The Frances Hodgson Burnett MEGAPACK ®. Frances Hodgson Burnett

the presence of his superior officer; they were not words and phrases an equerry uses at court. He dare not allow himself 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.

      “If you say that I shall not lose it, I’ll wait until the week’s ended,” she said. “You’re nothing but a lad, but you’re like your father. You’ve got a way that a body can trust. If he was here and said he hadn’t the money but he’d have it in time, I’d wait if it was for a month. He’d pay it if he said he would. But he’s gone; and two boys and a fellow like that one don’t seem much to depend on. But I’ll trust you.”

      “Be good enough to take it,” said Marco. And he put the coin in her hand and turned into the back sitting-room as if he did not see her.

      The Rat and Lazarus followed him.

      “Is there so little money left?” said Marco. “We have always had very little. When we had less than usual, we lived in poorer places and were hungry if it was necessary. We know how to go hungry. One does not die of it.”

      The big eyes under Lazarus’ beetling brows filled with tears.

      “No, sir,” he said, “one does not die of hunger. But the insult—the insult! That is not endurable.”

      “She would not have spoken if my father had been here,” Marco said. “And it is true that boys like us have no money. Is there enough to pay for another week?”

      “Yes, sir,” answered Lazarus, swallowing hard as if he had a lump in his throat, “perhaps enough for two—if we eat but little. If—if the Master would accept money from those who would give it, he would alway have had enough. But how could such a one as he? How could he? When he went away, he thought—he thought that—” but there he stopped himself suddenly.

      “Never mind,” said Marco. “Never mind. We will go away the day we can pay no more.”

      “I can go out and sell newspapers,” said The Rat’s sharp voice.

      “I’ve done it before. Crutches help you to sell them. The platform would sell ’em faster still. I’ll go out on the platform.”

      “I can sell newspapers, too,” said Marco.

      Lazarus uttered an exclamation like a groan.

      “Sir,” he cried, “no, no! Am I not here to go out and look for work? I can carry loads. I can run errands.”

      “We will all three begin to see what we can do,” Marco said.

      Then—exactly as had happened on the day of their return from their journey—there arose in the road outside the sound of newsboys shouting. This time the outcry seemed even more excited than before. The boys were running and yelling and there seemed more of them than usual. And above all other words was heard “Samavia! Samavia!” But today The Rat did not rush to the door at the first cry. He stood still—for several seconds they all three stood still—listening. Afterwards each one remembered and told the others that he had stood still because some strange, strong feeling held him waiting as if to hear some great thing.

      * * * *

      It was Lazarus who went out of the room first and The Rat and Marco followed him.

      One of the upstairs lodgers had run down in haste and opened the door to buy newspapers and ask questions. The newsboys were wild with excitement and danced about as they shouted. The piece of news they were yelling had evidently a popular quality.

      The lodger bought two papers and was handing out coppers to a lad who was talking loud and fast.

      “Here’s a go!” he was saying. “A Secret Party’s risen up and taken Samavia! ’Twixt night and mornin’ they done it! That there Lost Prince descendant ’as turned up, an’ they’ve crowned him—’twixt night and mornin’ they done it! Clapt ’is crown on ’is ’ead, so’s they’d lose no time.” And off he bolted, shouting, “’Cendant of Lost Prince! ’Cendant of Lost Prince made King of Samavia!”

      It was then that Lazarus, forgetting even ceremony, bolted also. He bolted back to the sitting-room, rushed in, and the door fell to behind him.

      Marco and The Rat found it shut when, having secured a newspaper, they went down the passage. At the closed door, Marco stopped. He did not turn the handle. From the inside of the room there came the sound of big convulsive sobs and passionate Samavian words of prayer and worshipping gratitude.

      “Let us wait,” Marco said, trembling a little. “He will not want any one to see him. Let us wait.”

      His black pits of eyes looked immense, and he stood at his tallest, but he was trembling slightly from head to foot. The Rat had begun to shake, as if from an ague. His face was scarcely human in its fierce unboyish emotion.

      “Marco! Marco!” his whisper was a cry. “That was what he went for—because he knew!”

      “Yes,” answered Marco, “that was what he went for.” And his voice was unsteady, as his body was.

      Presently the sobs inside the room choked themselves back suddenly. Lazarus had remembered. They had guessed he had been leaning against the wall during his outburst. Now it was evident that he stood upright, probably shocked at the forgetfulness of his frenzy.

      So Marco turned the handle of the door and went into the room. He shut the door behind him, and they all three stood together.

      When the Samavian gives way to his emotions, he is emotional indeed. Lazarus looked as if a storm had swept over him. He had choked back his sobs, but tears still swept down his cheeks.

      “Sir,” he said hoarsely, “your pardon! It was as if a convulsion seized me. I forgot everything—even my duty. Pardon, pardon!” And there on the worn carpet of the dingy back sitting-room in the Marylebone Road, he actually went on one knee and kissed the boy’s hand with adoration.

      “You mustn’t ask pardon,” said Marco. “You have waited so long, good friend. You have given your life as my father has. You have known all the