XXVI
ACROSS THE FRONTIER
That one day, a week later, two tired and travel- worn
boy-mendicants should drag themselves with slow and weary feet
across the frontier line between Jiardasia and Samavia, was not
an incident to awaken suspicion or even to attract attention.
War and hunger and anguish had left the country stunned and
broken. Since the worst had happened, no one was curious as to
what would befall them next. If Jiardasia herself had become a
foe, instead of a friendly neighbor, and had sent across the
border galloping hordes of soldiery, there would only have been
more shrieks, and home-burnings, and slaughter which no one dare
resist. But, so far, Jiardasia had remained peaceful. The two
boys--one of them on crutches--had evidently traveled far on
foot. Their poor clothes were dusty and travel-stained, and they
stopped and asked for water at the first hut across the line.
The one who walked without crutches had some coarse bread in a
bag slung over his shoulder, and they sat on the roadside and ate
it as if they were hungry. The old grandmother who lived alone
in the hut sat and stared at them without any curiosity. She may
have vaguely wondered why any one crossed into Samavia in these
days. But she did not care to know their reason. Her big son
had lived in a village which belonged to the Maranovitch and he
had been called out to fight for his lords. He had not wanted to
fight and had not known what the quarrel was about, but he was
forced to obey. He had kissed his handsome wife and four sturdy
children, blubbering aloud when he left them. His village and
his good crops and his house must be left behind. Then the
Iarovitch swept through the pretty little cluster of homesteads
which belonged to their enemy. They were mad with rage because
they had met with great losses in a battle not far away, and, as
they swooped through, they burned and killed, and trampled down
fields and vineyards. The old woman's son never saw either the
burned walls of his house or the bodies of his wife and children,
because he had been killed himself in the battle for which the
Iarovitch were revenging themselves. Only the old grandmother
who lived in the hut near the frontier line and stared vacantly
at the passers-by remained alive. She wearily gazed at people
and wondered why she did not hear news from her son and her
grandchildren. But that was all.
When the boys were over the frontier and well on their way along
the roads, 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 the way--forests so far-reaching and with such
thick undergrowth that full-grown men could easily have hidden
themselves. It was because of this, perhaps, that this part of
the country had seen little fighting. There was too great
opportunity for secure ambush for a foe. As the two travelers
went on, they heard of burned villages and towns destroyed, but
they were towns and villages nearer Melzarr and other
fortress-defended cities, or they were in the country surrounding
the castles and estates of powerful nobles and leaders. It was
true, as Marco had said to the white-haired personage, that the
Maranovitch and Iarovitch had fought with the savageness of
hyenas until at last the forces of each side lay torn and
bleeding, their strength, their resources, their supplies
exhausted.
Each day left them weaker and more desperate. Europe looked on
with small interest in either party but with growing desire that
the disorder should end and cease to interfere with commerce.
All this and much more Marco and The Rat knew, but, as they made
their cautious way through byways of the maimed and tortured
little country, they learned other things. They learned that the
stories of its beauty and fertility were not romances. Its
heaven-reaching mountains, its immense plains of rich verdure on
which flocks and herds might have fed by thousands, its splendor
of deep forest and broad clear rushing rivers had a primeval
majesty such as the first human creatures might have found on
earth in the days of the Garden of Eden. The two boys traveled
through forest and woodland when it was possible to leave the
road. It was safe to thread a way among huge trees and tall
ferns and young saplings. It was not always easy but it was
safe. Sometimes they saw a charcoal-burner's hut or 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, no one refused to share the little he had. It soon became
plain to them that they were thought to be two young fugitives
whose homes had probably been destroyed and who were wandering
about with no thought but that of finding safety until the worst
was over. That one of them traveled on crutches added to their
apparent helplessness, and that he could not speak the language
of the country made him more an object of pity. The peasants did
not know what language he spoke. Sometimes a foreigner came to
find work in this small town or that. The poor lad might have
come to the country with his father and mother and then have been
caught in the whirlpool of war and tossed out on the world
parent-less. But no one asked questions. Even in their
desolation they were silent and noble people who were too
courteous for curiosity.
``In the old days they were simple and stately and kind. All
doors were open to travelers. The master of the poorest hut
uttered a blessing and a welcome when a stranger crossed his
threshold. It was the custom of the 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 was this--`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. They carry themselves as if they had been drilled--both
men and women.''
It was not through the blood-drenched part of the unhappy land
their way led 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 the use of the army; flocks and herds had
been driven away, and faces were gaunt and gray. Those who had
as yet only lost crops and herds knew that homes and lives might
be torn from them at any moment. Only old men and women and
children were left to wait for any fate which the chances of war
might deal out to them.
When they were given food from some poor store, Marco would offer
a little 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 ruined home he had been able to snatch at and
secrete some poor hoard which might save him from starvation.
Often the women would not take what he offered. Their journey
was a hard and hungry one. They must make it all on foot and
there was little food to be found. But each of them knew how to
live on scant fare. They traveled mostly by night and slept
among the ferns and undergrowth through the day. They drank from
running brooks and bathed in them. Moss and ferns made soft and
sweet-smelling beds, and trees roofed them. Sometimes they lay
long and talked while they rested. And at length a day came when
they knew they were nearing their journey's end.
``It is nearly over now,'' Marco said, after they had thrown
themselves down 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 AS YOU CAN.' He said it twice. As
if--something were going to happen.''
``Perhaps it will happen more suddenly than we think--the thing
he meant,'' 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 the end!''
Marco rose on his elbow also. He was very thin as a result of
hard travel and scant feeding. His thinness made his eyes look
immense and black as pits. But they burned and were beautiful
with their own fire.
``Yes,'' he said, breathing quickly. ``And though we do not know
what the end 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
the others,'' The Rat said.
``So have I,'' Marco answered. ``His church is built on the side
of this mountain. I wonder what he will say to us.''
Both had the same reason for wanting to see him. In his youth he
had served in the monastery over the frontier--the one which,
till it was destroyed in a revolt, had treasured the
five-hundred-year-old story of the beautiful royal lad brought to
be hidden among the brotherhood by the ancient shepherd. In the
monastery the memory of the Lost Prince was as the memory of a
saint. It had been told that one of the early brothers, who was
a decorator and a painter, had made a picture of him with a faint
halo shining about his head. The young acolyte who had served
there must have heard wonderful legends. But the monastery had
been burned, and the young acolyte had in later years crossed the
frontier and become the priest of a few mountaineers whose little
church clung to the mountain side. He had worked hard and
faithfully and was worshipped by his people. Only the secret
Forgers of the Sword knew that his most ardent worshippers were
those with whom he prayed and to whom he gave blessings in dark
caverns under the earth, where arms piled themselves and men with
dark strong faces sat together in the dim light and laid plans
and wrought schemes.
This Marco and The Rat did not know as they talked of their
desire to see him.
``He may not choose to tell us anything,'' said Marco. ``When we
have given him the Sign, he may turn away and say nothing as some
of the others did. He may have nothing to say which we should
hear. Silence may be the order for him, too.''
It would not be a long or dangerous climb to the little church on
the rock. They could sleep or rest all day and begin it at
twilight. So after 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
human beings ever climbed the hill, except by the narrow rough
path leading to the church, that the little wild creatures had
not learned to be afraid of them. Once, during the afternoon, a
hare hopping along under the ferns to make a visit stopped by
Marco's head, and, after looking at him a few seconds with his
lustrous eyes, began to nibble the ends of his hair. He only did
it from curiosity and because he wondered if it might be a new
kind of grass, but he did not like it and stopped nibbling almost
at once, after which he looked at it again, moving the soft
sensitive end of his nose rapidly for a second or so, and then
hopped away to attend to his own affairs. A very large and
handsome green stag-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 two sleeping figures, but, as
they lay so quietly, there seemed nothing to be frightened about.
A beautiful little field mouse running past discovered that there
were crumbs lying about and ate all she could find on the moss.
After that she crept into Marco's pocket and found some excellent
ones and had quite a feast. But she disturbed nobody and the
boys slept on.
It was a bird's evening song which awakened them both. The bird
alighted on the branch of a tree near them and her trill was
rippling clear and sweet. The evening air had freshened and was
fragrant with hillside scents. When Marco first rolled over and
opened his eyes, he thought the most delicious thing on earth was
to waken from sleep on a hillside at evening and hear a bird
singing. It seemed to make exquisitely real to him the fact that
he was in Samavia--that the Lamp was lighted and his work was
nearly done. The Rat awakened when he did, and for a few minutes
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 to London--Number 7 Philibert Place. After all the
places we've been to--what will it look like?''
``It will be like wakening out of a dream,'' said Marco. ``It's
not beautiful--Philibert Place. But HE will be there,'' And it
was as if a light lighted itself in his face and shone through
the very darkness of it.
And The Rat's face lighted in almost exactly the same way. And
he pulled off 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 of us. 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 be thanked!'' he said. ``Let us begin to climb.''
They pushed their way through the ferns and wandered in and out
through trees until they found the little path. The hill was
thickly clothed with forest and the little path was sometimes
dark and steep; but they knew that, if they followed it, they
would at last come out to a place where there were scarcely any
trees at all, and on a crag they would find 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 for
morning Mass and for vespers, wheresoever he wandered between
times.
There were many stars in the sky when at last a turn of the path
showed them the church above them. It was little and built of
rough stone. It looked as if the priest himself and his
scattered flock might have broken and carried or rolled bits of
the hill to put it together. It had the small, round,
mosque-like summit the Turks had brought into Europe in centuries
past. It was so tiny that it would hold but a very small
congregation--and close to it was a shed-like house, which was of
course the 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
draw water,'' 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 in the water. Then it was drawn up, and it seemed some
one drank long. Then they saw a dim figure move forward and
stand still. Then they heard a voice begin to pray aloud, as if
the owner, being accustomed to utter solitude, 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
heard their feet on the path, and saw them almost as soon as he
heard them. He ended his prayer and watched them coming. A lad
on crutches, who moved as lightly and easily as a bird--and a lad
who, even yards away, was noticeable for a bearing of his body
which was neither haughty nor proud but set him somehow aloof
from every other lad one had ever seen. A magnificent
lad--though, as he drew near, the starlight showed his face thin
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 lifted his black head, squared his shoulders and uttered his
message for the last time.
``The Lamp is lighted, Father,'' he said. ``The Lamp is
lighted.''
The old priest stood quite still and gazed into his face. The
next moment he bent his head so that he could look at him
closely. It
seemed almost as if he were frightened and wanted to make sure of
something. At the moment it flashed through The Rat's mind that
the old, old woman on the 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
a light''--and he glanced towards the house.
It was The Rat who, with one whirl, swung through the door and
seized the candle. He guessed what he wanted. He held it
himself so that the flare fell on Marco's face.
The old priest drew nearer and nearer. He gasped for breath.
``You are the son of Stefan Loristan!'' he cried. ``It is HIS
SON who brings the Sign.''
He fell upon his knees and hid his face in his hands. Both the
boys heard him sobbing and praying--praying and sobbing at once.
They glanced at each other. The Rat was bursting with
excitement, but he felt a little awkward also and wondered what
Marco would do. An old fellow on his knees, crying, made a chap
feel as if he didn't know what to say. Must you comfort him or
must you let him go on?
Marco only stood quite still and looked at him with understanding
and gravity.
``Yes, Father, he said. ``I am the son of Stefan Loristan, and I
have given the Sign to all. You are the last one. The Lamp is
lighted. I could weep for gladness, too.''
The priest's tears and prayers ended. He rose to his feet--a
rugged-faced old man with long and thick white hair which fell on
his shoulders--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 of allegiance 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 to train myself to remember, and be ready
when I was called. When my father saw I was ready, he trusted
me to go out and give the Sign. He told me the 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 hand like a young king toward The Rat. He wanted each
man they met to understand the value of The Rat. ``He chose for
me this companion,'' he added. ``I have done nothing alone.''
``He let me call myself his aide-de-camp!'' burst forth The Rat.
``I would be cut into inch-long strips for him.''
Marco translated.
Then the priest looked at The Rat and slowly nodded his head.
``Yes,'' he said. ``He knew best. He always knows best. That I
see.''
``How did you know I was my father's son?'' asked Marco. ``You
have seen him?''
``No,'' was the answer; ``but I have seen a picture which is said
to be his image--and you are the picture's self. It is, indeed,
a strange thing that two of God's creatures should be so alike.
There is a purpose in it.'' He led them into his bare small
house and made them rest, and drink goat's milk, and eat food.
As he moved about the hut-like place, there was a mysterious and
exalted look on his face.
``You must be refreshed before we leave here,'' he said at last.
``I am going to take you to a place hidden in the mountains where
there are men whose hearts will leap at the sight of you. To see
you will give them new power and courage and new resolve. To-
night they meet as they or their ancestors have met for
centuries, but now they are nearing the end of their waiting.
And I shall bring them the son of Stefan Loristan, who is 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 all day. They were prepared to follow him when he was
ready.
The last faint hint of twilight had died into night and the stars
were at their thickest when they set out together. The
white-haired old man took 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. Sometimes they seemed to be
walking around the mountain, sometimes they were climbing,
sometimes they dragged themselves over rocks or fallen trees, or
struggled through almost impassable thickets; more than once they
descended into ravines and, almost at the risk of their lives,
clambered and 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 and the 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 to Marco. ``You can tell HIM about this, can't you?
And that the crutches helped instead of being in the way?''
They had been out nearly two hours when they came to a place
where the undergrowth was thick and a huge tree had fallen
crashing down among it in some storm. Not far from the tree was
an outcropping rock. Only the top of it was to be seen above the
heavy tangle.
They had pushed their way through the jungle of bushes and young
saplings, led by their companion. They did not know where they
would be led next and were supposed to push forward further when
the priest stopped by the outcropping rock. He stood silent a
few minutes--quite motionless--as if he were listening to the
forest and the night. But there 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
leaning forward, staring with almost unbelieving eyes, not at the
priest or his staff, but at THE ROCK ITSELF!
It was moving! Yes, it moved. The priest stepped aside and it
slowly turned, as if worked by a lever. As it turned, it
gradually revealed a chasm of darkness dimly lighted, and the
priest spoke to Marco. ``There are hiding-places like this all
through Samavia,'' he said. ``Patience and misery have waited
long in them. They are the caverns of the Forgers of the Sword.
Come!''
