Chapter XXV. A Voice in the Night

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

　　Late that afternoon there wandered about the gardens two quiet,inconspicuous, rather poorly dressed boys. They looked at thepalace, the shrubs, and the flower-beds, as strangers usuallydid, and they sat on the seats and talked as people wereaccustomed to seeing boys talk together. It was a sunny day andexceptionally warm, and there were more saunterers and sittersthan usual, which was perhaps the reason why the portier at theentrance gates gave such slight notice to the pair that he didnot observe that, though two boys came in, only one went out. Hedid not, in fact, remember, when he saw The Rat swing by on hiscrutches at closing-time, that he had entered in company with adark-haired lad who walked without any aid. It happened that,when The Rat passed out, the portier at the entrance was muchinterested in the aspect of the sky, which was curiouslythreatening. There had been heavy clouds hanging about all dayand now and then blotting out the sunshine entirely, but the sunhad refused to retire altogether. Just now, however, the cloudshad piled themselves in thunderous, purplish mountains, and thesun had been forced to set behind them."It's been a sort of battle since morning," the portier said."There will be some crashes and cataracts to-night." That waswhat The Rat had thought when they had sat in the Fountain Gardenon a seat which gave them a good view of the balcony and the bigevergreen shrub, which they knew had the hollow in the middle,though its circumference was so imposing. "If there should be abig storm, the evergreen will not save you much, though it maykeep off the worst," The Rat said. "I wish there was room fortwo."He would have wished there was room for two if he had seen Marcomarching to the stake. As the gardens emptied, the boys rose andwalked round once more, as if on their way out. By the time theyhad sauntered toward the big evergreen, nobody was in theFountain Garden, and the last loiterers were moving toward thearched stone entrance to the streets.When they drew near one side of the evergreen, the two weretogether. When The Rat swung out on the other side of it, he wasalone! No one noticed that anything had happened; no one lookedback. So The Rat swung down the walks and round the flower-bedsand passed into the street. And the portier looked at the skyand made his remark about the "crashes" and "cataracts."As the darkness came on, the hollow in the shrub seemed a verysafe place. It was not in the least likely that any one wouldenter the closed gardens; and if by rare chance some servantpassed through, he would not be in search of people who wished towatch all night in the middle of an evergreen instead of going tobed and to sleep. The hollow was well inclosed with greenery,and there was room to sit down when one was tired of standing.Marco stood for a long time because, by doing so, he could seeplainly the windows opening on the balcony if he gently pushedaside some flexible young boughs. He had managed to discover inhis first visit to the gardens that the windows overlooking theFountain Garden were those which belonged to the Prince's ownsuite of rooms. Those which opened on to the balcony lighted hisfavorite apartment, which contained his best-loved books andpictures and in which he spent most of his secluded leisurehours.Marco watched these windows anxiously. If the Prince had notgone to Budapest,--if he were really only in retreat, and hidingfrom his gay world among his treasures,--he would be living inhis favorite rooms and lights would show themselves. And ifthere were lights, he might pass before a window because, sincehe was inclosed in his garden, he need not fear being seen. Thetwilight deepened into darkness and, because of the heavy clouds,it was very dense. Faint gleams showed themselves in the lowerpart of the palace, but none was lighted in the windows Marcowatched. He waited so long that it became evident that none wasto be lighted at all. At last he loosed his hold on the youngboughs and, after standing a few moments in thought, sat downupon the earth in the midst of his embowered tent. The Princewas not in his retreat; he was probably not in Vienna, and therumor of his journey to Budapest had no doubt been true. So muchtime lost through making a mistake--but it was best to have madethe venture. Not to have made it would have been to lose achance. The entrance was closed for the night and there was nogetting out of the gardens until they were opened for the nextday. He must stay in his hiding- place until the time whenpeople began to come and bring their books and knitting and siton the seats. Then he could stroll out without attractingattention. But he had the night before him to spend as best hecould. That would not matter at all. He could tuck his capunder his head and go to sleep on the ground. He could commandhimself to waken once every half-hour and look for the lights.He would not go to sleep until it was long past midnight--so longpast that there would not be one chance in a hundred thatanything could happen. But the clouds which made the night sodark were giving forth low rumbling growls. At intervals athreatening gleam of light shot across them and a sudden swish ofwind rushed through the trees in the garden. This happenedseveral times, and then Marco began to hear the patter ofraindrops. They were heavy and big drops, but few at first, andthen there was a new and more powerful rush of wind, a jaggeddart of light in the sky, and a tremendous crash. After that theclouds tore themselves open and poured forth their contents infloods. After the protracted struggle of the day it all seemedto happen at once, as if a horde of huge lions had at one momentbeen let loose: flame after flame of lightning, roar and crashand sharp reports of thunder, shrieks of hurricane wind, torrentsof rain, as if some tidal-wave of the skies had gathered andrushed and burst upon the earth. It was such a storm as peopleremember for a lifetime and which in few lifetimes is seen atall.Marco stood still in the midst of the rage and flooding, blindingroar of it. After the first few minutes he knew he could donothing to shield himself. Down the garden paths he heardcataracts rushing. He held his cap pressed against his eyesbecause he seemed to stand in the midst of darting flames. Thecrashes, cannon reports and thunderings, and the jagged streamsof light came so close to one another that he seemed deafened aswell as blinded. He wondered if he should ever be able to hearhuman voices again when it was over. That he was drenched to theskin and that the water poured from his clothes as if he werehimself a cataract was so small a detail that he was scarcelyaware of it. He stood still, bracing his body, and waited. Ifhe had been a Samavian soldier in the trenches and such a stormhad broken upon him and his comrades, they could only have bracedthemselves and waited. This was what he found himself thinkingwhen the tumult and downpour were at their worst. There were menwho had waited in the midst of a rain of bullets.It was not long after this thought had come to him that thereoccurred the first temporary lull in the storm. Its fury perhapsreached its height and broke at that moment. A yellow flame hadtorn its jagged way across the heavens, and an earth-rendingcrash had thundered itself into rumblings which actually diedaway before breaking forth again. Marco took his cap from hiseyes and drew a long breath. He drew two long breaths. It wasas he began drawing a third and realizing the strange feeling ofthe almost stillness about him that he heard a new kind of soundat the side of the garden nearest his hiding-place. It soundedlike the creak of a door opening somewhere in the wall behind thelaurel hedge. Some one was coming into the garden by a privateentrance. He pushed aside the young boughs again and tried tosee, but the darkness was too dense. Yet he could hear if thethunder would not break again. There was the sound of feet onthe wet gravel, the footsteps of more than one person comingtoward where he stood, but not as if afraid of being heard;merely as if they were at liberty to come in by what entrancethey chose. Marco remained very still. A sudden hope gave him ashock of joy. If the man with the tired face chose to hidehimself from his acquaintances, he might choose to go in and outby a private entrance. The footsteps drew near, crushing the wetgravel, passed by, and seemed to pause somewhere near thebalcony; and them flame lit up the sky again and the thunderburst forth once more.But this was its last greal peal. The storm was at an end. Onlyfainter and fainter rumblings and mutterings and paler and palerdarts followed. Even they were soon over, and the cataracts inthe paths had rushed themselves silent. But the darkness wasstill deep.It was deep to blackness in the hollow of the evergreen. Marcostood in it, streaming with rain, but feeling nothing because hewas full of thought. He pushed aside his greenery and kept hiseyes on the place in the blackness where the windows must be,though he could not see them. It seemed that he waited a longtime, but he knew it only seemed so really. He began to breathequickly because he was waiting for something.Suddenly he saw exactly where the windows were--because they wereall lighted!His feeling of relief was great, but it did not last very long.It was true that something had been gained in the certainty thathis man had not left Vienna. But what next? It would not be soeasy to follow him if he chose only to go out secretly at night.What next? To spend the rest of the night watching a lightedwindow was not enough. To-morrow night it might not be lighted.But he kept his gaze fixed upon it. He tried to fix all his willand thought-power on the person inside the room. Perhaps hecould reach him and make him listen, even though he would notknow that any one was speaking to him. He knew that thoughtswere strong things. If angry thoughts in one man's mind willcreate anger in the mind of another, why should not sane messagescross the line?"I must speak to you. I must speak to you!" he found himselfsaying in a low intense voice. "I am outside here waiting.Listen! I must speak to you!"He said it many times and kept his eyes fixed upon the windowwhich opened on to the balcony. Once he saw a man's figure crossthe room, but he could not be sure who it was. The last distantrumblings of thunder had died away and the clouds were breaking.It was not long before the dark mountainous billows broke apart,and a brilliant full moon showed herself sailing in the rift,suddenly flooding everything with light. Parts of the gardenwere silver white, and the tree shadows were like black velvet.A silvery lance pierced even into the hollow of Marco's evergreenand struck across his face.Perhaps it was this sudden change which attracted the attentionof those inside the balconied room. A man's figure appeared atthe long windows. Marco saw now that it was the Prince. Heopened the windows and stepped out on to the balcony."It is all over," he said quietly. And he stood with his facelifted, looking at the great white sailing moon.He stood very still and seemed for the moment to forget the worldand himself. It was a wonderful, triumphant queen of a moon.But something brought him back to earth. A low, but strong andclear, boy-voice came up to him from the garden path below."The Lamp is lighted. The Lamp is lighted," it said, and thewords sounded almost as if some one were uttering a prayer. Theyseemed to call to him, to arrest him, to draw him.He stood still a few seconds in dead silence. Then he bent overthe balustrade. The moonlight had not broken the darkness below."That is a boy's voice," he said in a low tone, "but I cannotsee who is speaking.""Yes, it is a boy's voice," it answered, in a way which somehowmoved him, because it was so ardent. "It is the son of StefanLoristan. The Lamp is lighted.""Wait. I am coming down to you," the Prince said.In a few minutes Marco heard a door open gently not far fromwhere he stood. Then the man he had been following so many daysappeared at his side."How long have you been here?" he asked."Before the gates closed. I hid myself in the hollow of the bigshrub there, Highness," Marco answered."Then you were out in the storm?""Yes, Highness."The Prince put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I cannot seeyou --but it is best to stand in the shadow. You are drenched tothe skin.""I have been able to give your Highness--the Sign," Marcowhispered. "A storm is nothing."There was a silence. Marco knew that his companion was pausingto turn something over in his mind."So-o?" he said slowly, at length. "The Lamp is lighted, Andyou are sent to bear the Sign." Something in his voice madeMarco feel that he was smiling."What a race you are! What a race--you Samavian Loristans!"He paused as if to think the thing over again."I want to see your face," he said next. "Here is a tree witha shaft of moonlight striking through the branches. Let us stepaside and stand under it."Marco did as he was told. The shaft of moonlight fell upon hisuplifted face and showed its young strength and darkness, quitesplendid for the moment in a triumphant glow of joy in obstaclesovercome. Raindrops hung on his hair, but he did not lookdraggled, only very wet and picturesque. He had reached his man.He had given the Sign.The Prince looked him over with interested curiosity."Yes," he said in his cool, rather dragging voice. "You arethe son of Stefan Loristan. Also you must be taken care of. Youmust come with me. I have trained my household to remain in itsown quarters until I require its service. I have attached to myown apartments a good safe little room where I sometimes keeppeople.You can dry your clothes and sleep there. When the gardens areopened again, the rest will be easy."But though he stepped out from under the trees and began to movetowards the palace in the shadow, Marco noticed that he movedhesitatingly, as if he had not quite decided what he should do.He stopped rather suddenly and turned again to Marco, who wasfollowing him."There is some one in the room I just now left," he said, "anold man--whom it might interest to see you. It might also be agood thing for him to feel interest in you. I choose that heshall see you --as you are.""I am at your command, Highness," Marco answered. He knew hiscompanion was smiling again."You have been in training for more centuries than you know,"he said; "and your father has prepared you to encounter theunexpected without surprise."They passed under the balcony and paused at a low stone doorwayhidden behind shrubs. The door was a beautiful one, Marco sawwhen it was opened, and the corridor disclosed was beautifulalso, though it had an air of quiet and aloofness which was notso much secret as private. A perfect though narrow staircasemounted from it to the next floor. After ascending it, thePrince led the way through a short corridor and stopped at thedoor at the end of it. "We are going in here," he said.It was a wonderful room--the one which opened on to the balcony.Each piece of furniture in it, the hangings, the tapestries, andpictures on the wall were all such as might well have foundthemselves adorning a museum. Marco remembered the common reportof his escort's favorite amusement of collecting wonders andfurnishing his house with the things others exhibited only asmarvels of art and handicraft. The place was rich and mellowwith exquisitely chosen beauties.In a massive chair upon the heart sat a figure with bent head.It was a tall old man with white hair and moustache. His elbowsrested upon the arm of his chair and he leaned his forehead onhis hand as if he were weary.Marco's companion crossed the room and stood beside him, speakingin a lowered voice. Marco could not at first hear what he said.He himself stood quite still, waiting. The white-haired manlifted his head and listened. It seemed as though almost at oncehe was singularly interested. The lowered voice was slightlyraised at last and Marco heard the last two sentences:"The only son of Stefan Loristan. Look at him."The old man in the chair turned slowly and looked, steadily, andwith questioning curiosity touched with grave surprise. He hadkeen and clear blue eyes.Then Marco, still erect and silent, waited again. The Prince hadmerely said to him, "an old man whom it might interest to seeyou." He had plainly intended that, whatsoever happened, hemust make no outward sign of seeing more than he had been told hewould see --"an old man." It was for him to show noastonishment or recognition. He had been brought here not to seebut to be seen. The power of remaining still under scrutiny,which The Rat had often envied him, stood now in good steadbecause he had seen the white head and tall form not many daysbefore, surmounted by brilliant emerald plumes, hung with jeweleddecorations, in the royal carriage, escorted by banners, andhelmets, and following troops whose tramping feet kept time tobursts of military music while the populace bared their heads andcheered."He is like his father," this personage said to the Prince."But if any one but Loristan had sent him--His looks pleaseme." Then suddenly to Marco, "You were waiting outside whilethe storm was going on?""Yes, sir," Marco answered.Then the two exchanged some words still in the lowered voice. "You read the news as you made your journey?" he was asked."You know how Samavia stands?""She does not stand," said Marco. "The Iarovitch and theMaranovitch have fought as hyenas fight, until each has torn theother into fragments--and neither has blood or strength left."The two glanced at each other."A good simile," said the older person. "You are right. If astrong party rose--and a greater power chose not tointerfere--the country might see better days." He looked at hima few moments longer and then waved his hand kindly."You are a fine Samavian," he said. "I am glad of that. Youmay go. Good night."Marco bowed respectfully and the man with the tired face led himout of the room.It was just before he left him in the small quiet chamber inwhich he was to sleep that the Prince gave him a final curiousglance. "I remember now," he said. "In the room, when youanswered the question about Samavia, I was sure that I had seenyou before. It was the day of the celebration. There was abreak in the crowd and I saw a boy looking at me. It was you.""Yes," said Marco, "I have followed you each time you havegone out since then, but I could never get near enough to speak.To- night seemed only one chance in a thousand.""You are doing your work more like a man than a boy," was thenext speech, and it was made reflectively. "No man could havebehaved more perfectly than you did just now, when discretion andcomposure were necessary." Then, after a moment's pause, "Hewas deeply interested and deeply pleased. Good night."When the gardens had been thrown open the next morning and peoplewere passing in and out again, Marco passed out also. He wasobliged to tell himself two or three times that he had notwakened from an amazing dream. He quickened his pace after hehad crossed the street, because he wanted to get home to theattic and talk to The Rat. There was a narrow side-street it wasnecessary for him to pass through if he wished to make a shortcut. As he turned into it, he saw a curious figure leaning oncrutches against a wall. It looked damp and forlorn, and hewondered if it could be a beggar. It was not. It was The Rat,who suddenly saw who was approaching and swung forward. His facewas pale and haggard and he looked worn and frightened. Hedragged off his cap and spoke in a voice which was hoarse as acrow's."God be thanked!" he said. "God be thanked!" as peoplealways said it when they received the Sign, alone. But there wasa kind of anguish in his voice as well as relief."Aide-de-camp!" Marco cried out--The Rat had begged him to callhim so. "What have you been doing? How long have you beenhere?""Ever since I left you last night," said The Rat clutchingtremblingly at his arm as if to make sure he was real. "Ifthere was not room for two in the hollow, there was room for onein the street.Was it my place to go off duty and leave you alone--was it?""You were out in the storm?""Weren't you?" said The Rat fiercely. "I huddled against thewall as well as I could. What did I care? Crutches don'tprevent a fellow waiting. I wouldn't have left you if you'dgiven me orders. And that would have been mutiny. When you didnot come out as soon as the gates opened, I felt as if my headgot on fire. How could I know what had happened? I've not thenerve and backbone you have. I go half mad." For a second orso Marco did not answer. But when he put his hand on the dampsleeve, The Rat actually started, because it seemed as though hewere looking into the eyes of Stefan Loristan."You look just like your father!" he exclaimed, in spite ofhimself. "How tall you are!""When you are near me," Marco said, in Loristan's own voice,"when you are near me, I feel--I feel as if I were a royalprince attended by an army. You are my army." And he pulledoff his cap with quick boyishness and added, "God be thanked!"The sun was warm in the attic window when they reached theirlodging, and the two leaned on the rough sill as Marco told hisstory. It took some time to relate; and when he ended, he tookan envelope from his pocket and showed it to The Rat. Itcontained a flat package of money."He gave it to me just before he opened the private door,"Marco explained. "And he said to me, `It will not be long now.After Samavia, go back to London as quickly as you can--asquickly as you can!' ""I wonder--what he meant?" The Rat said, slowly. A tremendousthought had shot through his mind. But it was not a thought hecould speak of to Marco."I cannot tell. I thought that it was for some reason he didnot expect me to know," Marco said. "We will do as he told us.As quickly as we can." They looked over the newspapers, as theydid every day. All that could be gathered from any of them wasthat the opposing armies of Samavia seemed each to have reachedthe culmination of disaster and exhaustion. Which party had thepower left to take any final step which could call itself avictory, it was impossible to say. Never had a country been in amore desperate case."It is the time!" said The Rat, glowering over his map. "Ifthe Secret Party rises suddenly now, it can take Melzarr almostwithout a blow. It can sweep through the country and disarm botharmies.They're weakened--they're half starved--they're bleeding todeath; they want to be disarmed. Only the Iarovitch and theMaranovitch keep on with the struggle because each is fightingfor the power to tax the people and make slaves of them. If theSecret Party does not rise, the people will, and they'll rush onthe palaces and kill every Maranovitch and Iarovitch they find.And serve them right!""Let us spend the rest of the day in studying the road-mapagain," said Marco. "To-night we must be on the way toSamavia!"