The Lost Prince - Frances Hodgson Burnett (early readers TXT) 📗

too, and his face was still shining. “God be thanked!” he said. “Let us begin to climb.”

They pushed their way through the ferns and wandered in and out through trees until they found the little path. The hill was thickly clothed with forest and the little path was sometimes dark and steep; but they knew that, if they followed it, they would at last come out to a place where there were scarcely any trees at all, and on a crag they would find the tiny church waiting for them. The priest might not be there. They might have to wait for him, but he would be sure to come back for morning Mass and for vespers, wheresoever he wandered between times.

There were many stars in the sky when at last a turn of the path showed them the church above them. It was little and built of rough stone. It looked as if the priest himself and his scattered flock might have broken and carried or rolled bits of the hill to put it together. It had the small, round, mosque-like summit the Turks had brought into Europe in centuries past. It was so tiny that it would hold but a very small congregation—and close to it was a shed-like house, which was of course the priest’s.

The two boys stopped on the path to look at it.

“There is a candle burning in one of the little windows,” said Marco.

“There is a well near the door—and some one is beginning to draw water,” said The Rat, next. “It is too dark to see who it is. Listen!”

They listened and heard the bucket descend on the chains, and splash in the water. Then it was drawn up, and it seemed some one drank long. Then they saw a dim figure move forward and stand still. Then they heard a voice begin to pray aloud, as if the owner, being accustomed to utter solitude, did not think of earthly hearers.

“Come,” Marco said. And they went forward.

Because the stars were so many and the air so clear, the priest heard their feet on the path, and saw them almost as soon as he heard them. He ended his prayer and watched them coming. A lad on crutches, who moved as lightly and easily as a bird—and a lad who, even yards away, was noticeable for a bearing of his body which was neither haughty nor proud but set him somehow aloof from every other lad one had ever seen. A magnificent lad—though, as he drew near, the starlight showed his face thin and his eyes hollow as if with fatigue or hunger.

“And who is this one?” the old priest murmured to himself. “WHO?”

Marco drew up before him and made a respectful reverence. Then he lifted his black head, squared his shoulders and uttered his message for the last time.

“The Lamp is lighted, Father,” he said. “The Lamp is lighted.”

The old priest stood quite still and gazed into his face. The next moment he bent his head so that he could look at him closely. It

seemed almost as if he were frightened and wanted to make sure of something. At the moment it flashed through The Rat’s mind that the old, old woman on the mountain-top had looked frightened in something the same way.

“I am an old man,” he said. “My eyes are not good. If I had a light”—and he glanced towards the house.

It was The Rat who, with one whirl, swung through the door and seized the candle. He guessed what he wanted. He held it himself so that the flare fell on Marco’s face.

The old priest drew nearer and nearer. He gasped for breath. “You are the son of Stefan Loristan!” he cried. “It is HIS SON who brings the Sign.”

He fell upon his knees and hid his face in his hands. Both the boys heard him sobbing and praying—praying and sobbing at once.

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 I have 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 I see.”

“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. Tonight 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 tonight 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!”

XXVII

“IT IS THE LOST PRINCE! IT IS IVOR!”

Many times since their journey had begun the boys had found their hearts beating with the thrill and excitement of things. The story of which their lives had been a part was a pulse-quickening experience. But as they carefully made their way down the steep steps leading seemingly into the bowels of the earth, both Marco and The Rat felt as though the old priest must hear the thudding in their young sides.

“ `The Forgers of the Sword.’ Remember every word they say,” The Rat whispered, “so that you can tell it to me afterwards. Don’t forget anything! I wish I knew Samavian.”

At the foot of the steps stood the man who was evidently the sentinel who worked the lever that turned the rock. He was a big burly peasant with a good watchful face, and the priest gave him a greeting and a blessing as he took from him the lantern he held out.

They went through a narrow and dark passage, and down some more steps, and turned a corner into another corridor cut out of rock and earth. It was a wider corridor, but still dark, so that Marco and The Rat had walked some yards before their eyes became sufficiently accustomed to the dim light to see that the walls themselves seemed made of arms stacked closely together.

“The Forgers of the Sword!” The Rat was unconsciously mumbling to himself, “The Forgers of the Sword!”

It must have taken years to cut out the rounding passage they threaded their way through, and longer years to forge the solid, bristling walls. But The Rat remembered the story the stranger had told his drunken father, of the few mountain herdsmen who, in their savage grief and wrath over the loss of their prince, had banded themselves together with a solemn oath which had been handed down from generation