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 great 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."
[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 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 hearth 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!"