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 sat on the seats and talked as people were
accustomed to seeing boys talk together. It was a sunny day and
exceptionally warm, and there were more saunterers and sitters
than usual, which was perhaps the reason why the portier at the
entrance gates gave such slight notice to the pair that he did
not observe that, though two boys came in, only one went out. He
did not, in fact, remember, when he saw The Rat swing by on his
crutches at closing-time, that he had entered in company with a
dark-haired lad who walked without any aid. It happened that,
when The Rat passed out, the portier at the entrance was much
interested in the aspect of the sky, which was curiously
threatening. There had been heavy clouds hanging about all day
and now and then blotting out the sunshine entirely, but the sun
had refused to retire altogether. Just now, however, the clouds
had piled themselves in thunderous, purplish mountains, and the
sun had been forced to set behind them.
``It's been a sort of battle since morning,'' the portier said.
``There will be some crashes and cataracts to-night.'' That was
what The Rat had thought when they had sat in the Fountain Garden
on a seat which gave them a good view of the balcony and the big
evergreen shrub, which they knew had the hollow in the middle,
though its circumference was so imposing. ``If there should be a
big storm, the evergreen will not save you much, though it may
keep off the worst,'' The Rat said. ``I wish there was room for
two.''
He would have wished there was room for two if he had seen Marco
marching to the stake. As the gardens emptied, the boys rose and
walked round once more, as if on their way out. By the time they
had sauntered toward the big evergreen, nobody was in the
Fountain Garden, and the last loiterers were moving toward the
arched stone entrance to the streets.
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 one noticed that anything had happened; no one looked
back. So The Rat swung down the walks and round the flower-beds
and passed into the street. And the 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
safe place. It was not in the least likely that any one would
enter the closed gardens; and if by rare chance some servant
passed through, he would not be in search of people who wished to
watch all night in the middle of an evergreen instead of going to
bed and to sleep. The hollow was well inclosed with greenery,
and there was room to sit down when one was tired of standing.
Marco stood for a long time because, by doing so, he could see
plainly the windows opening on the balcony if he gently pushed
aside some flexible young boughs. He had managed to discover in
his first visit to the gardens that the windows overlooking the
Fountain Garden were those which belonged to the Prince's own
suite of rooms. Those which opened on to the balcony lighted his
favorite apartment, which contained his best-loved books and
pictures and in which he spent most of his secluded leisure
hours.
Marco watched these windows anxiously. If the Prince had not
gone to Budapest,--if he were really only in retreat, and hiding
from his gay world among his treasures,--he would be living in
his favorite rooms and lights would show themselves. And if
there were lights, he might pass before a window because, since
he was inclosed in his garden, he need not fear being seen. The
twilight deepened into darkness and, because of the heavy clouds,
it was very dense. Faint gleams showed themselves in the lower
part of the palace, but none was lighted in the windows Marco
watched. He waited so long that it became evident that none was
to be lighted 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 the midst of his embowered tent. The Prince
was not in his retreat; he was probably not in Vienna, and the
rumor of his journey to Budapest had no doubt been true. So much
time lost through making a mistake--but it was best to have made
the venture. Not to have made it would have been to lose a
chance. The entrance was closed for the night and there was no
getting out of the gardens until they were opened for the next
day. He must stay in his hiding- place until the time when
people began to come and bring their books and knitting and sit
on the seats. Then he could stroll out without attracting
attention. But he had the night before him to spend as best he
could. That would not matter at all. He could tuck his cap
under his head and go to sleep on the ground. He could command
himself to waken once every half-hour and look for the lights.
He would not go to sleep until it was long past midnight--so long
past that there would not be one chance in a hundred that
anything could happen. But the clouds which made the night so
dark were giving forth low rumbling growls. At intervals a
threatening gleam of light shot across them and a sudden swish of
wind rushed through the trees in the garden. This happened
several times, and then Marco began to hear the patter of
raindrops. They were heavy and big drops, but few at first, and
then there was a new and more powerful rush of wind, a jagged
dart of light in the sky, and a tremendous crash. After that the
clouds tore themselves open and poured forth their contents in
floods. After the protracted struggle of the day it all seemed
to happen at once, as if a horde of huge lions had at one moment
been let loose: flame after flame of lightning, roar and crash
and sharp reports of thunder, shrieks of hurricane wind, torrents
of rain, as if some tidal-wave of the skies had gathered and
rushed and burst upon the earth. It was such a storm as people
remember for a lifetime and which in few lifetimes is seen at
all.
Marco stood still in the midst of the rage and flooding, blinding
roar of it. After the first few minutes he knew he could do
nothing to shield himself. Down the garden paths he heard
cataracts rushing. He held his cap pressed against his eyes
because he seemed to stand in the midst of darting flames. The
crashes, cannon reports and thunderings, and the jagged streams
of light came so close to one another that he seemed deafened as
well as blinded. He wondered if he should ever be able to hear
human voices again when it was over. That he was drenched to the
skin and that the water poured from his clothes as if he were
himself a cataract was so small a detail that he was scarcely
aware of it. He stood still, bracing his body, and waited. If
he had been a Samavian soldier in the trenches and such a storm
had broken upon him and his comrades, they could only have braced
themselves and waited. This was what he found himself thinking
when the tumult and downpour were at their worst. There were men
who had waited in the midst of a rain of bullets.
It was not long after this thought had come to him that there
occurred the first temporary lull in the storm. Its fury perhaps
reached its height and broke at that moment. A yellow flame had
torn its jagged way across the heavens, and an earth-rending
crash had thundered itself into rumblings which actually died
away before breaking forth again. Marco took his cap from his
eyes and drew a long breath. He drew two long breaths. It was
as he began drawing a third and realizing the strange feeling of
the almost stillness about him that he heard a new kind of sound
at the side of the garden nearest his hiding-place. It sounded
like the creak of a door opening somewhere in the wall behind the
laurel hedge. Some one was coming into the garden by a private
entrance. He pushed aside the young boughs again and tried to
see, but the darkness was 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 more than one person coming
toward where he stood, but not as if afraid of being heard;
merely as if they were at liberty to come in by what entrance
they chose. Marco remained very still. A sudden hope gave him a
shock of joy. If the man with the tired face chose to hide
himself from his acquaintances, he might choose to go in and out
by a private entrance. The footsteps drew near, crushing the wet
gravel, passed by, and seemed to pause somewhere near the
balcony; and them flame lit up the sky again and the thunder
burst forth once more.
But this was its last greal peal. The storm was at an end. Only
fainter and fainter rumblings and mutterings and paler and paler
darts followed. Even they were soon over, and the cataracts in
the paths had rushed themselves silent. But the darkness was
still deep.
It was deep to blackness in the hollow of the evergreen. Marco
stood in it, streaming with rain, but feeling nothing because he
was full of thought. He pushed aside his greenery and kept his
eyes on the place in the 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 so really. He began to breathe
quickly because he was waiting for something.
Suddenly he saw exactly where the windows were--because they were
all lighted!
His feeling of relief was great, but it did not last very long.
It was true that something had been gained in the certainty that
his man had not left Vienna. But what next? It would not be so
easy to follow him if he chose only to go out secretly at night.
What next? To spend the rest of the night watching a lighted
window was not enough. To-morrow night it might not be lighted.
But he kept his gaze fixed upon it. He tried to fix 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 not
know that any one was speaking to him. He knew that thoughts
were strong things. If angry thoughts in one man's mind will
create anger in the mind 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 a low intense voice. ``I am outside here waiting.
Listen! I must speak to you!''
He said it many times and kept his eyes fixed upon the window
which opened on to the balcony. Once he saw a man's figure cross
the room, but he could not be sure who it was. The last distant
rumblings of thunder had died away and the clouds were breaking.
It was not long before the dark mountainous billows broke apart,
and a brilliant full moon showed herself sailing in the rift,
suddenly flooding everything with light. Parts of the garden
were silver white, and the tree shadows were like black velvet.
A silvery lance pierced even into the hollow of Marco's evergreen
and struck across his face.
Perhaps it was this sudden change which attracted the attention
of those inside 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 stepped out 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
and himself. It was a wonderful, triumphant queen of a moon.
But something brought him back to earth. A low, but strong and
clear, boy-voice came up to him from the garden path below.
``The Lamp is lighted. The Lamp is lighted,'' it said, and the
words sounded almost as if some one were uttering a prayer. They
seemed to call to him, to arrest him, to draw him.
He stood still a few seconds in dead silence. Then he bent over
the balustrade. 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 is speaking.''
``Yes, it is a boy's voice,'' it answered, in a way which somehow
moved him, because it was so ardent. ``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 he stood. Then the man he had been following so many days
appeared at his side.
``How long have you been here?'' he asked.
``Before the gates closed. I hid myself in the hollow of the big
shrub there, 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 --but it 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. ``A storm is nothing.''
There was a silence. Marco knew that his companion was pausing
to turn something over in his mind.
``So-o?'' he said slowly, at length. ``The Lamp is lighted, And
YOU are sent to bear the Sign.'' Something in his voice made
Marco feel that he was 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 of moonlight striking through the branches. Let us step
aside and stand under it.''
Marco did as he was told. The shaft of moonlight fell upon his
uplifted face and showed its young strength and darkness, quite
splendid for the moment in a triumphant glow of joy in obstacles
overcome. Raindrops hung on his hair, but he did not look
draggled, only very wet and picturesque. 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 of Stefan 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 I require its service. I have attached to my
own apartments a good safe little room where I sometimes keep
people.
You can dry your clothes and sleep 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
towards the palace in the shadow, Marco noticed that he moved
hesitatingly, as if he had not quite decided what he should do.
He stopped rather suddenly and turned again to Marco, who was
following him.
``There is some one in the room I just now left,'' he said, ``an
old man--whom it might interest to see you. It might also be a
good thing for him to feel interest in you. I choose that he
shall see you --as you are.''
``I am at your command, Highness,'' Marco answered. He knew his
companion was 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 without surprise.''
They passed under the balcony and paused at a low stone doorway
hidden behind shrubs. The door was a beautiful one, Marco saw
when it was opened, and the corridor disclosed was beautiful
also, though it had an air of quiet and aloofness which was not
so much secret as private. A perfect though narrow staircase
mounted from it to the next floor. After ascending it, the
Prince led the way through a short corridor and stopped 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.
Each piece of furniture in it, the hangings, the tapestries, and
pictures on the wall were all such as might well have found
themselves adorning a museum. Marco remembered the common report
of his escort's favorite amusement of collecting wonders and
furnishing his house with the things others exhibited only as
marvels of art and handicraft. The place was rich and mellow
with exquisitely chosen beauties.
In a massive chair upon the heart sat a figure with bent head.
It was a tall old man with white hair and moustache. His elbows
rested upon the arm of his chair and he leaned his forehead on
his hand as if he were weary.
Marco's companion crossed the room and stood beside him, speaking
in a lowered voice. Marco could not at first hear what he said.
He himself stood quite still, waiting. The white-haired man
lifted his head and listened. It seemed as though almost at once
he was singularly interested. The lowered voice was slightly
raised at last and Marco heard 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
with questioning curiosity touched with grave surprise. He had
keen and clear blue eyes.
Then Marco, still erect and silent, waited again. The Prince had
merely said to him, ``an old man whom it might interest to see
you.'' He had plainly intended that, whatsoever happened, he
must make no outward sign of seeing more than he had been told he
would see --``an old man.'' It was for him to show no
astonishment or recognition. He had been brought here not 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 he had seen the white head and tall form not many days
before, surmounted by brilliant emerald plumes, hung with jeweled
decorations, in the royal carriage, escorted by banners, and
helmets, and following troops whose tramping feet kept time to
bursts of military music while the populace bared their heads and
cheered.
``He is like his father,'' this personage said to the Prince.
``But if any one but Loristan had sent him--His looks please
me.'' Then suddenly to Marco, ``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 know how Samavia stands?''
``She does not stand,'' said Marco. ``The Iarovitch and the
Maranovitch have fought as hyenas fight, until each has torn the
other into fragments--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
strong party rose--and a greater power chose not to
interfere--the country might see better days.'' He looked at him
a few moments longer and then waved his hand kindly.
``You are a fine Samavian,'' he said. ``I am glad of that. You
may go. Good night.''
Marco bowed respectfully and the man with the tired face led him
out of the room.
It was just before he left him in the small quiet chamber in
which he was to sleep that the Prince gave him a final curious
glance. ``I remember now,'' he said. ``In the room, when you
answered the question about Samavia, I was sure that I had seen
you before. It was the day of the celebration. There was a
break in the crowd and I saw a boy looking at me. It was you.''
``Yes,'' said Marco, ``I have followed you each time you have
gone out since then, but I could never get near enough to speak.
To- night seemed only one chance in a thousand.''
``You are doing your work more like a man than a boy,'' was the
next speech, and it was made reflectively. ``No man could have
behaved more perfectly than you did just now, when discretion and
composure were necessary.'' Then, after a moment's pause, ``He
was deeply interested and deeply pleased. Good night.''
When the gardens had been thrown open the next morning and people
were passing in and out again, Marco passed out also. He was
obliged to tell himself two or three times that he had not
wakened from an amazing dream. He quickened his pace after he
had crossed the street, because he wanted to get home to the
attic and talk to The Rat. There was a narrow side-street it was
necessary for him to pass through if he wished to make a short
cut. As he turned into it, he saw a curious figure leaning on
crutches against a wall. It looked damp and forlorn, and he
wondered if it could be a beggar. It was not. It was The Rat,
who suddenly saw who was approaching and swung forward. His face
was pale and haggard and he looked worn and frightened. He
dragged off his cap and spoke in a voice which was hoarse as a
crow's.
``God be thanked!'' he said. ``God be thanked!'' as people
always said it when they received the Sign, alone. But there was
a kind of anguish in his 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
tremblingly at his arm as if to make sure he was real. ``If
there was not room for two in the hollow, there was room for one
in the street.
Was it my place to 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 as well as I could. What did I care? Crutches don't
prevent a fellow waiting. I wouldn't have left you if you'd
given me orders. And that would have been mutiny. When you did
not come out as soon as the gates opened, I felt as if my head
got on fire. How could I know what had happened? I've not the
nerve and backbone you have. I go half mad.'' For a second or
so Marco did not answer. But when he put his hand on the damp
sleeve, The Rat actually started, because it seemed as though he
were 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 you are near me, I feel--I feel as if I were a royal
prince attended by an army. You ARE my army.'' And he pulled
off his cap with quick boyishness and 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 took some time to relate; and when he ended, he took
an envelope from his pocket 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,''
Marco explained. ``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
thought had shot through his mind. But it was not a thought he
could speak of to Marco.
``I cannot tell. I thought that it was for some reason he did
not expect me to know,'' Marco said. ``We will do as he told us.
As quickly as we can.'' They looked over the newspapers, as they
did every day. All that could be gathered from any of them was
that the opposing armies of Samavia seemed each to have reached
the culmination of disaster and exhaustion. Which party had the
power left to take any final step which could call itself a
victory, it was impossible to say. Never had a country been in a
more desperate case.
``It is the time!'' said The Rat, glowering over his map. ``If
the Secret Party rises suddenly now, it can take Melzarr almost
without a blow. It can sweep through the country and disarm both
armies.
They're weakened--they're half starved--they're bleeding to
death; they WANT to be disarmed. Only the Iarovitch and the
Maranovitch keep on with the struggle because each is fighting
for the power to tax the people and make 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 Iarovitch they find.
And serve them right!''
``Let us spend the rest of the day in studying the road-map
again,'' said Marco. ``To-night we must be on the way to
Samavia!''
