“Samavia is ‘waiting’ too,” The Rat broke forth one night as they talked together, “but it won’t wait long—­it can’t.  If I were a Samavian and in Samavia—­”

“My father is a Samavian and he is in Samavia,” Marco’s grave young voice interposed.  The Rat flushed red as he realized what he had said.  “What a fool I am!” he groaned.  “I—­I beg your pardon—­sir.”  He stood up when he said the last words and added the “sir” as if he suddenly realized that there was a distance between them which was something akin to the distance between youth and maturity—­but yet was not the same.

“You are a good Samavian but—­you forget,” was Marco’s answer.

Lazarus’ intense grimness increased with each day that passed.  The ceremonious respectfulness of his manner toward Marco increased also.  It seemed as if the more anxious he felt the more formal and stately his bearing became.  It was as though he braced his own courage by doing the smallest things life in the back sitting-room required as if they were of the dignity of services performed in a much larger place and under much more imposing circumstances.  The Rat found himself feeling almost as if he were an equerry in a court, and that dignity and ceremony were necessary on his own part.  He began to experience a sense of being somehow a person of rank, for whom doors were opened grandly and who had vassals at his command.  The watchful obedience of fifty vassals embodied itself in the manner of Lazarus.

“I am glad,” The Rat said once, reflectively, “that, after all my father was once—­different.  It makes it easier to learn things perhaps.  If he had not talked to me about people who—­well, who had never seen places like Bone Court—­this might have been harder for me to understand.”

When at last they managed to call The Squad together, and went to spend a morning at the Barracks behind the churchyard, that body of armed men stared at their commander in great and amazed uncertainty.  They felt that something had happened to him.  They did not know what had happened, but it was some experience which had made him mysteriously different.  He did not look like Marco, but in some extraordinary way he seemed more akin to him.  They only knew that some necessity in Loristan’s affairs had taken the two away from London and the Game.  Now they had come back, and they seemed older.

At first, The Squad felt awkward and shuffled its feet uncomfortably.  After the first greetings it did not know exactly what to say.  It was Marco who saved the situation.

“Drill us first,” he said to The Rat, “then we can talk about the Game.”

“’Tention!” shouted The Rat, magnificently.  And then they forgot everything else and sprang into line.  After the drill was ended, and they sat in a circle on the broken flags, the Game became more resplendent than it had ever been.

“I’ve had time to read and work out new things,” The Rat said.  “Reading is like traveling.”