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 at Charing Cross, the weather seemed suddenly to have
considered that it had so far been too lenient and must express
itself much more vigorously. So it had gathered together its
resources and poured them forth in a deluge which surprised even
Londoners.
The rain so beat against and streamed down the windows of the
third-class carriage in which Marco and The Rat sat that they
could not see through them.
They had made their homeward journey much more rapidly than they
had made the one on which they had been outward bound. It had
of course taken them some time to tramp back to the frontier, but
there had been no reason for stopping anywhere after they had
once reached the railroads. They had been tired sometimes, but
they had slept heavily on the wooden seats of the railway
carriages. Their one desire was to get home. No. 7 Philibert
Place rose before them in its noisy dinginess as the one
desirable spot on earth. To Marco it held his father. And it
was Loristan alone that The Rat saw when he thought of it.
Loristan as he would look when he saw him come into the room with
Marco, and stand up and salute, and say: ``I have brought him
back, sir. He has carried out every single order you gave
him--every single one. So have I.'' So he had. He had been
sent as his companion and attendant, and he had been faithful in
every thought. If Marco would have allowed him, he would have
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 and that one was of no more importance than the
other. He had secretly even felt this attitude to be a sort of
grievance. It would have been more like a game if one of them
had been the mere servitor of the other, and if that other had
blustered a little, and issued commands, and demanded sacrifices.
If the faithful vassal could have been wounded or cast into a
dungeon for his young commander's sake, the adventure would have
been more complete. But though their journey had been full of
wonders and rich with beauties, though the memory of it hung in
The Rat's mind like a background of tapestry embroidered in all
the hues of the earth with all the splendors of it, there had
been no dungeons and no wounds. After the adventure in Munich
their unimportant boyishness had not even been observed by such
perils as might have threatened them. As The Rat had said, they
had ``blown like grains of dust'' through Europe and had been as
nothing. And this was what Loristan had planned, this was what
his grave thought had wrought out. If they had been men, they
would not have been so safe.
From the time they had left the old priest on the hillside to
begin their journey back to the frontier, they both had been
given to long silences 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 were no more plans to be made and no
more uncertainties to contemplate. They were 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 many things. Marco
was full of longing to see his father's face and hear his voice
again. He wanted to feel the pressure of his hand on his
shoulder--to be sure that he was real and not a dream. This last
was because during this homeward journey everything that had
happened often seemed to be a dream. It had all been so
wonderful--the climber standing looking down at them the morning
they awakened on the Gaisburg; the mountaineer shoemaker
measuring his foot in the small shop; the old, old woman and her
noble lord; the Prince with his face turned upward as he stood on
the balcony looking at the moon; the old priest kneeling and
weeping for joy; the great cavern with the yellow light upon the
crowd of passionate faces; the curtain which fell apart and
showed the still eyes and the black hair with the halo about it!
Now that they were left behind, they all seemed like things he
had dreamed. But he had not dreamed 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 wild and feverish than Marco's. They leaped forward in
spite of him. It was no use to pull himself up and tell himself
that he was a fool. Now that all was over, he had time to be as
great a fool as he was inclined to be. But how he longed to
reach London and stand face to face with Loristan! The sign was
given. The Lamp was lighted. What would happen next? His
crutches were under his arms before the train drew up.
``We're there! We're there!'' he cried restlessly to Marco.
They had no luggage to delay them. They took their bags and
followed the crowd along the platform. The rain was rattling
like bullets against the high glassed roof. People turned to
look at Marco, seeing the glow of exultant eagerness in his face.
They thought he must be some boy coming home for the holidays and
going to make a visit at a place he delighted in. The rain was
dancing on the pavements when they reached the entrance.
``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, and Marco's eyes looked as if he were gazing at something
a long way off--gazing at it, and wondering.
``We've come back!'' said The Rat, in an unsteady voice. ``We've
been--and we've come back!'' Then suddenly turning to look at
Marco, ``Does it ever seem to you as if, perhaps, it--it wasn't
true?''
``Yes,'' Marco answered, ``but it was true. And it's done.''
Then he added after 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
the roaring, untidy road, where the busses and drays and carts
struggled past each other with their loads, and the tired-faced
people hurried in crowds along the pavement, they looked at them
all feeling that they had left their dream far behind indeed.
But they were at home.
It was a good thing to see Lazarus open the door and stand
waiting before they had time to get out of the cab. Cabs stopped
so seldom before houses in Philibert Place that the inmates were
always prompt to open their doors. When Lazarus had seen this
one stop at the broken iron gate, he had known whom it brought.
He had kept an eye on the windows faithfully for many a day--even
when he knew that it was too soon, even if all was well, for any
travelers to return.
He bore himself with an air more than usually military and his
salute when Marco crossed the threshold was formal stateliness
itself. But his greeting 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 it devoutly.
``God be thanked!'' he said again.
``My father?'' Marco began, ``my father is out?'' If he had been
in the house, 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 room was empty.
Marco did not speak; neither did The Rat. They both stood still
in the middle of the shabby carpet and looked up at the old
soldier. Both had suddenly the same feeling that the earth had
dropped from beneath their feet. Lazarus saw it and spoke fast
and with tremor. He was almost as agitated 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.
``The Master has gone.''
The Rat felt something hot rush into his eyes. He brushed it
away that he might look at Marco's face. The shock had changed
it very much. Its glowing eager joy had died out, it had turned
paler and his brows were drawn together. For a few seconds he
did not speak at all, and, when he did speak, The Rat knew that
his voice was steady only because he willed that it should be so.
``If he has gone,'' he said, ``it is because he had a strong
reason. It was because he also was under orders.''
``He said that you would know that,'' Lazarus answered. ``He was
called in such haste that he had not a moment in which to do more
than write a few words. He left them for you on his desk
there.''
Marco walked over to the desk and opened the envelope which was
lying there. There were only a few lines on the sheet of paper
inside and they had 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 blood rushing through his veins. ``He has gone to Samavia!''
Lazarus drew his hand roughly across his eyes and his voice shook
and sounded hoarse.
``There has been great disaffection in the camps of the
Maranovitch,'' he said. ``The remnant of the army has gone mad.
Sir, silence is still the order, but who knows--who knows? God
alone.''
He had not finished speaking before he turned his head as if
listening to sounds in the road. They were the kind of sounds
which had broken up The Squad, and sent it rushing down the
passage into the street to seize on a newspaper. There was to be
heard a commotion of newsboys shouting riotously 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 a newsboy running by shouted at the topmost power of
his lungs the news he had to sell: ``Assassination of King
Michael Maranovitch by his own soldiers! Assassination of the
Maranovitch! Extra! Extra! Extra!''
When The Rat returned with a newspaper, Lazarus interposed
between him and 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 was to repeat to you. He requested
you NOT to read the newspapers until he himself 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 report such things as it is well that you should know. There
have been dark tales told and there may be darker ones. He asked
that you would not read for yourself. If you meet again--when
you meet again''--he corrected himself hastily--``when you meet
again, he says you will understand. I am your servant. I will
read and answer all such questions as I can.''
The Rat handed him the paper and they returned to the back room
together.
``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
details had not yet reached London. It was briefly that the head
of the Maranovitch party had been put to death by infuriated
soldiers of his own army. It was an army drawn chiefly from a
peasantry which did not love its leaders, or wish to fight, and
suffering and brutal treatment had 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.
Not The Rat alone but Marco also noted a grim change in him. It
was grim because 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 himself to look anxious and the resolve set
his jaw hard and carved new lines in his rugged face. Each boy
thought this in secret, but did not wish to put it into words.
If he was anxious, he could only be so for one reason, and each
realized what the reason must be. Loristan had gone to
Samavia--to the torn and bleeding country filled with riot and
danger. If he had gone, it could only have been because its
danger called him and he went to face it at its worst. Lazarus
had been left behind to watch over them. Silence was still the
order, and what he knew he could not tell them, and perhaps he
knew little more than that a great life might be lost.
Because his master was absent, the old soldier seemed to feel
that he must comfort himself with a greater ceremonial reverance
than he had ever 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. The ceremonious service even extended itself
to The Rat, who appeared to have taken a new place in his mind.
He also seemed now to be a person to be waited upon and replied
to with dignity and formal respect.
When the evening meal was served, Lazarus drew out Loristan's
chair at the 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 at the 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,
the light from the street lamp, shining into the small bedroom,
fell on two pale boy faces. The Rat sat up on his sofa bed in
the old way with his hands 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 great deal. Each had secretly guessed
a good deal of what the other did not say.
``There is one thing we must remember,'' Marco had said, early in
the night. ``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 that he might be gone. And he WAS gone. Did you
feel as if--'' he turned towards 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 ought to have known he might some day be--called. He went
because he was called. He told us to wait. We don't know what
we are waiting for, but we know that we must not be afraid. To
let ourselves be AFRAID would be breaking the Law.''
``The Law!'' groaned The Rat, dropping his head on his hands,
``I'd forgotten 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! Fear not,'' 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 run mad with joy. It wouldn't be only the Secret
Party. All Samavia would rise and follow any flag he chose to
raise. They've prayed for the Lost Prince for five hundred
years, and if they believed they'd got him once more, they'd
fight like madmen for him. But there would not be any one to
fight. They'd ALL want the same thing! If they could see the
man with Ivor's blood in his veins, they'd feel he had come back
to them--risen from 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 --he knows--he's always known!'' And he
threw himself back on his sofa and flung his arms over his face,
lying there panting.
``If it is the time,'' said Marco in a low, strained voice--``if
it is, and he knows--he will tell them.'' And he threw his arms
up over his own face and lay quite still.
Neither of them said another word, and the street lamp shone in
on them as if it were waiting for something to happen. But
nothing happened. In time they were asleep.
