“He--must have been at that coronation!'' he said at last.
“The King--what will the King do to--repay him?''
Marco did not answer. His breathing could be heard also. His mind was picturing that same coronation--the shattered, roofless cathedral, the ruins of the ancient and magnificent high altar, the multitude of kneeling, famine-scourged people, the battle-worn, wounded and bandaged soldiery! And the King! And his father! Where had his father stood when the King was crowned? Surely, he had stood at the King's right hand, and the people had adored and acclaimed them equally!
“King Ivor!'' he murmured as if he were in a dream. “King Ivor!''
The Rat started up on his elbow.
“You will see him,'' he cried out. “He's not a dream any longer. The Game is not a game now--and it is ended--it is won!
It was real--HE was real! Marco, I don't believe you hear.''
“Yes, I do,'' answered Marco, “but it is almost more a dream than when it was one.''
“The greatest patriot in the world is like a king himself!'' raved The Rat. “If there is no bigger honor to give him, he will be made a prince--and Commander-in-Chief--and Prime Minister! Can't you hear those Samavians shouting, and singing, and praying? You'll see it all! Do you remember the mountain climber who was going to save the shoes he made for the Bearer of the Sign? He said a great day might come when one could show them to the people. It's come! He'll show them! I know how they'll take it!'' His voice suddenly dropped--as if it dropped into a pit. “You'll see it all. But I shall not.''
Then Marco awoke from his dream and lifted his head. “Why not?'' he demanded. It sounded like a demand.
“Because I know better than to expect it!'' The Rat groaned.
“You've taken me a long way, but you can't take me to the palace of a king. I'm not such a fool as to think that, even of your father--''
He broke off because Marco did more than lift his head. He sat upright.
“You bore the Sign as much as I did,'' he said. “We bore it together.''
“Who would have listened to ME?'' cried The Rat. “YOU were the son of Stefan Loristan.''
“You were the friend of his son,'' answered Marco. “You went at the command of Stefan Loristan. You were the ARMY of the son of Stefan Loristan. That I have told you. Where I go, you will go. We will say no more of this--not one word.''
And he lay down again in the silence of a prince of the blood.
And The Rat knew that he meant what he said, and that Stefan Loristan also would mean it. And because he was a boy, he began to wonder what Mrs. Beedle would do when she heard what had happened--what had been happening all the time a tall, shabby “foreigner'' had lived in her dingy back sitting-room, and been closely watched lest he should go away without paying his rent, as shabby foreigners sometimes did. The Rat saw himself managing to poise himself very erect on his crutches while he told her that the shabby foreigner was--well, was at least the friend of a King, and had given him his crown--and would be made a prince and a Commander-in-Chief--and a Prime Minister--because there was no higher rank or honor to give him. And his son--whom she had insulted-- was Samavia's idol because he had borne the Sign. And also that if she were in Samavia, and Marco chose to do it he could batter her wretched lodging-house to the ground and put her in a prison--“and serve her jolly well right!''
The next day passed, and the next; and then there came a letter.
It was from Loristan, and Marco turned pale when Lazarus handed it to him. Lazarus and The Rat went out of the room at once, and left him to read it alone. It was evidently not a long letter, because it was not many minutes before Marco called them again into the room.
“In a few days, messengers--friends of my father's--will come to take us to Samavia. You and I and Lazarus are to go,'' he said to The Rat.
“God be thanked!'' said Lazarus. “God be thanked!''
