“If the men of the Secret Party have been working and thinking for so many years—­they have prepared everything.  They know by this time exactly what must be done by the messengers who are to give the signal.  They can tell them where to go and how to know the secret friends who must be warned.  If the orders could be written and given to—­to some one who has—­who has learned to remember things!” He had begun to breathe so quickly that he stopped for a moment.

Loristan looked up.  He looked directly into his eyes.

“Some one who has been trained to remember things?” he said.

“Some one who has been trained,” Marco went on, catching his breath again.  “Some one who does not forget—­who would never forget—­never!  That one, even if he were only twelve—­even if he were only ten—­could go and do as he was told.”  Loristan put his hand on his shoulder.

“Comrade,” he said, “you are speaking as if you were ready to go yourself.”

Marco’s eyes looked bravely straight into his, but he said not one word.

“Do you know what it would mean, Comrade?” his father went on.  “You are right.  It is not a game.  And you are not thinking of it as one.  But have you thought how it would be if something betrayed you—­and you were set up against a wall to be shot?”

Marco stood up quite straight.  He tried to believe he felt the wall against his back.

“If I were shot, I should be shot for Samavia,” he said.  “And for you, Father.”

Even as he was speaking, the front door-bell rang and Lazarus evidently opened it.  He spoke to some one, and then they heard his footsteps approaching the back sitting-room.

“Open the door,” said Loristan, and Marco opened it.

“There is a boy who is a cripple here, sir,” the old soldier said.  “He asked to see Master Marco.”

“If it is The Rat,” said Loristan, “bring him in here.  I wish to see him.”

Marco went down the passage to the front door.  The Rat was there, but he was not upon his platform.  He was leaning upon an old pair of crutches, and Marco thought he looked wild and strange.  He was white, and somehow the lines of his face seemed twisted in a new way.  Marco wondered if something had frightened him, or if he felt ill.

“Rat,” he began, “my father—­”

“I’ve come to tell you about my father,” The Rat broke in without waiting to hear the rest, and his voice was as strange as his pale face.  “I don’t know why I’ve come, but I—­I just wanted to.  He’s dead!”

“Your father?” Marco stammered.  “He’s—­”

“He’s dead,” The Rat answered shakily.  “I told you he’d kill himself.  He had another fit and he died in it.  I knew he would, one of these days.  I told him so.  He knew he would himself.  I stayed with him till he was dead—­and then I got a bursting headache and I felt sick—­and I thought about you.”

Marco made a jump at him because he saw he was suddenly shaking as if he were going to fall.  He was just in time, and Lazarus, who had been looking on from the back of the passage, came forward.  Together they held him up.