risk of their lives, clamberedand drew themselves with the aid of the undergrowth up the other side. The Rat was called upon to use all his prowess, and sometimes Marco andthe priest helped him across obstacles with the aid of his crutch. 

"Haven't I shown to-night whether I'm a cripple or not?" he said once toMarco. "You can tell _him_ about this, can't you? And that the crutcheshelped instead of being in the way?"

They had been out nearly two hours when they came to a place where theundergrowth was thick and a huge tree had fallen crashing down among itin some storm. Not far from the tree was an outcropping rock. Only thetop of it was to be seen above the heavy tangle. 

They had pushed their way through the jungle of bushes and youngsaplings, led by their companion. They did not know where they would beled next and were supposed to push forward further when the prieststopped by the outcropping rock. He stood silent a few minutes--quitemotionless--as if he were listening to the forest and the night. Butthere was utter stillness. There was not even a breeze to stir a leaf, or a half-wakened bird to sleepily chirp. 

He struck the rock with his staff--twice, and then twice again. 

Marco and The Rat stood with bated breath. 

They did not wait long. Presently each of them found himself leaningforward, staring with almost unbelieving eyes, not at the priest or hisstaff, but at _the rock itself_!

It was moving! Yes, it moved. The priest stepped aside and it slowlyturned, as if worked by a lever. As it turned, it gradually revealed achasm of darkness dimly lighted, and the priest spoke to Marco. "Thereare hiding-places like this all through Samavia, " he said. "Patience andmisery have waited long in them. They are the caverns of the Forgers ofthe Sword. Come!"

XXVII

"IT IS THE LOST PRINCE! IT IS IVOR!"

Many times since their journey had begun the boys had found their heartsbeating with the thrill and excitement of things. The story of whichtheir lives had been a part was a pulse-quickening experience. But asthey carefully made their way down the steep steps leading seeminglyinto the bowels of the earth, both Marco and The Rat felt as though theold priest must hear the thudding in their young sides. 

"'The Forgers of the Sword. ' Remember every word they say, " The Ratwhispered, "so that you can tell it to me afterwards. Don't forgetanything! I wish I knew Samavian. "

At the foot of the steps stood the man who was evidently the sentinelwho worked the lever that turned the rock. He was a big burly peasantwith a good watchful face, and the priest gave him a greeting and ablessing as he took from him the lantern he held out. 

They went through a narrow and dark passage, and down some more steps, and turned a corner into another corridor cut out of rock and earth. Itwas a wider corridor, but still dark, so that Marco and The Rat hadwalked some yards before their eyes became sufficiently accustomed tothe dim light to see that the walls themselves seemed made of armsstacked closely together. 

"The Forgers of the Sword!" The Rat was unconsciously mumbling tohimself, "The Forgers of the Sword!"

It must have taken years to cut out the rounding passage they threadedtheir way through, and longer years to forge the solid, bristling walls. But The Rat remembered the story the stranger had told his drunkenfather, of the few mountain herdsmen who, in their savage grief andwrath over the loss of their prince, had banded themselves together witha solemn oath which had been handed down from generation to generation. The Samavians were a long-memoried people, and the fact that theirpassion must be smothered had made it burn all the more fiercely. Fivehundred years ago they had first sworn their oath; and kings had comeand gone, had died or been murdered, and dynasties had changed, but theForgers of the Sword had not changed or forgotten their oath or waveredin their belief that some time--some time, even after the long darkyears--the soul of their Lost Prince would be among them once more, andthat they would kneel at the feet and kiss the hands of him for whosebody that soul had been reborn. And for the last hundred years theirnumber and power and their hiding places had so increased that Samaviawas at last honeycombed with them. And they only waited, breathless, --for the Lighting of the Lamp. 

The old priest knew how breathlessly, and he knew what he was bringingthem. Marco and The Rat, in spite of their fond boy-imaginings, werenot quite old enough to know how fierce and full of flaming eagernessthe breathless waiting of savage full-grown men could be. But there wasa tense-strung thrill in knowing that they who were being led to themwere the Bearers of the Sign. The Rat went hot and cold; he gnawed hisfingers as he went. He could almost have shrieked aloud, in theintensity of his excitement, when the old priest stopped before a bigblack door!

Marco made no sound. Excitement or danger always made him look tall andquite pale. He looked both now. 

The priest touched the door, and it opened. 

They were looking into an immense cavern. Its walls and roof were linedwith arms--guns, swords, bayonets, javelins, daggers, pistols, everyweapon a desperate man might use. The place was full of men, who turnedtowards the door when it opened. They all made obeisance to the priest, but Marco realized almost at the same instant that they started onseeing that he was not alone. 

They were a strange and picturesque crowd as they stood under theircanopy of weapons in the lurid torchlight. Marco saw at once that theywere men of all classes, though all were alike roughly dressed. Theywere huge mountaineers, and plainsmen young and mature in years. Some ofthe biggest were men with white hair but with bodies of giants, and withdetermination in their strong jaws. There were many of these, Marco saw, and in each man's eyes, whether he were young or old, glowed a steadyunconquered flame. They had been beaten so often, they had beenoppressed and robbed, but in the eyes of each one was this unconqueredflame which, throughout all the long tragedy of years had been handeddown from father to son. It was this which had gone on throughcenturies, keeping its oath and forging its swords in the caverns of theearth, and which to-day was--waiting. 

The old priest laid his hand on Marco's shoulder, and gently pushed himbefore him through the crowd which parted to make way for them. He didnot stop until the two stood in the very midst of the circle, which fellback gazing wonderingly. Marco looked up at the old man because forseveral seconds he did not speak. It was plain that he did not speakbecause he also was excited, and could not. He opened his lips and hisvoice seemed to fail him. Then he tried again and spoke so that allcould hear--even the men at the back of the gazing circle. 

"My children, " he said, "this is the son of Stefan Loristan, and hecomes to bear the Sign. My son, " to Marco, "speak!"

Then Marco understood what he wished, and also what he felt. He felt ithimself, that magnificent uplifting gladness, as he spoke, holding hisblack head high and lifting his right hand. 

"The Lamp is Lighted, brothers!" he cried. "The Lamp is Lighted!"

Then The Rat, who stood apart, watching, thought that the strange worldwithin the cavern had gone mad! Wild smothered cries broke forth, mencaught each other in passionate embrace, they fell upon their knees, they clutched one another sobbing, they wrung each other's hands, theyleaped into the air. It was as if they could not bear the joy of hearingthat the end of their waiting had come at last. They rushed upon Marco, and fell at his feet. The Rat saw big peasants kissing his shoes, hishands, every scrap of his clothing they could seize. The wild circleswayed and closed upon him until The Rat was afraid. He did not knowthat, overpowered by this frenzy of emotion, his own excitement wasmaking him shake from head to foot like a leaf, and that tears werestreaming down his cheeks. The swaying crowd hid Marco from him, and hebegan to fight his way towards him because his excitement increased withfear. The ecstasy-frenzied crowd of men seemed for the moment to havealmost ceased to be sane. Marco was only a boy. They did not know howfiercely they were pressing upon him and keeping away the very air. 

"Don't kill him! Don't kill him!" yelled The Rat, struggling forward. "Stand back, you fools! I'm his aide-de-camp! Let me pass!"

And though no one understood his English, one or two suddenly rememberedthey had seen him enter with the priest and so gave way. But just thenthe old priest lifted his hand above the crowd, and spoke in a voice ofstern command. 

"Stand back, my children!" he cried. "Madness is not the homage you mustbring to the son of Stefan Loristan. Obey! Obey!" His voice had a powerin it that penetrated even the wildest herdsmen. The frenzied massswayed back and left space about Marco, whose face The Rat could at lastsee. It was very white with emotion, and in his eyes there was a lookwhich was like awe. 

The Rat pushed forward until he stood beside him. He did not know thathe almost sobbed as he spoke. 

"I'm your aide-de-camp, " he said. "I'm going to stand here! Your fathersent me! I'm under orders! I thought they'd crush you to death. "

He glared at the circle about them as if, instead of worshippersdistraught with adoration, they had been enemies. The old priest seeinghim, touched Marco's arm. 

"Tell him he need not fear, " he said. "It was only for the first fewmoments. The passion of their souls drove them wild. They are yourslaves. "

"Those at the back might have pushed the front ones on until theytrampled you under foot in spite of themselves!" The Rat persisted. 

"No, " said Marco. "They would have stopped if I had spoken. "

"Why didn't you speak then?" snapped The Rat. 

"All they felt was for Samavia, and for my father, " Marco said, "and forthe Sign. I felt as they did. "

The Rat was somewhat softened. It was true, after all. How could he havetried to quell the outbursts of their worship of Loristan--of thecountry he was saving for them--of the Sign which called them tofreedom? He could not. 

Then followed a strange and picturesque ceremonial. The priest wentabout among the encircling crowd and spoke to one man afteranother--sometimes to a group. A larger circle was formed. As the paleold man moved about, The Rat felt as if some religious ceremony weregoing to be performed. Watching it from first to last, he was thrilledto the core. 

At the end of the cavern a block of stone had been cut out to look likean altar. It was covered with white, and against the wall above it hunga large picture veiled by a curtain. From the roof there swung before itan ancient lamp of metal suspended by chains. In front of the altar wasa sort of stone dais. There the priest asked Marco to stand, with hisaide-de-camp on the lower level in attendance. A knot of the biggestherdsmen went out and returned. Each carried a huge sword which hadperhaps been of the earliest made in the dark days gone by. The bearersformed themselves into a line on either side of Marco. They raised theirswords and formed a pointed arch above his head and a passage twelve menlong. When the points first clashed together The Rat struck himself hardupon his breast. His exultation was too keen to endure. He gazed atMarco standing still--in that curiously splendid way in which both heand his father _could_ stand still--and wondered how he could do it. Helooked as if he were prepared for any strange thing which could happento him--because he was "under orders. " The Rat knew that he was doingwhatsoever he did merely for his father's sake. It was as if he feltthat he was representing his father, though he was a mere boy; and thatbecause of this, boy as he was, he must bear himself nobly and remainoutwardly undisturbed. 

At the end of the arch of swords, the old priest stood and gave a signto one man after another. When the sign was given to a man he walkedunder the arch to the dais, and there knelt and, lifting Marco's hand tohis lips, kissed it with passionate fervor. Then he returned to theplace he had left. One after another passed up the aisle of swords, oneafter another knelt, one after the other kissed the brown young hand, rose and went away. Sometimes The Rat heard a few words which soundedalmost like a murmured prayer, sometimes he heard a sob as a shaggy headbent, again and again he saw eyes wet with tears. Once or twice Marcospoke a few Samavian words, and the face of the man spoken to flamedwith joy. The Rat had time to see, as Marco had seen, that many of thefaces were not those of peasants. Some of them were clear cut and subtleand of the type of scholars or nobles. It took a long time for them allto kneel and kiss the lad's hand, but no man omitted the ceremony; andwhen at last it was at an end, a strange silence filled the cavern. Theystood and gazed at each other with burning eyes. 

The priest moved to Marco's side, and stood near the altar. He leanedforward and took in his hand a cord which hung from the veiledpicture--he drew it and the curtain fell apart. There seemed to standgazing at them from between its folds a tall kingly youth with deep eyesin which the stars of God were stilly shining, and with a smilewonderful to behold. Around the heavy locks of his black hair the longdead painter of missals had set a faint glow of light like a halo. 

"Son of Stefan Loristan, " the old priest said, in a shaken voice, "it isthe Lost Prince! It is Ivor!"

Then every man in the room fell on his knees. Even the men who hadupheld the archway of swords dropped their weapons with a crash andknelt also. He was their saint--this boy! Dead for five hundred years, he was their saint still. 

"Ivor! Ivor!" the voices broke into a heavy murmur. "Ivor! Ivor!" as ifthey chanted a litany. 

Marco started forward, staring at the picture, his breath caught in histhroat, his lips apart. 

"But--but--" he stammered, "but if my father were as young as he is--hewould be _like_ him!"

"When you are as old as he is, _you_ will be like him--_you_!" said thepriest. And he let the curtain fall. 

The Rat stood staring with wide eyes from Marco to the picture and fromthe picture to Marco. And he breathed faster and faster and gnawed hisfinger ends. But he did not utter a word. He could not have done it, ifhe tried. 

Then Marco stepped down from the dais as if he were in a dream, and theold man followed him. The men with swords sprang to their feet and madetheir archway again with a new clash of steel. The old man and the boypassed under it together. Now every man's eyes were fixed on Marco. Atthe heavy door by which he had entered, he stopped and turned to meettheir glances. He looked very young and thin and pale, but suddenly hisfather's smile was lighted in his face. He said a few words in Samavianclearly and gravely, saluted, and passed out. 

"What did you say to them?" gasped The Rat, stumbling after him as thedoor closed behind them and shut in the murmur of impassioned sound. 

"There was only one thing to say, " was the answer. "They are men--I amonly a boy. I thanked them for my father, and told them he wouldnever--never forget. "

XXVIII

"EXTRA! EXTRA! EXTRA!"

It was raining in London--pouring. It had been raining for two weeks, more or less, generally more. When the train from Dover drew in atCharing Cross, the weather seemed suddenly to have considered that ithad so far been too lenient and must express itself much morevigorously. So it had gathered together its resources and poured themforth in a deluge which surprised even Londoners. 

The rain so beat against and streamed down the windows of thethird-class carriage in which Marco and The Rat sat that they could notsee through them. 

They had made their homeward journey much more rapidly than they hadmade the one on which they had been outward bound. It had of coursetaken them some time to tramp back to the frontier, but there had beenno reason for stopping anywhere after they had once reached therailroads. They had been tired sometimes, but they had slept heavily onthe wooden seats of the railway carriages. Their one desire was to gethome. No. 7 Philibert Place rose before them in its noisy dinginess asthe one desirable spot on earth. To Marco it held his father. And it wasLoristan alone that The Rat saw when he thought of it. Loristan as hewould look when he saw him come into the room with Marco, and stand upand salute, and say: "I have brought him back, sir. He has carried outevery single order you gave him--every single one. So have I. " So hehad. He had been sent as his companion and attendant, and he had beenfaithful in every thought. If Marco would have allowed him, he wouldhave waited upon him like a servant, and have been proud of the service. But Marco would never let him forget that they were only two boys andthat one was of no more importance than the other. He had secretly evenfelt this attitude to be a sort of grievance. It would have been morelike a game if one of them had been the mere servitor of the other, andif that other had blustered a little, and issued commands, and demandedsacrifices. If the faithful vassal could have been wounded or cast intoa dungeon for his young commander's sake, the adventure would have beenmore complete. But though their journey had been full of wonders andrich with beauties, though the memory of it hung in The Rat's mind likea background of tapestry embroidered in all the hues of the earth withall the splendors of it, there had been no dungeons and no wounds. Afterthe adventure in Munich their unimportant boyishness had not even beenobserved by such perils as might have threatened them. As The Rat hadsaid, they had "blown like grains of dust" through Europe and had beenas nothing. And this was what Loristan had planned, this was what hisgrave thought had wrought out. If they had been men, they would not havebeen so safe. 

From the time they had left the old priest on the hillside to begintheir journey back to the frontier, they both had been given to longsilences as they tramped side by side or lay on the moss in the forests. Now that their work was done, a sort of reaction had set in. There wereno more plans to be made and no more uncertainties to contemplate. Theywere on their way back to No. 7 Philibert Place--Marco to his father, The Rat to the man he worshipped. Each of them was thinking of manythings. Marco was full of longing to see his father's face and hear hisvoice again. He wanted to feel the pressure of his hand on hisshoulder--to be sure that he was real and not a dream. This last wasbecause during this homeward journey everything that had happened oftenseemed to be a dream. It had all been so wonderful--the climber standinglooking down at them the morning they awakened on the Gaisburg; themountaineer shoemaker measuring his foot in the small shop; the old, oldwoman and her noble lord; the Prince with his face turned upward as hestood on the balcony looking at the moon; the old priest kneeling andweeping for joy; the great cavern with the yellow light upon the crowdof passionate faces; the curtain which fell apart and showed the stilleyes and the black hair with the halo about it! Now that they were leftbehind, they all seemed like things he had dreamed. But he had notdreamed them; he was going back to tell his father about them. And how_good_ it would be to feel his hand on his shoulder!

The Rat gnawed his finger ends a great deal. His thoughts were more wildand feverish than Marco's. They leaped forward in spite of him. It wasno use to pull himself up and tell himself that he was a fool. Now thatall was over, he had time to be as great a fool as he was inclined tobe. But how he longed to reach London and stand face to face withLoristan! The sign was given. The Lamp was lighted. What would happennext? His crutches were under his arms before the train drew up. 

"We're there! We're there!" he cried restlessly to Marco. They had noluggage to delay them. They took their bags and followed the crowd alongthe platform. The rain was rattling like bullets against the highglassed roof. People turned to look at Marco, seeing the glow ofexultant eagerness in his face. They thought he must be some boy cominghome for the holidays and going to make a visit at a place he delightedin. The rain was dancing on the pavements when they reached theentrance. 

"A cab won't cost much, " Marco said, "and it will take us quickly. "

They called one and got into it. Each of them had flushed cheeks, andMarco's eyes looked as if he were gazing at something a long wayoff--gazing at it, and wondering. 

"We've come back!" said The Rat, in an unsteady voice. "We've been--andwe've come back!" Then suddenly turning to look at Marco, "Does it everseem to you as if, perhaps, it--it wasn't true?"

"Yes, " Marco answered, "but it was true. And it's done. " Then he addedafter a second or so of silence, just what The Rat had said to himself, "What next?" He said it very low. 

The way to Philibert Place was not long. When they turned into theroaring, untidy road, where the busses and drays and carts struggledpast each other with their loads, and the tired-faced people hurried incrowds along the pavement, they looked at them all feeling that they hadleft their dream far behind indeed. But they were at home. 

It was a good thing to see Lazarus open the door and stand waitingbefore they had time to get out of the cab. Cabs stopped so seldombefore houses in Philibert Place that the inmates were always prompt toopen their doors. When Lazarus had seen this one stop at the broken irongate, he had known whom it brought. He had kept an eye on the windowsfaithfully for many a day--even when he knew that it was too soon, evenif all was well, for any travelers to return. 

He bore himself with an air more than usually military and his salutewhen Marco crossed the threshold was formal stateliness itself. But hisgreeting burst from his heart. 

"God be thanked!" he said in his deep growl of joy. "God be thanked!"

When Marco put forth his hand, he bent his grizzled head and kissed itdevoutly. 

"God be thanked!" he said again. 

"My father?" Marco began, "my father is out?" If he had been in thehouse, he knew he would not have stayed in the back sitting-room. 

"Sir, " said Lazarus, "will you come with me into his room? You, too, sir, " to The Rat. He had never said "sir" to him before. 

He opened the door of the familiar room, and the boys entered. The roomwas empty. 

Marco did not speak; neither did The Rat. They both stood still in themiddle of the shabby carpet and looked up at the old soldier. Both hadsuddenly the same feeling that the earth had dropped from beneath theirfeet. Lazarus saw it and spoke fast and with tremor. He was almost asagitated as they were. 

"He left me at your service--at your command"--he began. 

"Left you?" said Marco. 

"He left us, all three, under orders--to _wait_, " said Lazarus. "TheMaster has gone. "

The Rat felt something hot rush into his eyes. He brushed it away thathe might look at Marco's face. The shock had changed it very much. Itsglowing eager joy had died out, it had turned paler and his brows weredrawn together. For a few seconds he did not speak at all, and, when hedid speak, The Rat knew that his voice was steady only because he willedthat it should be so. 

"If he has gone, " he said, "it is because he had a strong reason. It wasbecause he also was under orders. "

"He said that you would know that, " Lazarus answered. "He was called insuch haste that he had not a moment in which to do more than write a fewwords. He left them for you on his desk there. "

Marco walked over to the desk and opened the envelope which was lyingthere. There were only a few lines on the sheet of paper inside and theyhad evidently been written in the greatest haste. They were these:

"The Life of my life--for Samavia. "

"He was called--to Samavia, " Marco said, and the thought sent his bloodrushing through his veins. "He has gone to Samavia!"

Lazarus drew his hand roughly across his eyes and his voice shook andsounded hoarse. 

"There has been great disaffection in the camps of the Maranovitch, " hesaid. "The remnant of the army has gone mad. Sir, silence is still theorder, but who knows--who knows? God alone. "

He had not finished speaking before he turned his head as if listeningto sounds in the road. They were the kind of sounds which had broken upThe Squad, and sent it rushing down the passage into the street to seizeon a newspaper. There was to be heard a commotion of newsboys shoutingriotously some startling piece of news which had called out an "Extra. "

The Rat heard it first and dashed to the front door. As he opened it anewsboy running by shouted at the topmost power of his lungs the news hehad to sell: "Assassination of King Michael Maranovitch by his ownsoldiers! Assassination of the Maranovitch! Extra! Extra! Extra!"

When The Rat returned with a newspaper, Lazarus interposed between himand Marco with great and respectful ceremony. "Sir, " he said to Marco, "I am at your command, but the Master left me with an order which I wasto repeat to you. He requested you _not_ to read the newspapers until hehimself could see you again. "

Both boys fell back. 

"Not read the papers!" they exclaimed together. 

Lazarus had never before been quite so reverential and ceremonious. 

"Your pardon, sir, " he said. "I may read them at your orders, and reportsuch things as it is well that you should know. There have been darktales told and there may be darker ones. He asked that you would notread for yourself. If you meet again--when you meet again"--he correctedhimself hastily--"when you meet again, he says you will understand. I amyour servant. I will read and answer all such questions as I can. "

The Rat handed him the paper and they returned to the back roomtogether. 

"You shall tell us what he would wish us to hear, " Marco said. 

The news was soon told. The story was not a long one as exact detailshad not yet reached London. It was briefly that the head of theMaranovitch party had been put to death by infuriated soldiers of hisown army. It was an army drawn chiefly from a peasantry which did notlove its leaders, or wish to fight, and suffering and brutal treatmenthad at last roused it to furious revolt. 

"What next?" said Marco. 

"If I were a Samavian--" began The Rat and then he stopped. 

Lazarus stood biting his lips, but staring stonily at the carpet. NotThe Rat alone but Marco also noted a grim change in him. It was grimbecause it suggested that he was holding himself under an iron control. It was as if while tortured by anxiety he had sworn not to allow himselfto look anxious and the resolve set his jaw hard and carved new lines inhis rugged face. Each boy thought this in secret, but did not wish toput it into words. If he was anxious, he could only be so for onereason, and each realized what the reason must be. Loristan had gone toSamavia--to the torn and bleeding country filled with riot and danger. If he had gone, it could only have been because its danger called himand he went to face it at its worst. Lazarus had been left behind towatch over them. Silence was still the order, and what he knew he couldnot tell them, and perhaps he knew little more than that a great lifemight be lost. 

Because his master was absent, the old soldier seemed to feel that hemust comfort himself with a greater ceremonial reverance than he hadever shown before. He held himself within call, and at Marco's orders, as it had been his custom to hold himself with regard to Loristan. Theceremonious service even extended itself to The Rat, who appeared tohave taken a new place in his mind. He also seemed now to be a person tobe waited upon and replied to with dignity and formal respect. 

When the evening meal was served, Lazarus drew out Loristan's chair atthe head of the table and stood behind it with a majestic air. 

"Sir, " he said to Marco, "the Master requested that you take his seat atthe table until--while he is not with you. "

Marco took the seat in silence. 

 * * * * *

At two o'clock in the morning, when the roaring road was still, thelight from the street lamp, shining into the small bedroom, fell on twopale boy faces. The Rat sat up on his sofa bed in the old way with hishands clasped round his knees. Marco lay flat on his hard pillow. Neither of them had been to sleep and yet they had not talked a greatdeal. Each had secretly guessed a good deal of what the other did notsay. 

"There is one thing we must remember, " Marco had said, early in thenight. "We must not be afraid. "

"No, " answered The Rat, almost fiercely, "we must not be afraid. "

"We are tired; we came back expecting to be able to tell it all to him. We have always been looking forward to that. We never thought once thathe might be gone. And he _was_ gone. Did you feel as if--" he turnedtowards the sofa, "as if something had struck you on the chest?"

"Yes, " The Rat answered heavily. "Yes. "

"We weren't ready, " said Marco. "He had never gone before; but we oughtto have known he might some day be--called. He went because he wascalled. He told us to wait. We don't know what we are waiting for, butwe know that we must not be afraid. To let ourselves be _afraid_ would bebreaking the Law. "

"The Law!" groaned The Rat, dropping his head on his hands, "I'dforgotten about it. "

"Let us remember it, " said Marco. "This is the time. 'Hate not. _Fear_not!'" He repeated the last words again and again. "Fear not! Fearnot, " he said. "_Nothing_ can harm him. "

The Rat lifted his head, and looked at the bed sideways. 

"Did you think--" he said slowly--"did you _ever_ think that perhaps _he_knew where the descendant of the Lost Prince was?"

Marco answered even more slowly. 

"If any one knew--surely he might. He has known so much, " he said. 

"Listen to this!" broke forth The Rat. "I believe he has gone to _tell_the people. If he does--if he could show them--all the country would runmad with joy. It wouldn't be only the Secret Party. All Samavia wouldrise and follow any flag he chose to raise. They've prayed for the LostPrince for five hundred years, and if they believed they'd got him oncemore, they'd fight like madmen for him. But there would not be any oneto fight. They'd _all_ want the same thing! If they could see the man withIvor's blood in his veins, they'd feel he had come back to them--risenfrom the dead. They'd believe it!"

He beat his fists together in his frenzy of excitement. "It's the time!It's the time!" he cried. "No man could let such a chance go by! He _must_tell them--he _must_. That _must_ be what he's gone for. He knows--heknows--he's always known!" And he threw himself back on his sofa andflung his arms over his face, lying there panting. 

"If it is the time, " said Marco in a low, strained voice--"if it is, andhe knows--he will tell them. " And he threw his arms up over his own faceand lay quite still. 

Neither of them said another word, and the street lamp shone in on themas if it were waiting for something to happen. But nothing happened. Intime they were asleep. 

XXIX

'TWIXT NIGHT AND MORNING

After this, they waited. They did not know what they waited for, norcould they guess even vaguely how the waiting would end. All thatLazarus could tell them he told. He would have been willing to standrespectfully for hours relating to Marco the story of how the period oftheir absence had passed for his Master and himself. He told howLoristan had spoken each day of his son, how he had often been pale withanxiousness, how in the evenings he had walked to and fro in his room, deep in thought, as he looked down unseeingly at the carpet. 

"He permitted me to talk of you, sir, " Lazarus said. "I saw that hewished to hear your name often. I reminded him of the times when you hadbeen so young that most children of your age would have been in thehands of nurses, and yet you were strong and silent and sturdy andtraveled with us as if you were not a child at all--never crying whenyou were tired and were not properly fed. As if you understood--as ifyou understood, " he added, proudly. "If, through the power of God acreature can be a man at six years old, you were that one. Many a darkday I have looked into your solemn, watching eyes, and have been halfafraid; because that a child should answer one's gaze so gravely seemedalmost an unearthly thing. "

"The chief thing I remember of those days, " said Marco, "is that he waswith me, and that whenever I was hungry or tired, I knew he must be, too. "

The feeling that they were "waiting" was so intense that it filled thedays with strangeness. When the postman's knock was heard at the door, each of them endeavored not to start. A letter might some day come whichwould tell them--they did not know what. But no letters came. When theywent out into the streets, they found themselves hurrying on their wayback in spite of themselves. Something might have happened. Lazarus readthe papers faithfully, and in the evening told Marco and The Rat all thenews it was "well that they should hear. " But the disorders of Samaviahad ceased to occupy much space. They had become an old story, and afterthe excitement of the assassination of Michael Maranovitch had died out, there seemed to be a lull in events. Michael's son had not dared to tryto take his father's place, and there were rumors that he also had beenkilled. The head of the Iarovitch had declared himself king but had notbeen crowned because of disorders in his own party. The country seemedexisting in a nightmare of suffering, famine and suspense. 

"Samavia is 'waiting' too, " The Rat broke forth one night as they talkedtogether, "but it won't wait long--it can't. If I were a Samavian and inSamavia--"

"My father is a Samavian and he is in Samavia, " Marco's grave youngvoice interposed. The Rat flushed red as he realized what he had said. "What a fool I am!" he groaned. "I--I beg your pardon--sir. " He stoodup when he said the last words and added the "sir" as if he suddenlyrealized that there was a distance between them which was something akinto the distance between youth and maturity--but yet was not the same. 

"You are a good Samavian but--you forget, " was Marco's answer. 

Lazarus' intense grimness increased with each day that passed. Theceremonious respectfulness of his manner toward Marco increased also. Itseemed as if the more anxious he felt the more formal and stately hisbearing became. It was as though he braced his own courage by doing thesmallest things life in the back sitting-room required as if they wereof the dignity of services performed in a much larger place and undermuch more imposing circumstances. The Rat found himself feeling almostas if he were an equerry in a court, and that dignity and ceremony werenecessary on his own part. He began to experience a sense of beingsomehow a person of rank, for whom doors were opened grandly and who hadvassals at his command. The watchful obedience of fifty vassals embodieditself in the manner of Lazarus. 

"I am glad, " The Rat said once, reflectively, "that, after all my fatherwas once--different. It makes it easier to learn things perhaps. If hehad not talked to me about people who--well, who had never seen placeslike Bone Court--this might have been harder for me to understand. "

When at last they managed to call The Squad together, and went to spenda morning at the Barracks behind the churchyard, that body of armed menstared at their commander in great and amazed uncertainty. They feltthat something had happened to him. They did not know what had happened, but it was some experience which had made him mysteriously different. Hedid not look like Marco, but in some extraordinary way he seemed moreakin to him. They only knew that some necessity in Loristan's affairshad taken the two away from London and the Game. Now they had come back, and they seemed older. 

At first, The Squad felt awkward and shuffled its feet uncomfortably. After the first greetings it did not know exactly what to say. It wasMarco who saved the situation. 

"Drill us first, " he said to The Rat, "then we can talk about the Game. "

"'Tention!" shouted The Rat, magnificently. And then they forgoteverything else and sprang into line. After the drill was ended, andthey sat in a circle on the broken flags, the Game became moreresplendent than it had ever been. 

"I've had time to read and work out new things, " The Rat said. "Readingis like traveling. "

Marco himself sat and listened, enthralled by the adroitness of theimagination he displayed. Without revealing a single dangerous fact hebuilt up, of their journeyings and experiences, a totally new structureof adventures which would have fired the whole being of any group oflads. It was safe to describe places and people, and he so describedthem that The Squad squirmed in its delight at feeling itself marchingin a procession attending the Emperor in Vienna; standing in line beforepalaces; climbing, with knapsacks strapped tight, up precipitousmountain roads; defending mountain-fortresses; and storming Samaviancastles. 

The Squad glowed and exulted. The Rat glowed and exulted himself. Marcowatched his sharp-featured, burning-eyed face with wonder andadmiration. This strange power of making things alive was, he knew, whathis father would call "genius. "

"Let's take the oath of 'legiance again, " shouted Cad, when the Game wasover for the morning. 

"The papers never said nothin' more about the Lost Prince, but we areall for him yet! Let's take it!" So they stood in line again, Marco atthe head, and renewed their oath. 

"The sword in my hand--for Samavia!

"The heart in my breast--for Samavia!

"The swiftness of my sight, the thought of my brain, the life of mylife--for Samavia. 

"Here grow twelve men--for Samavia. 

"God be thanked!"

It was more solemn than it had been the first time. The Squad felt ittremendously. Both Cad and Ben were conscious that thrills ran downtheir spines into their boots. When Marco and The Rat left them, theyfirst stood at salute and then broke out into a ringing cheer. 

On their way home, The Rat asked Marco a question. 

"Did you see Mrs. Beedle standing at the top of the basement steps andlooking after us when we went out this morning?"

Mrs. Beedle was the landlady of the lodgings at No. 7 Philibert Place. She was a mysterious and dusty female, who lived in the "cellar kitchen"part of the house and was seldom seen by her lodgers. 

"Yes, " answered Marco, "I have seen her two or three times lately, and Ido not think I ever saw her before. My father has never seen her, thoughLazarus says she used to watch him round corners. Why is she suddenly socurious about us?"

"I'd like to know, " said The Rat. "I've been trying to work it out. Eversince we came back, she's been peeping round the door of the kitchenstairs, or over balustrades, or through the cellar-kitchen windows. Ibelieve she wants to speak to you, and knows Lazarus won't let her if hecatches her at it. When Lazarus is about, she always darts back. "

"What does she want to say?" said Marco. 

"I'd like to know, " said The Rat again. 

When they reached No. 7 Philibert Place, they found out, because whenthe door opened they saw at the top of cellar-kitchen stairs at the endof the passage, the mysterious Mrs. Beedle, in her dusty black dress andwith a dusty black cap on, evidently having that minute mounted from hersubterranean hiding-place. She had come up the steps so quickly thatLazarus had not yet seen her. 

"Young Master Loristan!" she called out authoritatively. Lazarus wheeledabout fiercely. 

"Silence!" he commanded. "How dare you address the young Master?"

She snapped her fingers at him, and marched forward folding her armstightly. "You mind your own business, " she said. "It's young MasterLoristan I'm speaking to, not his servant. It's time he was talked toabout this. "

"Silence, woman!" shouted Lazarus. 

"Let her speak, " said Marco. "I want to hear. What is it you wish tosay, Madam? My father is not here. "

"That's just what I want to find out about, " put in the woman. "When ishe coming back?"

"I do not know, " answered Marco. 

"That's it, " said Mrs. Beedle. "You're old enough to understand that twobig lads and a big fellow like that can't have food and lodgin's fornothing. You may say you don't live high--and you don't--but lodgin'sare lodgin's and rent is rent. If your father's coming back and you cantell me when, I mayn't be obliged to let the rooms over your heads; butI know too much about foreigners to let bills run when they are out ofsight. Your father's out of sight. He, " jerking her head towardsLazarus, "paid me for last week. How do I know he will pay me for thisweek!"

"The money is ready, " roared Lazarus. 

The Rat longed to burst forth. He knew what people in Bone Court said toa woman like that; he knew the exact words and phrases. But they werenot words and phrases an aide-de-camp might deliver himself of in thepresence of his superior officer; they were not words and phrases anequerry uses at court. He dare not _allow_ himself to burst forth. Hestood with flaming eyes and a flaming face, and bit his lips till theybled. He wanted to strike with his crutches. The son of Stefan Loristan!The Bearer of the Sign! There sprang up before his furious eyes thepicture of the luridly lighted cavern and the frenzied crowd of menkneeling at this same boy's feet, kissing them, kissing his hands, hisgarments, the very earth he stood upon, worshipping him, while above thealtar the kingly young face looked on with the nimbus of light like ahalo above it. If he dared speak his mind now, he felt he could haveendured it better. But being an aide-de-camp he could not. 

"Do you want the money now?" asked Marco. "It is only the beginning ofthe week and we do not owe it to you until the week is over. Is it thatyou want to have it now?"

Lazarus had become deadly pale. He looked huge in his fury, and helooked dangerous. 

"Young Master, " he said slowly, in a voice as deadly as his pallor, andhe actually spoke low, "this woman--"

Mrs. Beedle drew back towards the cellar-kitchen steps. 

"There's police outside, " she shrilled. "Young Master Loristan, orderhim to stand back. "

"No one will hurt you, " said Marco. "If you have the money here, Lazarus, please give it to me. "

Lazarus literally ground his teeth. But he drew himself up and salutedwith ceremony. He put his hand in his breast pocket and produced an oldleather wallet. There were but a few coins in it. He pointed to a goldone. 

"I obey you, sir--since I must--" he said, breathing hard. "That onewill pay her for the week. "

Marco took out the sovereign and held it out to the woman. 

"You hear what he says, " he said. "At the end of this week if there isnot enough to pay for the next, we will go. "

Lazarus looked so like a hyena, only held back from springing by chainsof steel, that the dusty Mrs. Beedle was afraid to take the money. 

"If you say that I shall not lose it, I'll wait until the week's ended, "she said. "You're nothing but a lad, but you're like your father. You'vegot a way that a body can trust. If he was here and said he hadn't themoney but he'd have it in time, I'd wait if it was for a month. He'd payit if he said he would. But he's gone; and two boys and a fellow likethat one don't seem much to depend on. But I'll trust _you_. "

"Be good enough to take it, " said Marco. And he put the coin in her handand turned into the back sitting-room as if he did not see her. 

The Rat and Lazarus followed him. 

"Is there so little money left?" said Marco. "We have always had verylittle. When we had less than usual, we lived in poorer places and werehungry if it was necessary. We know how to go hungry. One does not dieof it. "

The big eyes under Lazarus' beetling brows filled with tears. 

"No, sir, " he said, "one does not die of hunger. But the insult--theinsult! That is not endurable. "

"She would not have spoken if my father had been here, " Marco said. "Andit is true that boys like us have no money. Is there enough to pay foranother week?"

"Yes, sir, " answered Lazarus, swallowing hard as if he had a lump in histhroat, "perhaps enough for two--if we eat but little. If--if the Masterwould accept money from those who would give it, he would always have hadenough. But how could such a one as he? How could he? When he went away, he thought--he thought that--" but there he stopped himself suddenly. 

"Never mind, " said Marco. "Never mind. We will go away the day we canpay no more. "

"I can go out and sell newspapers, " said The Rat's sharp voice. 

"I've done it before. Crutches help you to sell them. The platform wouldsell 'em faster still. I'll go out on the platform. "

"I can sell newspapers, too, " said Marco. 

Lazarus uttered an exclamation like a groan. 

"Sir, " he cried, "no, no! Am I not here to go out and look for work? Ican carry loads. I can run errands. "

"We will all three begin to see what we can do, " Marco said. 

Then--exactly as had happened on the day of their return from theirjourney--there arose in the road outside the sound of newsboys shouting. This time the outcry seemed even more excited than before. The boys wererunning and yelling and there seemed more of them than usual. And aboveall other words was heard "Samavia! Samavia!" But to-day The Rat did notrush to the door at the first cry. He stood still--for several secondsthey all three stood still--listening. Afterwards each one rememberedand told the others that he had stood still because some strange, strongfeeling held him _waiting_ as if to hear some great thing. 

It was Lazarus who went out of the room first and The Rat and Marcofollowed him. 

One of the upstairs lodgers had run down in haste and opened the door tobuy newspapers and ask questions. The newsboys were wild with excitementand danced about as they shouted. The piece of news they were yellinghad evidently a popular quality. 

The lodger bought two papers and was handing out coppers to a lad whowas talking loud and fast. 

"Here's a go!" he was saying. "A Secret Party's risen up and takenSamavia! 'Twixt night and mornin' they done it! That there Lost Princedescendant 'as turned up, an' they've _crowned_ him--'twixt night andmornin' they done it! Clapt 'is crown on 'is 'ead, so's they'd lose notime. " And off he bolted, shouting, "'Cendant of Lost Prince! 'Cendantof Lost Prince made King of Samavia!"

It was then that Lazarus, forgetting even ceremony, bolted also. Hebolted back to the sitting-room, rushed in, and the door fell to behindhim. 

Marco and The Rat found it shut when, having secured a newspaper, theywent down the passage. At the closed door, Marco stopped. He did notturn the handle. From the inside of the room there came the sound of bigconvulsive sobs and passionate Samavian words of prayer and worshippinggratitude. 

"Let us wait, " Marco said, trembling a little. "He will not want any oneto see him. Let us wait. "

His black pits of eyes looked immense, and he stood at his tallest, buthe was trembling slightly from head to foot. The Rat had begun to shake, as if from an ague. His face was scarcely human in its fierce unboyishemotion. 

"Marco! Marco!" his whisper was a cry. "That was what he wentfor--_because he knew_!"

"Yes, " answered Marco, "that was what he went for. " And his voice wasunsteady, as his body was. 

Presently the sobs inside the room choked themselves back suddenly. Lazarus had remembered. They had guessed he had been leaning against thewall during his outburst. Now it was evident that he stood upright, probably shocked at the forgetfulness of his frenzy. 

So Marco turned the handle of the door and went into the room. He shutthe door behind him, and they all three stood together. 

When the Samavian gives way to his emotions, he is emotional indeed. Lazarus looked as if a storm had swept over him. He had choked back hissobs, but tears still swept down his cheeks. 

"Sir, " he said hoarsely, "your pardon! It was as if a convulsion seizedme. I forgot everything--even my duty. Pardon, pardon!" And there on theworn carpet of the dingy back sitting-room in the Marylebone Road, heactually went on one knee and kissed the boy's hand with adoration. 

"You mustn't ask pardon, " said Marco. "You have waited so long, goodfriend. You have given your life as my father has. You have known allthe suffering a boy has not lived long enough to understand. Your bigheart--your faithful heart--" his voice broke and he stood and looked athim with an appeal which seemed to ask him to remember his boyhood andunderstand the rest. 

"Don't kneel, " he said next. "You mustn't kneel. " And Lazarus, kissinghis hand again, rose to his feet. 

"Now--we shall _hear_!" said Marco. "Now the waiting will soon be over. "

"Yes, sir. Now, we shall receive commands!" Lazarus answered. 

The Rat held out the newspapers. 

"May we read them yet?" he asked. 

"Until further orders, sir, " said Lazarus hurriedly and apologetically--"until further orders, it is still better that I should read themfirst. "

XXX

THE GAME IS AT AN END

So long as the history of Europe is written and read, the unparalleledstory of the Rising of the Secret Party in Samavia will stand out as oneof its most startling and romantic records. Every detail connected withthe astonishing episode, from beginning to end, was romantic even whenit was most productive of realistic results. When it is related, italways begins with the story of the tall and kingly Samavian youth whowalked out of the palace in the early morning sunshine singing theherdsmen's song of beauty of old days. Then comes the outbreak of theruined and revolting populace; then the legend of the morning on themountain side, and the old shepherd coming out of his cave and findingthe apparently dead body of the beautiful young hunter. Then the secretnursing in the cavern; then the jolting cart piled with sheepskinscrossing the frontier, and ending its journey at the barred entrance ofthe monastery and leaving its mysterious burden behind. And then thebitter hate and struggle of dynasties, and the handful of shepherds andherdsmen meeting in their cavern and binding themselves and their unbornsons and sons' sons by an oath never to be broken. Then the passing ofgenerations and the slaughter of peoples and the changing of kings, --andalways that oath remembered, and the Forgers of the Sword, at theirsecret work, hidden in forests and caves. Then the strange story of theuncrowned kings who, wandering in other lands, lived and died in silenceand seclusion, often laboring with their hands for their daily bread, but never forgetting that they must be kings, and ready, --even thoughSamavia never called. Perhaps the whole story would fill too manyvolumes to admit of it ever being told fully. 

But history makes the growing of the Secret Party clear, --though itseems almost to cease to be history, in spite of its efforts to be briefand speak only of dull facts, when it is forced to deal with the Bearingof the Sign by two mere boys, who, being blown as unremarked as any twograins of dust across Europe, lit the Lamp whose flame so flared up tothe high heavens that as if from the earth itself there sprang forthSamavians by the thousands ready to feed it--Iarovitch and Maranovitchswept aside forever and only Samavians remaining to cry aloud in ardentpraise and worship of the God who had brought back to them their LostPrince. The battle-cry of his name had ended every battle. Swords fellfrom hands because swords were not needed. The Iarovitch fled in terrorand dismay; the Maranovitch were nowhere to be found. Between night andmorning, as the newsboy had said, the standard of Ivor was raised andwaved from palace and citadel alike. From mountain, forest and plain, from city, village and town, its followers flocked to swear allegiance;broken and wounded legions staggered along the roads to join and kneelto it; women and children followed, weeping with joy and chanting songsof praise. The Powers held out their scepters to the lately prostrateand ignored country. Train-loads of food and supplies of all thingsneeded began to cross the frontier; the aid of nations was bestowed. Samavia, at peace to till its land, to raise its flocks, to mine itsores, would be able to pay all back. Samavia in past centuries had beenrich enough to make great loans, and had stored such harvests as warringcountries had been glad to call upon. The story of the crowning of theKing had been the wildest of all--the multitude of ecstatic people, famished, in rags, and many of them weak with wounds, kneeling at hisfeet, praying, as their one salvation and security, that he would goattended by them to their bombarded and broken cathedral, and at itshigh altar let the crown be placed upon his head, so that even those whoperhaps must die of their past sufferings would at least have paid theirpoor homage to the King Ivor who would rule their children and bringback to Samavia her honor and her peace. 

"Ivor! Ivor!" they chanted like a prayer, --"Ivor! Ivor!" in theirhouses, by the roadside, in the streets. 

"The story of the Coronation in the shattered Cathedral, whose roof hadbeen torn to fragments by bombs, " said an important London paper, "readslike a legend of the Middle Ages. But, upon the whole, there is inSamavia's national character, something of the mediaeval, still. "

 * * * * *

Lazarus, having bought and read in his top floor room every newspaperrecording the details which had reached London, returned to reportalmost verbatim, standing erect before Marco, the eyes under his shaggybrows sometimes flaming with exultation, sometimes filled with a rush oftears. He could not be made to sit down. His whole big body seemed tohave become rigid with magnificence. Meeting Mrs. Beedle in the passage, he strode by her with an air so thunderous that she turned and scuttledback to her cellar kitchen, almost falling down the stone steps in hernervous terror. In such a mood, he was not a person to face withoutsomething like awe. 

In the middle of the night, The Rat suddenly spoke to Marco as if heknew that he was awake and would hear him. 

"He has given all his life to Samavia!" he said. "When you traveled fromcountry to country, and lived in holes and corners, it was because bydoing it he could escape spies, and see the people who must be made tounderstand. No one else could have made them listen. An emperor wouldhave begun to listen when he had seen his face and heard his voice. Andhe could be silent, and wait for the right time to speak. He could keepstill when other men could not. He could keep his face still--and hishands--and his eyes. Now all Samavia knows what he has done, and that hehas been the greatest patriot in the world. We both saw what Samavianswere like that night in the cavern. They will go mad with joy when theysee his face!"

"They have seen it now, " said Marco, in a low voice from his bed. 

Then there was a long silence, though it was not quite silence becauseThe Rat's breathing was so quick and hard. 

"He--must have been at that coronation!" he said at last. "TheKing--what will the King do to--repay him?"

Marco did not answer. His breathing could be heard also. His mind waspicturing that same coronation--the shattered, roofless cathedral, theruins of the ancient and magnificent high altar, the multitude ofkneeling, famine-scourged people, the battle-worn, wounded and bandagedsoldiery! And the King! And his father! Where had his father stood whenthe King was crowned? Surely, he had stood at the King's right hand, andthe people had adored and acclaimed them equally!

"King Ivor!" he murmured as if he were in a dream. "King Ivor!"

The Rat started up on his elbow. 

"You will see him, " he cried out. "He's not a dream any longer. The Gameis not a game now--and it is ended--it is won! It was real--_he_ was real!Marco, I don't believe you hear. "

"Yes, I do, " answered Marco, "but it is almost more a dream than when itwas one. "

"The greatest patriot in the world is like a king himself!" raved TheRat. "If there is no bigger honor to give him, he will be made aprince--and Commander-in-Chief--and Prime Minister! Can't you hear thoseSamavians shouting, and singing, and praying? You'll see it all! Do youremember the mountain climber who was going to save the shoes he madefor the Bearer of the Sign? He said a great day might come when onecould show them to the people. It's come! He'll show them! I know howthey'll take it!" His voice suddenly dropped--as if it dropped into apit. "You'll see it all. But I shall not. "

Then Marco awoke from his dream and lifted his head. "Why not?" hedemanded. It sounded like a demand. 

"Because I know better than to expect it!" The Rat groaned. "You'vetaken me a long way, but you can't take me to the palace of a king. I'mnot such a fool as to think that, even of your father--"

He broke off because Marco did more than lift his head. He sat upright. 

"You bore the Sign as much as I did, " he said. "We bore it together. "

"Who would have listened to _me_?" cried The Rat. "_You_ were the son ofStefan Loristan. "

"You were the friend of his son, " answered Marco. "You went at thecommand of Stefan Loristan. You were the _army_ of the son of StefanLoristan. That I have told you. Where I go, you will go. We will say nomore of this--not one word. "

And he lay down again in the silence of a prince of the blood. And TheRat knew that he meant what he said, and that Stefan Loristan also wouldmean it. And because he was a boy, he began to wonder what Mrs. Beedlewould do when she heard what had happened--what had been happening allthe time a tall, shabby "foreigner" had lived in her dingy backsitting-room, and been closely watched lest he should go away withoutpaying his rent, as shabby foreigners sometimes did. The Rat saw himselfmanaging to poise himself very erect on his crutches while he told herthat the shabby foreigner was--well, was at least the friend of a King, and had given him his crown--and would be made a prince and aCommander-in-Chief--and a Prime Minister--because there was no higherrank or honor to give him. And his son--whom she had insulted--wasSamavia's idol because he had borne the Sign. And also that if she werein Samavia, and Marco chose to do it he could batter her wretchedlodging-house to the ground and put her in a prison--"and serve herjolly well right!"

The next day passed, and the next; and then there came a letter. It wasfrom Loristan, and Marco turned pale when Lazarus handed it to him. Lazarus and The Rat went out of the room at once, and left him to readit alone. It was evidently not a long letter, because it was not manyminutes before Marco called them again into the room. 

"In a few days, messengers--friends of my father's--will come to take usto Samavia. You and I and Lazarus are to go, " he said to The Rat. 

"God be thanked!" said Lazarus. "God be thanked!"

Before the messengers came, it was the end of the week. Lazarus hadpacked their few belongings, and on Saturday Mrs. Beedle was to be seenhovering at the top of the cellar steps, when Marco and The Rat left theback sitting-room to go out. 

"You needn't glare at me!" she said to Lazarus, who stood glowering atthe door which he had opened for them. "Young Master Loristan, I want toknow if you've heard when your father is coming back?"

"He will not come back, " said Marco. 

"He won't, won't he? Well, how about next week's rent?" said Mrs. Beedle. "Your man's been packing up, I notice. He's not got much tocarry away, but it won't pass through that front door until I've gotwhat's owing me. People that can pack easy think they can get away easy, and they'll bear watching. The week's up to-day. "

Lazarus wheeled and faced her with a furious gesture. "Get back to yourcellar, woman, " he commanded. "Get back under ground and stay there. Look at what is stopping before your miserable gate. "

A carriage was stopping--a very perfect carriage of dark brown. Thecoachman and footman wore dark brown and gold liveries, and the footmanhad leaped down and opened the door with respectful alacrity. "They arefriends of the Master's come to pay their respects to his son, " saidLazarus. "Are their eyes to be offended by the sight of you?"

"Your money is safe, " said Marco. "You had better leave us. "

Mrs. Beedle gave a sharp glance at the two gentlemen who had entered thebroken gate. They were of an order which did not belong to PhilibertPlace. They looked as if the carriage and the dark brown and goldliveries were every-day affairs to them. 

"At all events, they're two grown men, and not two boys without apenny, " she said. "If they're your father's friends, they'll tell mewhether my rent's safe or not. "

The two visitors were upon the threshold. They were both men of acertain self-contained dignity of type; and when Lazarus opened wide thedoor, they stepped into the shabby entrance hall as if they did not seeit. They looked past its dinginess, and past Lazarus, and The Rat, andMrs. Beedle--_through_ them, as it were, --at Marco. 

He advanced towards them at once. 

"You come from my father!" he said, and gave his hand first to the elderman, then to the younger. 

"Yes, we come from your father. I am Baron Rastka--and this is the CountVorversk, " said the elder man, bowing. 

"If they're barons and counts, and friends of your father's, they arewell-to-do enough to be responsible for you, " said Mrs. Beedle, ratherfiercely, because she was somewhat over-awed and resented the fact. "It's a matter of next week's rent, gentlemen. I want to know where it'scoming from. "

The elder man looked at her with a swift cold glance. He did not speakto her, but to Lazarus. "What is she doing here?" he demanded. 

Marco answered him. "She is afraid we cannot pay our rent, " he said. "Itis of great importance to her that she should be sure. "

"Take her away, " said the gentleman to Lazarus. He did not even glanceat her. He drew something from his coat-pocket and handed it to the oldsoldier. "Take her away, " he repeated. And because it seemed as if shewere not any longer a person at all, Mrs. Beedle actually shuffled downthe passage to the cellar-kitchen steps. Lazarus did not leave her untilhe, too, had descended into the cellar kitchen, where he stood andtowered above her like an infuriated giant. 

"To-morrow he will be on his way to Samavia, miserable woman!" he said. "Before he goes, it would be well for you to implore his pardon. "

But Mrs. Beedle's point of view was not his. She had recovered some ofher breath. 

"I don't know where Samavia is, " she raged, as she struggled to set herdusty, black cap straight. "I'll warrant it's one of these littleforeign countries you can scarcely see on the map--and not a decentEnglish town in it! He can go as soon as he likes, so long as he payshis rent before he does it. Samavia, indeed! You talk as if he wasBuckingham Palace!"

XXXI

"THE SON OF STEFAN LORISTAN"

When a party composed of two boys attended by a big soldierlyman-servant and accompanied by two distinguished-looking, elderly men, of a marked foreign type, appeared on the platform of Charing CrossStation they attracted a good deal of attention. In fact, the good looksand strong, well-carried body of the handsome lad with the thick blackhair would have caused eyes to turn towards him even if he had notseemed to be regarded as so special a charge by those who were with him. But in a country where people are accustomed to seeing a certain mannerand certain forms observed in the case of persons--however young--whoare set apart by the fortune of rank and distinction, and where thepopulace also rather enjoys the sight of such demeanor, it wasinevitable that more than one quick-sighted looker-on should comment onthe fact that this was not an ordinary group of individuals. 

"See that fine, big lad over there!" said a workman, whose head, with apipe in its mouth, stuck out of a third-class smoking carriage window. "He's some sort of a young swell, I'll lay a shillin'! Take a look athim, " to his mate inside. 

The mate took a look. The pair were of the decent, polytechnic-educatedtype, and were shrewd at observation. 

"Yes, he's some sort of young swell, " he summed him up. "But he's notEnglish by a long chalk. He must be a young Turk, or Russian, sent overto be educated. His suite looks like it. All but the ferret-faced chapon crutches. Wonder what he is!"

A good-natured looking guard was passing, and the first man hailed him. 

"Have we got any swells traveling with us this morning?" he asked, jerking his head towards the group. "That looks like it. Any one leavingWindsor or Sandringham to cross from Dover to-day?"

The man looked at the group curiously for a moment and then shook hishead. 

"They do look like something or other, " he answered, "but no one knowsanything about them. Everybody's safe in Buckingham Palace andMarlborough House this week. No one either going or coming. "

No observer, it is true, could have mistaken Lazarus for an ordinaryattendant escorting an ordinary charge. If silence had not still beenstrictly the order, he could not have restrained himself. As it was, hebore himself like a grenadier, and stood by Marco as if across his deadbody alone could any one approach the lad. 

"Until we reach Melzarr, " he had said with passion to the twogentlemen, --"until I can stand before my Master and behold him embracehis son--_behold_ him--I implore that I may not lose sight of him night orday. On my knees, I implore that I may travel, armed, at his side. I ambut his servant, and have no right to occupy a place in the samecarriage. But put me anywhere. I will be deaf, dumb, blind to all buthimself. Only permit me to be near enough to give my life if it isneeded. Let me say to my Master, 'I never left him. '"

"We will find a place for you, " the elder man said, "and if you are soanxious, you may sleep across his threshold when we spend the night at ahotel. "

"I will not sleep!" said Lazarus. "I will watch. Suppose there should bedemons of Maranovitch loose and infuriated in Europe? Who knows!"

"The Maranovitch and Iarovitch who have not already sworn allegiance toKing Ivor are dead on battlefields. The remainder are now Fedorovitchand praising God for their King, " was the answer Baron Rastka made him. 

But Lazarus kept his guard unbroken. When he occupied the nextcompartment to the one in which Marco traveled, he stood in the corridorthroughout the journey. When they descended at any point to changetrains, he followed close at the boy's heels, his fierce eyes on everyside at once and his hand on the weapon hidden in his broad leatherbelt. When they stopped to rest in some city, he planted himself in achair by the bedroom door of his charge, and if he slept he was notaware that nature had betrayed him into doing so. 

If the journey made by the young Bearers of the Sign had been a strangeone, this was strange by its very contrast. Throughout that pilgrimage, two uncared-for waifs in worn clothes had traveled from one place toanother, sometimes in third- or fourth-class continental railroadcarriages, sometimes in jolting diligences, sometimes in peasants'carts, sometimes on foot by side roads and mountain paths, and forestways. Now, two well-dressed boys in the charge of two men of the classwhose orders are obeyed, journeyed in compartments reserved for them, their traveling appurtenances supplying every comfort that luxury couldprovide. 

The Rat had not known that there were people who traveled in such amanner; that wants could be so perfectly foreseen; that railroadofficials, porters at stations, the staff of restaurants, could be bymagic transformed into active and eager servants. To lean against theupholstered back of a railway carriage and in luxurious ease lookthrough the window at passing beauties, and then to find books at yourelbow and excellent meals appearing at regular hours, these unknownperfections made it necessary for him at times to pull himself togetherand give all his energies to believing that he was quite awake. Awake hewas, and with much on his mind "to work out, "--so much, indeed, that onthe first day of the journey he had decided to give up the struggle, andwait until fate made clear to him such things as he was to be allowed tounderstand of the mystery of Stefan Loristan. 

What he realized most clearly was that the fact that the son of StefanLoristan was being escorted in private state to the country his fatherhad given his life's work to, was never for a moment forgotten. TheBaron Rastka and Count Vorversk were of the dignity and courteousreserve which marks men of distinction. Marco was not a mere boy tothem, he was the son of Stefan Loristan; and they were Samavians. Theywatched over him, not as Lazarus did, but with a gravity and forethoughtwhich somehow seemed to encircle him with a rampart. Without any air ofsubservience, they constituted themselves his attendants. His comfort, his pleasure, even his entertainment, were their private care. The Ratfelt sure they intended that, if possible, he should enjoy his journey, and that he should not be fatigued by it. They conversed with him as TheRat had not known that men ever conversed with boys, --until he had metLoristan. It was plain that they knew what he would be most interestedin, and that they were aware he was as familiar with the history ofSamavia as they were themselves. When he showed a disposition to hear ofevents which had occurred, they were as prompt to follow his lead asthey would have been to follow the lead of a man. That, The Rat arguedwith himself, was because Marco had lived so intimately with his fatherthat his life had been more like a man's than a boy's and had trainedhim in mature thinking. He was very quiet during the journey, and TheRat knew he was thinking all the time. 

The night before they reached Melzarr, they slept at a town some hoursdistant from the capital. They arrived at midnight and went to a quiethotel. 

"To-morrow, " said Marco, when The Rat had left him for the night, "to-morrow, we shall see him! God be thanked!"

"God be thanked!" said The Rat, also. And each saluted the other beforethey parted. 

In the morning, Lazarus came into the bedroom with an air so solemn thatit seemed as if the garments he carried in his hands were part of somereligious ceremony. 

"I am at your command, sir, " he said. "And I bring you your uniform. "

He carried, in fact, a richly decorated Samavian uniform, and the firstthing Marco had seen when he entered was that Lazarus himself was inuniform also. His was the uniform of an officer of the King's BodyGuard. 

"The Master, " he said, "asks that you wear this on your entrance toMelzarr. I have a uniform, also, for your aide-de-camp. "

When Rastka and Vorversk appeared, they were in uniforms also. It was auniform which had a touch of the Orient in its picturesque splendor. Ashort fur-bordered mantle hung by a jeweled chain from the shoulders, and there was much magnificent embroidery of color and gold. 

"Sir, we must drive quickly to the station, " Baron Rastka said to Marco. "These people are excitable and patriotic, and His Majesty wishes us toremain incognito, and avoid all chance of public demonstration until wereach the capital. " They passed rather hurriedly through the hotel tothe carriage which awaited them. The Rat saw that something unusual washappening in the place. Servants were scurrying round corners, andguests were coming out of their rooms and even hanging over thebalustrades. 

As Marco got into his carriage, he caught sight of a boy about his ownage who was peeping from behind a bush. Suddenly he darted away, andthey all saw him tearing down the street towards the station as fast ashis legs would carry him. 

But the horses were faster than he was. The party reached the station, and was escorted quickly to its place in a special saloon-carriagewhich awaited it. As the train made its way out of the station, Marcosaw the boy who had run before them rush on to the platform, waving hisarms and shouting something with wild delight. The people who werestanding about turned to look at him, and the next instant they had alltorn off their caps and thrown them up in the air and were shoutingalso. But it was not possible to hear what they said. 

"We were only just in time, " said Vorversk, and Baron Rastka nodded. 

The train went swiftly, and stopped only once before they reachedMelzarr. This was at a small station, on the platform of which stoodpeasants with big baskets of garlanded flowers and evergreens. They putthem on the train, and soon both Marco and The Rat saw that somethingunusual was taking place. At one time, a man standing on the narrowoutside platform of the carriage was plainly seen to be securinggarlands and handing up flags to men who worked on the roof. 

"They are doing something with Samavian flags and a lot of flowers andgreen things!" cried The Rat, in excitement. 

"Sir, they are decorating the outside of the carriage, " Vorversk said. "The villagers on the line obtained permission from His Majesty. The sonof Stefan Loristan could not be allowed to pass their homes withouttheir doing homage. "

"I understand, " said Marco, his heart thumping hard against his uniform. "It is for my father's sake. "

 * * * * *

At last, embowered, garlanded, and hung with waving banners, the traindrew in at the chief station at Melzarr. 

"Sir, " said Rastka, as they were entering, "will you stand up that thepeople may see you? Those on the outskirts of the crowd will have themerest glimpse, but they will never forget. "

Marco stood up. The others grouped themselves behind him. There arose aroar of voices, which ended almost in a shriek of joy which was like theshriek of a tempest. Then there burst forth the blare of brazeninstruments playing the National Hymn of Samavia, and mad voices joinedin it. 

If Marco had not been a strong boy, and long trained in self-control, what he saw and heard might have been almost too much to be borne. Whenthe train had come to a full stop, and the door was thrown open, evenRastka's dignified voice was unsteady as he said, "Sir, lead the way. Itis for us to follow. "

And Marco, erect in the doorway, stood for a moment, looking out uponthe roaring, acclaiming, weeping, singing and swaying multitude--andsaluted just as he had saluted The Squad, looking just as much a boy, just as much a man, just as much a thrilling young human being. 

Then, at the sight of him standing so, it seemed as if the crowd wentmad--as the Forgers of the Sword had seemed to go mad on the night inthe cavern. The tumult rose and rose, the crowd rocked, and leapt, and, in its frenzy of emotion, threatened to crush itself to death. But forthe lines of soldiers, there would have seemed no chance for any one topass through it alive. 

"I am the son of Stefan Loristan, " Marco said to himself, in order tohold himself steady. "I am on my way to my father. "

Afterward, he was moving through the line of guarding soldiers to theentrance, where two great state-carriages stood; and there, outside, waited even a huger and more frenzied crowd than that left behind. Hesaluted there again, and again, and again, on all sides. It was whatthey had seen the Emperor do in Vienna. He was not an Emperor, but hewas the son of Stefan Loristan who had brought back the King. 

"You must salute, too, " he said to The Rat, when they got into the statecarriage. "Perhaps my father has told them. It seems as if they knewyou. "

The Rat had been placed beside him on the carriage seat. He was inwardlyshuddering with a rapture of exultation which was almost anguish. Thepeople were looking at him--shouting at him--surely it seemed like itwhen he looked at the faces nearest in the crowd. Perhaps Loristan--

"Listen!" said Marco suddenly, as the carriage rolled on its way. "Theyare shouting to us in Samavian, 'The Bearers of the Sign!' That is whatthey are saying now. 'The Bearers of the Sign. '"

They were being taken to the Palace. That Baron Rastka and CountVorversk had explained in the train. His Majesty wished to receive them. Stefan Loristan was there also. 

The city had once been noble and majestic. It was somewhat Oriental, asits uniforms and national costumes were. There were domed and pillaredstructures of white stone and marble, there were great arches, and citygates, and churches. But many of them were half in ruins through war, and neglect, and decay. They passed the half-unroofed cathedral, standing in the sunshine in its great square, still in all its disasterone of the most beautiful structures in Europe. In the exultant crowdwere still to be seen haggard faces, men with bandaged limbs and headsor hobbling on sticks and crutches. The richly colored native costumeswere most of them worn to rags. But their wearers had the faces ofcreatures plucked from despair to be lifted to heaven. 

"Ivor! Ivor!" they cried; "Ivor! Ivor!" and sobbed with rapture. 

The Palace was as wonderful in its way as the white cathedral. Theimmensely wide steps of marble were guarded by soldiers. The huge squarein which it stood was filled with people whom the soldiers held incheck. 

"I am his son, " Marco said to himself, as he descended from the statecarriage and began to walk up the steps which seemed so enormously widethat they appeared almost like a street. Up he mounted, step by step, The Rat following him. And as he turned from side to side, to salutethose who made deep obeisance as he passed, he began to realize that hehad seen their faces before. 

"These who are guarding the steps, " he said, quickly under his breath toThe Rat, "are the Forgers of the Sword!"

There were rich uniforms everywhere when he entered the palace, andpeople who bowed almost to the ground as he passed. He was very young tobe confronted with such an adoring adulation and royal ceremony; but hehoped it would not last too long, and that after he had knelt to theKing and kissed his hand, he would see his father and hear his voice. Just to hear his voice again, and feel his hand on his shoulder!

Through the vaulted corridors, to the wide-opened doors of a magnificentroom he was led at last. The end of it seemed a long way off as heentered. There were many richly dressed people who stood in line as hepassed up toward the canopied dais. He felt that he had grown pale withthe strain of excitement, and he had begun to feel that he must bewalking in a dream, as on each side people bowed low and curtsied to theground. 

He realized vaguely that the King himself was standing, awaiting hisapproach. But as he advanced, each step bearing him nearer to thethrone, the light and color about him, the strangeness and magnificence, the wildly joyous acclamation of the populace outside the palace, madehim feel rather dazzled, and he did not clearly see any one single faceor thing. 

"His Majesty awaits you, " said a voice behind him which seemed to beBaron Rastka's. "Are you faint, sir? You look pale. "

He drew himself together, and lifted his eyes. For one full moment, after he had so lifted them, he stood quite still and straight, lookinginto the deep beauty of the royal face. Then he knelt and kissed thehands held out to him--kissed them both with a passion of boy love andworship. 

The King had the eyes he had longed to see--the King's hands were thosehe had longed to feel again upon his shoulder--the King was his father!the "Stefan Loristan" who had been the last of those who had waited andlabored for Samavia through five hundred years, and who had lived anddied kings, though none of them till now had worn a crown!

His father was the King!

 * * * * *

It was not that night, nor the next, nor for many nights that thetelling of the story was completed. The people knew that their King andhis son were rarely separated from each other; that the Prince's suiteof apartments were connected by a private passage with his father's. Thetwo were bound together by an affection of singular strength andmeaning, and their love for their people added to their feeling for eachother. In the history of what their past had been, there was a romancewhich swelled the emotional Samavian heart near to bursting. By mountainfires, in huts, under the stars, in fields and in forests, all that wasknown of their story was told and retold a thousand times, with sobs ofjoy and prayer breaking in upon the tale. 

But none knew it as it was told in a certain quiet but stately room inthe palace, where the man once known only as "Stefan Loristan, " but whomhistory would call the first King Ivor of Samavia, told his share of itto the boy whom Samavians had a strange and superstitious worship for, because he seemed so surely their Lost Prince restored in body andsoul--almost the kingly lad in the ancient portrait--some of them halfbelieved when he stood in the sunshine, with the halo about his head. 

It was a wonderful and intense story, that of the long wanderings andthe close hiding of the dangerous secret. Among all those who had knownthat a man who was an impassioned patriot was laboring for Samavia, andusing all the power of a great mind and the delicate ingenuity of agreat genius to gain friends and favor for his unhappy country, therehad been but one who had known that Stefan Loristan had a claim to theSamavian throne. He had made no claim, he had sought--not a crown--butthe final freedom of the nation for which his love had been a religion. 

"Not the crown!" he said to the two young Bearers of the Sign as theysat at his feet like schoolboys--"not a throne. 'The Life of mylife--for Samavia. ' That was what I worked for--what we have all workedfor. If there had risen a wiser man in Samavia's time of need, it wouldnot have been for me to remind them of their Lost Prince. I could havestood aside. But no man arose. The crucial moment came--and the one manwho knew the secret, revealed it. Then--Samavia called, and I answered. "

He put his hand on the thick, black hair of his boy's head. 

"There was a thing we never spoke of together, " he said. "I believedalways that your mother died of her bitter fears for me and the unendingstrain of them. She was very young and loving, and knew that there wasno day when we parted that we were sure of seeing each other aliveagain. When she died, she begged me to promise that your boyhood andyouth should not be burdened by the knowledge she had found it soterrible to bear. I should have kept the secret from you, even if shehad not so implored me. I had never meant that you should know the truthuntil you were a man. If I had died, a certain document would have beensent to you which would have left my task in your hands and made myplans clear. You would have known then that you also were a Prince Ivor, who must take up his country's burden and be ready when Samavia called. I tried to help you to train yourself for any task. You never failedme. "

"Your Majesty, " said The Rat, "I began to work it out, and think it mustbe true that night when we were with the old woman on the top of themountain. It was the way she looked at--at His Highness. "

"Say 'Marco, '" threw in Prince Ivor. "It's easier. He was my army, Father. "

Stefan Loristan's grave eyes melted. 

"Say 'Marco, '" he said. "You were his army--and more--when we bothneeded one. It was you who invented the Game!"

"Thanks, Your Majesty, " said The Rat, reddening scarlet. "You do megreat honor! But he would never let me wait on him when we weretraveling. He said we were nothing but two boys. I suppose that's whyit's hard to remember, at first. But my mind went on working untilsometimes I was afraid I might let something out at the wrong time. Whenwe went down into the cavern, and I saw the Forgers of the Sword go madover him--I _knew_ it must be true. But I didn't dare to speak. I knew youmeant us to wait; so I waited. "

"You are a faithful friend, " said the King, "and you have always obeyedorders!"

A great moon was sailing in the sky that night--just such a moon as hadsailed among the torn rifts of storm clouds when the Prince at Viennahad come out upon the balcony and the boyish voice had startled him fromthe darkness of the garden below. The clearer light of this night'ssplendor drew them out on a balcony also--a broad balcony of whitemarble which looked like snow. The pure radiance fell upon all they sawspread before them--the lovely but half-ruined city, the great palacesquare with its broken statues and arches, the splendid ghost of theunroofed cathedral whose High Altar was bare to the sky. 

They stood and looked at it. There was a stillness in which all theworld might have ceased breathing. 

"What next?" said Prince Ivor, at last speaking quietly and low. "Whatnext, Father?"

"Great things which will come, one by one, " said the King, "if we holdourselves ready. "

Prince Ivor turned his face from the lovely, white, broken city, and puthis brown hand on his father's arm. 

"Upon the ledge that night--" he said, "Father, you remember--?" TheKing was looking far away, but he bent his head:

"Yes. That will come, too, " he said. "Can you repeat it?"

"Yes, " said Ivor, "and so can the aide-de-camp. We've said it a hundredtimes. We believe it's true. 'If the descendant of the Lost Prince isbrought back to rule in Samavia, he will teach his people the Law of theOne, from his throne. He will teach his son, and that son will teach hisson, and he will teach his. And through such as these, the whole worldwill learn the Order and the Law. '"