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 Ihave 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 Isee.''
“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!''
