The Complete Works of Frances Hodgson Burnett. Frances Hodgson Burnett
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father says there’s been a Secret Party in Samavia for a hundred years,” The Rat whispered.
“Who told him?” asked Marco.
“A man who has been in Samavia,” answered The Rat. “He said it was the most wonderful Secret Party in the world, because it has worked and waited so long, and never given up, though it has had no reason for hoping. It began among some shepherds and charcoal-burners who bound themselves by an oath to find the Lost Prince and bring him back to the throne. There were too few of them to do anything against the Maranovitch, and when the first lot found they were growing old, they made their sons take the same oath. It has been passed on from generation to generation, and in each generation the band has grown. No one really knows how large it is now, but they say that there are people in nearly all the countries in Europe who belong to it in dead secret, and are sworn to help it when they are called. They are only waiting. Some are rich people who will give money, and some are poor ones who will slip across the frontier to fight or to help to smuggle in arms. They even say that for all these years there have been arms made in caves in the mountains, and hidden there year after year. There are men who are called Forgers of the Sword, and they, and their fathers, and grandfathers, and great-grandfathers have always made swords and stored them in caverns no one knows of, hidden caverns underground.”
Marco spoke aloud the thought which had come into his mind as he listened, a thought which brought fear to him. “If the people in the streets talk about it, they won’t be hidden long.”
“It isn’t common talk, my father says. Only very few have guessed, and most of them think it is part of the Lost Prince legend,” said The Rat. “The Maranovitch and Iarovitch laugh at it. They have always been great fools. They’re too full of their own swagger to think anything can interfere with them.”
“Do you talk much to your father?” Marco asked him.
The Rat showed his sharp white teeth in a grin.
“I know what you’re thinking of,” he said. “You’re remembering that I said he was always drunk. So he is, except when he’s only HALF drunk. And when he’s HALF drunk, he’s the most splendid talker in London. He remembers everything he has ever learned or read or heard since he was born. I get him going and listen. He wants to talk and I want to hear. I found out almost everything I know in that way. He didn’t know he was teaching me, but he was. He goes back into being a gentleman when he’s half drunk.”
“If—if you care about the Samavians, you’d better ask him not to tell people about the Secret Party and the Forgers of the Sword,” suggested Marco.
The Rat started a little.
“That’s true!” he said. “You’re sharper than I am. It oughtn’t to be blabbed about, or the Maranovitch might hear enough to make them stop and listen. I’ll get him to promise. There’s one queer thing about him,” he added very slowly, as if he were thinking it over, “I suppose it’s part of the gentleman that’s left in him. If he makes a promise, he never breaks it, drunk or sober.”
“Ask him to make one,” said Marco. The next moment he changed the subject because it seemed the best thing to do. “Go on and tell us what our own Secret Party is to do. We’re forgetting,” he whispered.
The Rat took up his game with renewed keenness. It was a game which attracted him immensely because it called upon his imagination and held his audience spellbound, besides plunging him into war and strategy.
“We’re preparing for the rising,” he said. “It must come soon. We’ve waited so long. The caverns are stacked with arms. The Maranovitch and the Iarovitch are fighting and using all their soldiers, and now is our time.” He stopped and thought, his elbows on his knees. He began to bite his nails again.
“The Secret Signal must be given,” he said. Then he stopped again, and the Squad held its breath and pressed nearer with a softly shuffling sound. “Two of the Secret Ones must be chosen by lot and sent forth,” he went on; and the Squad almost brought ruin and disgrace upon itself by wanting to cheer again, and only just stopping itself in time. “Must be chosen BY LOT,” The Rat repeated, looking from one face to another. “Each one will take his life in his hand when he goes forth. He may have to die a thousand deaths, but he must go. He must steal in silence and disguise from one country to another. Wherever there is one of the Secret Party, whether he is in a hovel or on a throne, the messengers must go to him in darkness and stealth and give him the sign. It will mean, ‘The hour has come. God save Samavia!’”
“God save Samavia!” whispered the Squad, excitedly. And, because they saw Marco raise his hand to his forehead, every one of them saluted.
They all began to whisper at once.
“Let’s draw lots now. Let’s draw lots, Rat. Don’t let’s ‘ave no waitin’.”
The Rat began to look about him with dread anxiety. He seemed to be examining the sky.
“The darkness is not as thick as it was,” he whispered. “Midnight has passed. The dawn of day will be upon us. If any one has a piece of paper or a string, we will draw the lots before we part.”
Cad had a piece of string, and Marco had a knife which could be used to cut it into lengths. This The Rat did himself. Then, after shutting his eyes and mixing them, he held them in his hand ready for the drawing.
“The Secret One who draws the longest lot is chosen. The Secret One who draws the shortest is chosen,” he said solemnly.
The drawing was as solemn as his tone. Each boy wanted to draw either the shortest lot or the longest one. The heart of each thumped somewhat as he drew his piece of string.
When the drawing was at an end, each showed his lot. The Rat had drawn the shortest piece of string, and Marco had drawn the longest one.
“Comrade!” said The Rat, taking his hand. “We will face death and danger together!”
“God save Samavia!” answered Marco.
And the game was at an end for the day. The primest thing, the Squad said, The Rat had ever made up for them. “‘E wos a wonder, he wos!”
VII
“THE LAMP IS LIGHTED!”
On his way home, Marco thought of nothing but the story he must tell his father, the story the stranger who had been to Samavia had told The Rat’s father. He felt that it must be a true story and not merely an invention. The Forgers of the Sword must be real men, and the hidden subterranean caverns stacked through the centuries with arms must be real, too. And if they were real, surely his father was one of those who knew the secret. His thoughts ran very fast. The Rat’s boyish invention of the rising was only part of a game, but how natural it would be that sometime—perhaps before long—there would be a real rising! Surely there would be one if the Secret Party had grown so strong, and if many weapons and secret friends in other countries were ready and waiting. During all these years, hidden work and preparation would have been going on continually, even though it was preparation for an unknown day. A party which had lasted so long—which passed its oath on from generation to generation—must be of a deadly determination.
What might it not have made ready in its caverns and secret meeting-places! He longed to reach home and tell his father, at once, all he had heard. He recalled to mind, word for word, all that The Rat had been told, and even all he had added in his game, because—well, because that seemed so real too, so real that it actually might be useful.
But when he reached No. 7 Philibert Place, he found Loristan and Lazarus very much absorbed in work. The door of the back sitting-room was locked when he first knocked on it, and locked again as soon as he had entered. There were many papers on the table, and they were evidently studying them. Several of them were maps. Some were road maps, some maps of towns and cities, and some of fortifications; but they were all maps of places in Samavia. They were usually kept in a strong box, and when they were taken out to be studied, the door was always kept locked.
Before