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But though he tried to speak carelessly, he had plainly been horribly shaken and overwrought. His queer face was yellowish white still, and he was trembling a little. Marco led the way into the back sitting-room. In the midst of its shabby gloom and under the dim light Loristan was standing in one of his still, attentive attitudes. He was waiting for them.
In the road outside there was the utter silence he had noticed the night of the Prince's first visit the only light was that of the lamp in the street, but he could see Loristan's face clearly enough to know that the mere intensity of his gaze had awakened him. The Rat was sleeping profoundly. Loristan spoke in Samavian and under his breath. "Beloved one," he said. "You are very young.
"I am an old man," he said. "My eyes are not good. If I had a light" and he glanced towards the house. It was The Rat who, with one whirl, swung through the door and seized the candle. He guessed what he wanted. He held it himself so that the flare fell on Marco's face. The old priest drew nearer and nearer. He gasped for breath. "You are the son of Stefan Loristan!" he cried.
"He is like his father," this personage said to the Prince. "But if any one but Loristan had sent him His looks please me." Then suddenly to Marco, "You were waiting outside while the 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?"
Loristan was standing on the hearth and Marco was near him. They were waiting for their vagabond guest as if he had been a gentleman. The Rat hesitated and shuffled at the door for a moment, and then it suddenly occurred to him to stand as straight as he could and salute. When he found himself in the presence of Loristan, he felt as if he ought to do something, but he did not know what.
Must you comfort him or must you let him go on? Marco only stood quite still and looked at him with understanding and gravity. "Yes, Father," he said. "I am the son of Stefan Loristan, and I have given the Sign to all. You are the last one. The Lamp is lighted. I could weep for gladness, too." The priest's tears and prayers ended.
"Do you think we might go there together and see it you and I, Father?" There was a silence for a while. Loristan looked into the sinking bed of red coal. "For years for years I have made for my soul that image," he said slowly. "When I think of my friend on the side of the Himalayan Mountains, I say, 'The Thought which Thought the World may give us that also!"
"And me! Why should any of us go? I don't want to. He wouldn't have followed me if I'd been the one." Loristan remained silent for a few moments. "When a life has counted for nothing, the end of it is a lonely thing," he said at last. "If it has forgotten all respect for itself, pity is all that one has left to give. One would like to give something to anything so lonely."
It was no use to pull himself up and tell himself that he was a fool. Now that all was over, he had time to be as great a fool as he was inclined to be. But how he longed to reach London and stand face to face with Loristan! The sign was given. The Lamp was lighted. What would happen next? His crutches were under his arms before the train drew up. "We're there!
"The same," answered Loristan. Marco threw up his hand in salute. "'Here grows a man for Samavia! God be thanked!" he quoted. "And he is somewhere? And you know?" Loristan bent his head in acquiescence. "For years much secret work has been done, and the Fedorovitch party has grown until it is much greater and more powerful than the other parties dream.
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