Chapter XXVII. "It is the Lost Prince! It Is Ivor!"

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

　　Many times since their journey had begun the boys had found theirhearts beating with the thrill and excitement of things. Thestory of which their lives had been a part was a pulse-quickeningexperience. But as they carefully made their way down the steepsteps leading seemingly into the bowels of the earth, both Marcoand The Rat felt as though the old priest must hear the thuddingin 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 thesentinel who worked the lever that turned the rock. He was a bigburly peasant with a good watchful face, and the priest gave hima greeting and a blessing as he took from him the lantern he heldout.They went through a narrow and dark passage, and down some moresteps, and turned a corner into another corridor cut out of rockand earth. It was a wider corridor, but still dark, so thatMarco and The Rat had walked some yards before their eyes becamesufficiently accustomed to the dim light to see that the wallsthemselves seemed made of arms stacked closely together."The Forgers of the Sword!" The Rat was unconsciously mumblingto himself, "The Forgers of the Sword!"It must have taken years to cut out the rounding passage theythreaded their way through, and longer years to forge the solid,bristling walls. But The Rat remembered the story the strangerhad told his drunken father, of the few mountain herdsmen who, intheir savage grief and wrath over the loss of their prince, hadbanded themselves together with a solemn oath which had beenhanded down from generation to generation. The Samavians were along-memoried people, and the fact that their passion must besmothered had made it burn all the more fiercely. Five hundredyears ago they had first sworn their oath; and kings had come andgone, had died or been murdered, and dynasties had changed, butthe Forgers of the Sword had not changed or forgotten their oathor wavered in their belief that some time--some time, even afterthe long dark years--the soul of their Lost Prince would be amongthem once more, and that they would kneel at the feet and kissthe hands of him for whose body that soul had been reborn. Andfor the last hundred years their number and power and theirhiding places had so increased that Samavia was at lasthoneycombed with them. And they only waited, breathless,--forthe Lighting of the Lamp. The old priest knew how breathlessly, and he knew what he wasbringing them. Marco and The Rat, in spite of their fond boy-imaginings, were not quite old enough to know how fierce and fullof flaming eagerness the breathless waiting of savage full-grownmen could be. But there was a tense-strung thrill in knowingthat they who were being led to them were the Bearers of theSign. The Rat went hot and cold; he gnawed his fingers as hewent. He could almost have shrieked aloud, in the intensity ofhis excitement, when the old priest stopped before a big blackdoor!Marco made no sound. Excitement or danger always made him looktall and quite pale. He looked both now.The priest touched the door, and it opened.They were looking into an immense cavern. Its walls and roofwere lined with arms--guns, swords, bayonets, javelins, daggers,pistols, every weapon a desperate man might use. The place wasfull of men, who turned towards the door when it opened. Theyall made obeisance to the priest, but Marco realized almost atthe same instant that they started on seeing that he was notalone.They were a strange and picturesque crowd as they stood undertheir canopy of weapons in the lurid torchlight. Marco saw atonce that they were men of all classes, though all were alikeroughly dressed. They were huge mountaineers, and plainsmenyoung and mature in years. Some of the biggest were men withwhite hair but with bodies of giants, and with determination intheir strong jaws. There were many of these, Marco saw, and ineach man's eyes, whether he were young or old, glowed a steadyunconquered flame. They had been beaten so often, they had beenoppressed and robbed, but in the eyes of each one was thisunconquered flame which, throughout all the long tragedy of yearshad been handed down from father to son. It was this which hadgone on through centuries, keeping its oath and forging itsswords in the caverns of the earth, and which to-daywas--waiting.The old priest laid his hand on Marco's shoulder, and gentlypushed him before him through the crowd which parted to make wayfor them. He did not stop until the two stood in the very midstof the circle, which fell back gazing wonderingly. Marco lookedup at the old man because for several seconds he did not speak.It was plain that he did not speak because he also was excited,and could not. He opened his lips and his voice seemed to failhim. Then he tried again and spoke so that all could hear--eventhe men at the back of the gazing circle."My children," he said, "this is the son of Stefan Loristan,and he comes to bear the Sign. My son," to Marco, "speak!"Then Marco understood what he wished, and also what he felt. Hefelt it himself, that magnificent uplifting gladness, as hespoke, holding his black head high and lifting his right hand."The Lamp is Lighted, brothers!" he cried. "The Lamp isLighted!"Then The Rat, who stood apart, watching, thought that the strangeworld within the cavern had gone mad! Wild smothered cries brokeforth, men caught each other in passionate embrace, they fellupon their knees, they clutched one another sobbing, they wrungeach other's hands, they leaped into the air. It was as if theycould not bear the joy of hearing that the end of their waitinghad come at last. They rushed upon Marco, and fell at his feet.The Rat saw big peasants kissing his shoes, his hands, everyscrap of his clothing they could seize. The wild circle swayedand closed upon him until The Rat was afraid. He did not knowthat, overpowered by this frenzy of emotion, his own excitementwas making him shake from head to foot like a leaf, and thattears were streaming down his cheeks. The swaying crowd hidMarco from him, and he began to fight his way towards him becausehis excitement increased with fear. The ecstasy-frenzied crowdof men seemed for the moment to have almost ceased to be sane.Marco was only a boy. They did not know how fiercely they werepressing upon him and keeping away the very air."Don't kill him! Don't kill him!" yelled The Rat, strugglingforward. "Stand back, you fools! I'm his aide-de-camp! Let mepass!"And though no one understood his English, one or two suddenlyremembered they had seen him enter with the priest and so gaveway. But just then the old priest lifted his hand above thecrowd, and spoke in a voice of stern command."Stand back, my children!" he cried. "Madness is not thehomage you must bring to the son of Stefan Loristan. Obey!Obey!" His voice had a power in it that penetrated even thewildest herdsmen. The frenzied mass swayed back and left spaceabout Marco, whose face The Rat could at last see. It was verywhite with emotion, and in his eyes there was a look which waslike awe. The Rat pushed forward until he stood beside him. He did notknow that he almost sobbed as he spoke."I'm your aide-de-camp," he said. "I'm going to stand here!Your father sent me! I'm under orders! I thought they'd crushyou to death."He glared at the circle about them as if, instead of worshippersdistraught with adoration, they had been enemies. The old priestseeing him, touched Marco's arm."Tell him he need not fear," he said. "It was only for thefirst few moments. The passion of their souls drove them wild.They are your slaves.""Those at the back might have pushed the front ones on untilthey trampled you under foot in spite of themselves!" The Ratpersisted."No," said Marco. "They would have stopped if I had spoken.""Why didn't you speak then?" snapped The Rat."All they felt was for Samavia, and for my father," Marco said,"and for the Sign. I felt as they did."The Rat was somewhat softened. It was true, after all. Howcould he have tried to quell the outbursts of their worship ofLoristan-- of the country he was saving for them--of the Signwhich called them to freedom? He could not.Then followed a strange and picturesque ceremonial. The priestwent about among the encircling crowd and spoke to one man afteranother--sometimes to a group. A larger circle was formed. Asthe pale old man moved about, The Rat felt as if some religiousceremony were going to be performed. Watching it from first tolast, he was thrilled to the core.At the end of the cavern a block of stone had been cut out tolook like an altar. It was covered with white, and against thewall above it hung a large picture veiled by a curtain. From theroof there swung before it an ancient lamp of metal suspended bychains. In front of the altar was a sort of stone dais. Therethe priest asked Marco to stand, with his aide-de-camp on thelower level in attendance. A knot of the biggest herdsmen wentout and returned. Each carried a huge sword which had perhapsbeen of the earliest made in the dark days gone by. The bearersformed themselves into a line on either side of Marco. Theyraised their swords and formed a pointed arch above his head anda passage twelve men long. When the points first clashedtogether The Rat struck himself hard upon his breast. Hisexultation was too keen to endure. He gazed at Marco standingstill--in that curiously splendid way in which both he and hisfather could stand still--and wondered how he could do it. Helooked as if he were prepared for any strange thing which couldhappen to him--because he was "under orders." The Rat knewthat he was doing whatsoever he did merely for his father's sake.It was as if he felt that he was representing his father, thoughhe was a mere boy; and that because of this, boy as he was, hemust bear himself nobly and remain outwardly undisturbed.At the end of the arch of swords, the old priest stood and gave asign to one man after another. When the sign was given to a manhe walked under the arch to the dais, and there knelt and,lifting Marco's hand to his lips, kissed it with passionatefervor. Then he returned to the place he had left. One afteranother passed up the aisle of swords, one after another knelt,one after the other kissed the brown young hand, rose and wentaway. Sometimes The Rat heard a few words which sounded almostlike a murmured prayer, sometimes he heard a sob as a shaggy headbent, again and again he saw eyes wet with tears. Once or twiceMarco spoke a few Samavian words, and the face of the man spokento flamed with joy. The Rat had time to see, as Marco had seen,that many of the faces were not those of peasants. Some of themwere clear cut and subtle and of the type of scholars or nobles.It took a long time for them all to kneel and kiss the lad'shand, but no man omitted the ceremony; and when at last it was atan end, a strange silence filled the cavern. They stood andgazed at each other with burning eyes.The priest moved to Marco's side, and stood near the altar. Heleaned forward and took in his hand a cord which hung from theveiled picture--he drew it and the curtain fell apart. Thereseemed to stand gazing at them from between its folds a tallkingly youth with deep eyes in which the stars of God were stillyshining, and with a smile wonderful to behold. Around the heavylocks of his black hair the long dead painter of missals had seta faint glow of light like a halo."Son of Stefan Loristan," the old priest said, in a shakenvoice, "it is the Lost Prince! It is Ivor!"Then every man in the room fell on his knees. Even the men whohad upheld the archway of swords dropped their weapons with acrash and knelt also. He was their saint--this boy! Dead forfive hundred years, he was their saint still."Ivor! Ivor!" the voices broke into a heavy murmur. "Ivor!Ivor!" as if they chanted a litany.Marco started forward, staring at the picture, his breath caughtin his throat, his lips apart."But--but--" he stammered, "but if my father were as young ashe is--he would be like him!""When you are as old as he is, you will be like him--you!" saidthe priest. And he let the curtain fall.The Rat stood staring with wide eyes from Marco to the pictureand from the picture to Marco. And he breathed faster and fasterand gnawed his finger ends. But he did not utter a word. Hecould not have done it, if he tried.Then Marco stepped down from the dais as if he were in a dream,and the old man followed him. The men with swords sprang totheir feet and made their archway again with a new clash ofsteel. The old man and the boy passed under it together. Nowevery man's eyes were fixed on Marco. At the heavy door by whichhe had entered, he stopped and turned to meet their glances. Helooked very young and thin and pale, but suddenly his father'ssmile was lighted in his face. He said a few words in Samavianclearly and gravely, saluted, and passed out."What did you say to them?" gasped The Rat, stumbling after himas the door closed behind them and shut in the murmur ofimpassioned sound."There was only one thing to say," was the answer. "They aremen--I am only a boy. I thanked them for my father, and toldthem he would never--never forget."