The Frances Hodgson Burnett MEGAPACK ®. Frances Hodgson Burnett

Rat answered stubbornly. “I didn’t train myself to stay behind. But we shall come to bare-rock climbing soon and then I shall be obliged to stop,” and he said the last bitterly. He knew that, if Marco had come alone, he would have ridden in no cart but would have trudged upward and onward sturdily to the end of his journey.

      But they did not reach the crags, as they had thought must be inevitable. Suddenly half-way to the sky, as it seemed, they came to a bend in the road and found themselves mounting into a new green world—an astonishing marvel of a world, with green velvet slopes and soft meadows and thick woodland, and cows feeding in velvet pastures, and—as if it had been snowed down from the huge bare mountain crags which still soared above into heaven—a mysterious, ancient, huddled village which, being thus snowed down, might have caught among the rocks and rested there through all time.

      There it stood. There it huddled itself. And the monsters in the blue above it themselves looked down upon it as if it were an incredible thing—this ancient, steep-roofed, hanging-balconied, crumbling cluster of human nests, which seemed a thousand miles from the world. Marco and The Rat stood and stared at it. Then they sat down and stared at it.

      “How did it get here?” The Rat cried.

      Marco shook his head. He certainly could see no explanation of its being there. Perhaps some of the oldest villagers could tell stories of how its first chalets had gathered themselves together.

      An old peasant driving a cow came down a steep path. He looked with a dull curiosity at The Rat and his crutches; but when Marco advanced and spoke to him in German, he did not seem to understand, but shook his head saying something in a sort of dialect Marco did not know.

      “If they all speak like that, we shall have to make signs when we want to ask anything,” The Rat said. “What will she speak?”

      “She will know the German for the Sign or we should not have been sent here,” answered Marco. “Come on.”

      They made their way to the village, which huddled itself together evidently with the object of keeping itself warm when through the winter months the snows strove to bury it and the winds roared down from the huge mountain crags and tried to tear it from among its rocks. The doors and windows were few and small, and glimpses of the inside of the houses showed earthen floors and dark rooms. It was plain that it was counted a more comfortable thing to live without light than to let in the cold.

      It was easy enough to reconnoiter. The few people they saw were evidently not surprised that strangers who discovered their unexpected existence should be curious and want to look at them and their houses.

      The boys wandered about as if they were casual explorers, who having reached the place by chance were interested in all they saw. They went into the little Gasthaus and got some black bread and sausage and some milk. The mountaineer owner was a brawny fellow who understood some German. He told them that few strangers knew of the village but that bold hunters and climbers came for sport. In the forests on the mountain sides were bears and, in the high places, chamois. Now and again, some great gentlemen came with parties of the daring kind—very great gentlemen indeed, he said, shaking his head with pride. There was one who had castles in other mountains, but he liked best to come here. Marco began to wonder if several strange things might not be true if great gentlemen sometimes climbed to the mysterious place. But he had not been sent to give the Sign to a great gentleman. He had been sent to give it to an old woman with eyes like an eagle which was young.

      He had a sketch in his sleeve, with that of her face, of her steep-roofed, black-beamed, balconied house. If they walked about a little, they would be sure to come upon it in this tiny place. Then he could go in and ask her for a drink of water.

      They roamed about for an hour after they left the Gasthaus. They went into the little church and looked at the graveyard and wondered if it was not buried out of all sight in the winter. After they had done this, they sauntered out and walked through the huddled clusters of houses, examining each one as they drew near it and passed.

      “I see it!” The Rat exclaimed at last. “It is that very old-looking one standing a little way from the rest. It is not as tumbled down as most of them. And there are some red flowers on the balcony.”

      “Yes! That’s it!” said Marco.

      They walked up to the low black door and, as he stopped on the threshold, Marco took off his cap. He did this because, sitting in the doorway on a low wooden chair, the old, old woman with the eagle eyes was sitting knitting.

      There was no one else in the room and no one anywhere within sight. When the old, old woman looked up at him with her young eagle’s eyes, holding her head high on her long neck, Marco knew he need not ask for water or for anything else.

      “The Lamp is lighted,” he said, in his low but strong and clear young voice.

      She dropped her knitting upon her knees and gazed at him a moment in silence. She knew German it was clear, for it was in German she answered him.

      “God be thanked!” she said. “Come in, young Bearer of the Sign, and bring your friend in with you. I live alone and not a soul is within hearing.”

      She was a wonderful old woman. Neither Marco nor The Rat would live long enough to forget the hours they spent in her strange dark house. She kept them and made them spend the night with her.

      “It is quite safe,” she said. “I live alone since my man fell into the crevasse and was killed because his rope broke when he was trying to save his comrade. So I have two rooms to spare and sometimes climbers are glad to sleep in them. Mine is a good warm house and I am well known in the village. You are very young,” she added shaking her head. “You are very young. You must have good blood in your veins to be trusted with this.”

      “I have my father’s blood,” answered Marco.

      “You are like some one I once saw,” the old woman said, and her eagle eyes set themselves hard upon him. “Tell me your name.”

      There was no reason why he should not tell it to her.

      “It is Marco Loristan,” he said.

      “What! It is that!” she cried out, not loud but low.

      To Marco’s amazement she got up from her chair and stood before him, showing what a tall old woman she really was. There was a startled, even an agitated, look in her face. And suddenly she actually made a sort of curtsey to him—bending her knee as peasants do when they pass a shrine.

      “It is that!” she said again. “And yet they dare let you go on a journey like this! That speaks for your courage and for theirs.”

      But Marco did not know what she meant. Her strange obeisance made him feel awkward. He stood up because his training had told him that when a woman stands a man also rises.

      “The name speaks for the courage,” he said, “because it is my father’s.”

      She watched him almost anxiously.

      “You do not even know!” she breathed—and it was an exclamation and not a question.

      “I know what I have been told to do,” he answered. “I do not ask anything else.”

      “Who is that?” she asked, pointing to The Rat.

      “He is the friend my father sent with me,” said Marco smiling. “He called him my aide-de-camp. It was a sort of joke because we had played soldiers together.”

      It seemed as if she were obliged to collect her thoughts. She stood with her hand at her mouth, looking down at the earth floor.

      “God guard you!” she said at last. “You are very—very young!”

      “But all his years,” The Rat broke in, “he has been in training for just this thing. He did not know it was training, but it was. A soldier who had been trained for thirteen years would know his work.”

      He was so eager that he forgot she could not understand English. Marco translated what he said into German and added: