As he had awakened out of his sleep when Lazarus touched him, so he awakened in the middle of the night again. But he was not aroused by a touch. When he opened his eyes he knew it was a look which had penetrated his sleep--a look in the eyes of his father who was standing by his side. In the road outside there was the utter silence he had noticed the night of the Prince's first visit--the only light was that of the lamp in the street, but he could see Loristan's face clearly enough to know that the mere intensity of his gaze had awakened him. The Rat was sleeping profoundly. Loristan spoke in Samavian and under his breath.
“Beloved one,'' he said. “You are very young. Because I am your father--just at this hour I can feel nothing else. I have trained you for this through all the years of your life. I am proud of your young maturity and strength but--Beloved--you are a child! Can I do this thing!''
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 up caught his hand and held it hard against his breast.
“Father, I know!'' he cried under his breath also. “It is true. I am a child but am I not a man also? You yourself said it. I always knew that you were teaching me to be one--for some reason. It was my secret that I knew it. I learned well because I never forgot it. And I learned. Did I not?''
He was so eager that he looked more like a boy than ever. But his young strength and courage were splendid to see. Loristan knew him through and through and read every boyish thought of his.
“Yes,'' he answered slowly. “You did your part--and now if I--drew back--you would feel that I HAD FAILED YOU-FAILED YOU.''
“You!'' Marco breathed it proudly. “You COULD not fail even the weakest thing in the world.''
There was a moment's silence in which the two pairs of eyes dwelt on each 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- morrow you 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 to Calais steamed out of the noisy Charing Cross Station, it carried in a third-class carriage two shabby boys. One of them would have been a handsome lad if he had not carried himself slouchingly and walked with a street lad's careless shuffling gait. The other was a cripple who moved slowly, and apparently with difficulty, on crutches. There was nothing remarkable or picturesque enough about them to attract attention. They sat in the corner of the carriage and neither talked much nor seemed to be particularly interested in the journey or each other. When they went on board the steamer, they were soon lost among the commoner passengers and in fact found for themselves a secluded place which was not advantageous enough to be wanted by any one else.
“What can such a poor-looking pair of lads be going to Paris for?'' some one asked his companion.
“Not for pleasure, certainly; perhaps to get work,'' was the casual answer.
In the evening they reached Paris, and Marco led the way to a small cafe in a side-street where they got some cheap food. In the same side-street they found a bed they could share for the night in a tiny room over a baker's shop.
The Rat was too much excited to be ready to go to bed early. He begged Marco to guide him about the brilliant streets. They went slowly along the broad Avenue des Champs Elysees under the lights glittering among the horse-chestnut trees. The Rat's sharp eyes took it all in--the light of the cafes among the embowering trees, the many carriages rolling by, the people who loitered and laughed or sat at little tables drinking wine and listening to music, the broad stream of life which flowed on to the Arc de Triomphe and back again.
“It's brighter and clearer than London,'' he said to Marco.
“The people look as if they were having more fun than they do in England.''
The Place de la Concorde spreading its stately spaces--a world of illumination, movement, and majestic beauty--held him as though by a fascination. He wanted to stand and stare at it, first from one point of view and then from another. It was bigger and more wonderful than he had been able to picture it when Marco had described it to him and told him of the part it had played in the days of the French Revolution when the guillotine had stood in it and the tumbrils had emptied themselves at the 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 which stood in a courtyard. In the iron work of the handsome gates which shut it in was wrought a gilded coronet. The gates were closed and the house was not brightly lighted.
They walked past it and round it without speaking, but, when they neared the 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, her eyebrows are black and almost meet across it, she has a pale olive skin and holds her head proudly.''
“That is the one,'' Marco answered.
They were a week in Paris and each day passed this big house.
There were certain hours when great ladies were more likely to go out and come in than they were at others. Marco knew this, and they managed to be within sight of the house or to pass it at these hours. For two days they saw no sign of the person they wished to see, but one morning the gates were thrown open and they saw flowers and palms being taken in.
