The Squad glowed and exulted. The Rat glowed and exulted himself. Marco watched his sharp-featured, burning-eyed face with wonder and admiration. This strange power of making things alive was, he knew, what his father would call “genius.''
“Let's take the oath of 'legiance again,'' shouted Cad, when the Game was over for the morning.
“The papers never said nothin' more about the Lost Prince, but we are all for him yet! Let's take it!'' So they stood in line again, Marco at the head, and renewed their oath.
“The sword in my hand--for Samavia!
“The heart in my breast--for Samavia!
“The swiftness of my sight, the thought of my brain, the life of my life--for Samavia.
“Here grow twelve men--for Samavia.
“God be thanked!''
It was more solemn than it had been the first time. The Squad felt it tremendously. Both Cad and Ben were conscious that thrills ran down their spines into their boots. When Marco and The Rat left them, they first stood at salute and then broke out into a ringing cheer.
On their way home, The Rat asked Marco a question.
“Did you see Mrs. Beedle standing at the top of the basement steps and looking after us when we went out this morning?''
Mrs. Beedle was the landlady of the lodgings at No. 7 Philibert Place. She was a mysterious and dusty female, who lived in the “cellar kitchen'' part of the house and was seldom seen by her lodgers.
“Yes,'' answered Marco, “I have seen her two or three times lately, and I do not think I ever saw her before. My father has never seen her, though Lazarus says she used to watch him round corners. Why is she suddenly so curious about us?''
“I'd like to know,'' said The Rat. “I've been trying to work it out. Ever since we came back, she's been peeping round the door of the kitchen stairs, or over balustrades, or through the cellar- kitchen windows. I believe she wants to speak to you, and knows Lazarus won't let her if he catches her at it. When Lazarus is about, she always darts back.''
“What does she want to say?'' said Marco.
“I'd like to know,'' said The Rat again.
When they reached No. 7 Philibert Place, they found out, because when the door opened they saw at the top of cellar-kitchen stairs at the end of the passage, the mysterious Mrs. Beedle, in her dusty black dress and with a dusty black cap on, evidently having that minute mounted from her subterranean hiding-place. She had come up the steps so quickly that Lazarus had not yet seen her.
“Young Master Loristan!'' she called out authoritatively.
Lazarus wheeled about fiercely.
“Silence!'' he commanded. “How dare you address the young Master?''
She snapped her fingers at him, and marched forward folding her arms tightly. “You mind your own business,'' she said. “It's young Master Loristan I'm speaking to, not his servant. It's time he was talked to about this.''
“Silence, woman!'' shouted Lazarus.
“Let her speak,'' said Marco. “I want to hear. What is it you wish to say, Madam? My father is not here.''
“That's just what I want to find out about,'' put in the woman.
“When is he coming back?''
“I do not know,'' answered Marco.
“That's it,'' said Mrs. Beedle. “You're old enough to understand that two big lads and a big fellow like that can't have food and lodgin's for nothing. You may say you don't live high--and you don't--but lodgin's are lodgin's and rent is rent.
If your father's coming back and you can tell me when, I mayn't be obliged to let the rooms over your heads; but I know too much about foreigners to let bills run when they are out of sight.
Your father's out of sight. He,'' jerking her head towards Lazarus, “paid me for last week. How do I know he will pay me for this week!''
“The money is ready,'' roared Lazarus.
The Rat longed to burst forth. He knew what people in Bone Court said to a woman like that; he knew the exact words and phrases.
But they were not words and phrases an aide-de-camp might deliver himself of in the presence of his superior officer; they were not words and phrases an equerry uses at court. He dare not ALLOWhimself to burst forth. He stood with flaming eyes and a flaming face, and bit his lips till they bled. He wanted to strike with his crutches. The son of Stefan Loristan! The Bearer of the Sign! There sprang up before his furious eyes the picture of the luridly lighted cavern and the frenzied crowd of men kneeling at this same boy's feet, kissing them, kissing his hands, his garments, the very earth he stood upon, worshipping him, while above the altar the kingly young face looked on with the nimbus of light like a halo above it. If he dared speak his mind now, he felt he could have endured it better. But being an aide-de-camp he could not.
“Do you want the money now?'' asked Marco. “It is only the beginning of the week and we do not owe it to you until the week is over. Is it that you want to have it now?''
Lazarus had become deadly pale. He looked huge in his fury, and he looked dangerous.
“Young Master,'' he said slowly, in a voice as deadly as his pallor, and he actually spoke low, “this woman--''
Mrs. Beedle drew back towards the cellar-kitchen steps.
“There's police outside,'' she shrilled. “Young Master Loristan, order him to stand back.''
“No one will hurt you,'' said Marco. “If you have the money here, Lazarus, please give it to me.''
Lazarus literally ground his teeth. But he drew himself up and saluted with ceremony. He put his hand in his breast pocket and produced an old leather wallet. There were but a few coins in it. He pointed to a gold one.
“I obey you, sir--since I must--'' he said, breathing hard.
“That one will pay her for the week.''
Marco took out the sovereign and held it out to the woman.
“You hear what he says,'' he said. “At the end of this week if there is not enough to pay for the next, we will go.''
Lazarus looked so like a hyena, only held back from springing by chains of steel, that the dusty Mrs. Beedle was afraid to take the money.
