Chapter XXX. The Game Is at an End

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

　　So long as the history of Europe is written and read, theunparalleled story of the Rising of the Secret Party in Samaviawill stand out as one of its most startling and romantic records.Every detail connected with the astonishing episode, frombeginning to end, was romantic even when it was most productiveof realistic results. When it is related, it always begins withthe story of the tall and kingly Samavian youth who walked out ofthe palace in the early morning sunshine singing the herdsmen'ssong of beauty of old days. Then comes the outbreak of theruined and revolting populace; then the legend of the morning onthe mountain side, and the old shepherd coming out of his caveand finding the apparently dead body of the beautiful younghunter. Then the secret nursing in the cavern; then the joltingcart piled with sheepskins crossing the frontier, and ending itsjourney at the barred entrance of the monastery and leaving itsmysterious burden behind. And then the bitter hate and struggleof dynasties, and the handful of shepherds and herdsmen meetingin their cavern and binding themselves and their unborn sons andsons' sons by an oath never to be broken. Then the passing ofgenerations and the slaughter of peoples and the changing ofkings,--and always that oath remembered, and the Forgers of theSword, at their secret work, hidden in forests and caves. Thenthe strange story of the uncrowned kings who, wandering in otherlands, lived and died in silence and seclusion, often laboringwith their hands for their daily bread, but never forgetting thatthey must be kings, and ready,--even though Samavia never called.Perhaps the whole story would fill too many volumes to admit ofit ever being told fully.But history makes the growing of the Secret Party clear,--thoughit seems almost to cease to be history, in spite of its effortsto be brief and speak only of dull facts, when it is forced todeal with the Bearing of the Sign by two mere boys, who, beingblown as unremarked as any two grains of dust across Europe, litthe Lamp whose flame so flared up to the high heavens that as iffrom the earth itself there sprang forth Samavians by thethousands ready to feed it-- Iarovitch and Maranovitch sweptaside forever and only Samavians remaining to cry aloud in ardentpraise and worship of the God who had brought back to them theirLost Prince. The battle-cry of his name had ended every battle.Swords fell from hands because swords were not needed. TheIarovitch fled in terror and dismay; the Maranovitch were nowhereto be found. Between night and morning, as the newsboy had said,the standard of Ivor was raised and waved from palace and citadelalike. From mountain, forest and plain, from city, village andtown, its followers flocked to swear allegiance; broken andwounded legions staggered along the roads to join and kneel toit; women and children followed, weeping with joy and chantingsongs of praise. The Powers held out their scepters to thelately prostrate and ignored country. Train-loads of food andsupplies of all things needed began to cross the frontier; theaid of nations was bestowed. Samavia, at peace to till its land,to raise its flocks, to mine its ores, would be able to pay allback. Samavia in past centuries had been rich enough to makegreat loans, and had stored such harvests as warring countrieshad been glad to call upon. The story of the crowning of theKing had been the wildest of all--the multitude of ecstaticpeople, famished, in rags, and many of them weak with wounds,kneeling at his feet, praying, as their one salvation andsecurity, that he would go attended by them to their bombardedand broken cathedral, and at its high altar let the crown beplaced upon his head, so that even those who perhaps must die oftheir past sufferings would at least have paid their poor homageto the King Ivor who would rule their children and bring back toSamavia her honor and her peace."Ivor! Ivor!" they chanted like a prayer,--"Ivor! Ivor!" intheir houses, by the roadside, in the streets."The story of the Coronation in the shattered Cathedral, whoseroof had been torn to fragments by bombs," said an importantLondon paper, "reads like a legend of the Middle Ages. But,upon the whole, there is in Samavia's national character,something of the mediaeval, still."Lazarus, having bought and read in his top floor room everynewspaper recording the details which had reached London,returned to report almost verbatim, standing erect before Marco,the eyes under his shaggy brows sometimes flaming withexultation, sometimes filled with a rush of tears. He could notbe made to sit down. His whole big body seemed to have becomerigid with magnificence. Meeting Mrs. Beedle in the passage, hestrode by her with an air so thunderous that she turned andscuttled back to her cellar kitchen, almost falling down thestone steps in her nervous terror. In such a mood, he was not aperson to face without something like awe.In the middle of the night, The Rat suddenly spoke to Marco as ifhe knew that he was awake and would hear him."He has given all his life to Samavia!" he said. "When youtraveled from country to country, and lived in holes and corners,it was because by doing it he could escape spies, and see thepeople who must be made to understand. No one else could havemade them listen. An emperor would have begun to listen when hehad seen his face and heard his voice. And he could be silent,and wait for the right time to speak. He could keep still whenother men could not. He could keep his face still--and hishands--and his eyes. Now all Samavia knows what he has done, andthat he has been the greatest patriot in the world. We both sawwhat Samavians were like that night in the cavern. They will gomad with joy when they see his face!""They have seen it now," said Marco, in a low voice from hisbed.Then there was a long silence, though it was not quite silencebecause The Rat's breathing was so quick and hard."He--must have been at that coronation!" he said at last."The King--what will the King do to--repay him?"Marco did not answer. His breathing could be heard also. Hismind was picturing that same coronation--the shattered, rooflesscathedral, the ruins of the ancient and magnificent high altar,the multitude of kneeling, famine-scourged people, thebattle-worn, wounded and bandaged soldiery! And the King! Andhis father! Where had his father stood when the King wascrowned? Surely, he had stood at the King's right hand, and thepeople had adored and acclaimed them equally!"King Ivor!" he murmured as if he were in a dream. "KingIvor!"The Rat started up on his elbow."You will see him," he cried out. "He's not a dream anylonger. The Game is not a game now--and it is ended--it is won!It was real--he was real! Marco, I don't believe you hear.""Yes, I do," answered Marco, "but it is almost more a dreamthan when it was one.""The greatest patriot in the world is like a king himself!"raved The Rat. "If there is no bigger honor to give him, hewill be made a prince--and Commander-in-Chief--and PrimeMinister! Can't you hear those Samavians shouting, and singing,and praying? You'll see it all! Do you remember the mountainclimber who was going to save the shoes he made for the Bearer ofthe Sign? He said a great day might come when one could showthem to the people. It's come! He'll show them! I know howthey'll take it!" His voice suddenly dropped--as if it droppedinto a pit. "You'll see it all. But I shall not."Then Marco awoke from his dream and lifted his head. "Whynot?" he demanded. It sounded like a demand."Because I know better than to expect it!" The Rat groaned."You've taken me a long way, but you can't take me to the palaceof a king. I'm not such a fool as to think that, even of yourfather--"He broke off because Marco did more than lift his head. He satupright."You bore the Sign as much as I did," he said. "We bore ittogether.""Who would have listened to me?" cried The Rat. "You were theson of Stefan Loristan.""You were the friend of his son," answered Marco. "You wentat the command of Stefan Loristan. You were the army of the sonof Stefan Loristan. That I have told you. Where I go, you willgo. We will say no more of this--not one word."And he lay down again in the silence of a prince of the blood.And The Rat knew that he meant what he said, and that StefanLoristan also would mean it. And because he was a boy, he beganto wonder what Mrs. Beedle would do when she heard what hadhappened--what had been happening all the time a tall, shabby"foreigner" had lived in her dingy back sitting-room, and beenclosely watched lest he should go away without paying his rent,as shabby foreigners sometimes did. The Rat saw himself managingto poise himself very erect on his crutches while he told herthat the shabby foreigner was--well, was at least the friend of aKing, and had given him his crown--and would be made a prince anda Commander-in-Chief--and a Prime Minister--because there was nohigher rank or honor to give him. And his son--whom she hadinsulted-- was Samavia's idol because he had borne the Sign. Andalso that if she were in Samavia, and Marco chose to do it hecould batter her wretched lodging-house to the ground and put herin a prison--"and serve her jolly well right!"The next day passed, and the next; and then there came a letter.It was from Loristan, and Marco turned pale when Lazarus handedit to him. Lazarus and The Rat went out of the room at once, andleft him to read it alone. It was evidently not a long letter,because it was not many minutes before Marco called them againinto the room."In a few days, messengers--friends of my father's--will come totake us to Samavia. You and I and Lazarus are to go," he saidto The Rat."God be thanked!" said Lazarus. "God be thanked!"Before the messengers came, it was the end of the week. Lazarushad packed their few belongings, and on Saturday Mrs. Beedle wasto be seen hovering at the top of the celler steps, when Marcoand The Rat left the back sitting-room to go out."You needn't glare at me!" she said to Lazarus, who stoodglowering at the door which he had opened for them. "YoungMaster Loristan, I want to know if you've heard when your fatheris coming back?""He will not come back," said Marco."He won't, won't he? Well, how about next week's rent?" saidMrs. Beedle. "Your man's been packing up, I notice. He's notgot much to carry away, but it won't pass through that front dooruntil I've got what's owing me. People that can pack easy thinkthey can get away easy, and they'll bear watching. The week's upto-day."Lazarus wheeled and faced her with a furious gesture. "Get backto your cellar, woman," he commanded. "Get back under groundand stay there. Look at what is stopping before your miserablegate."A carriage was stopping--a very perfect carriage of dark brown.The coachman and footman wore dark brown and gold liveries, andthe footman had leaped down and opened the door with respectfulalacrity. "They are friends of the Master's come to pay theirrespects to his son," said Lazarus. "Are their eyes to beoffended by the sight of you?""Your money is safe," said Marco. "You had better leave us."Mrs. Beedle gave a sharp glance at the two gentlemen who hadentered the broken gate. They were of an order which did notbelong to Philibert Place. They looked as if the carriage andthe dark brown and gold liveries were every-day affairs to them."At all events, they're two grown men, and not two boys withouta penny," she said. "If they're your father's friends, they'lltell me whether my rent's safe or not."The two visitors were upon the threshold. They were both men ofa certain self-contained dignity of type; and when Lazarus openedwide the door, they stepped into the shabby entrance hall as ifthey did not see it. They looked past its dinginess, and pastLazarus, and The Rat, and Mrs. Beedle--through them, as itwere,--at Marco.He advanced towards them at once."You come from my father!" he said, and gave his hand first tothe elder man, then to the younger."Yes, we come from your father. I am Baron Rastka--and this isthe Count Vorversk," said the elder man, bowing."If they're barons and counts, and friends of your father's,they are well-to-do enough to be responsible for you," said Mrs.Beedle, rather fiercely, because she was somewhat over-awed andresented the fact. "It's a matter of next week's rent,gentlemen. I want to know where it's coming from."The elder man looked at her with a swift cold glance. He did notspeak to her, but to Lazarus. "What is she doing here?" hedemanded.Marco answered him. "She is afraid we cannot pay our rent," hesaid. "It is of great importance to her that she should besure.""Take her away," said the gentleman to Lazarus. He did noteven glance at her. He drew something from his coat-pocket andhanded it to the old soldier. "Take her away," he repeated.And because it seemed as if she were not any longer a person atall, Mrs. Beedle actually shuffled down the passage to thecellar-kitchen steps. Lazarus did not leave her until he, too,had descended into the cellar kitchen, where he stood and toweredabove her like an infuriated giant."To-morrow he will be on his way to Samavia, miserable woman!"he said. "Before he goes, it would be well for you to implorehis pardon."But Mrs. Beedle's point of view was not his. She had recoveredsome of her breath."I don't know where Samavia is," she raged, as she struggled toset her dusty, black cap straight. "I'll warrant it's one ofthese little foreign countries you can scarcely see on themap--and not a decent English town in it! He can go as soon ashe likes, so long as he pays his rent before he does it.Samavia, indeed! You talk as if he was Buckingham Palace!"