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As The Rat had said, they had "blown like grains of dust" through Europe and had been as nothing. And this was what Loristan had planned, this was what his grave thought had wrought out. If they had been men, they would not have been so safe.
They might think better of it before they left the house at least. In any case, he had learned enough from Loristan to realize that only harm could come from letting one's mind run wild. "A mind is either an engine with broken and flying gear, or a giant power under control," was the thing they knew.
His companion leaned forward to look through the window. When he caught sight of Marco, a singular expression crossed his face. "He does belong to an army, sir," he answered, "though he does not know it. His name is Marco Loristan." Then Marco saw him plainly for the first time. He was the man with the keen eyes who had spoken to him in Samavian.
"I am glad he said that. He is a man who knows what training is," said Loristan. "He is a person who knows what all Europe is doing, and almost all that it will do. He is an ambassador from a powerful and great country. If he saw that you are a well-trained and fine lad, it might it might even be good for Samavia." "Would it matter that I was well-trained? Could it matter to Samavia?"
Loristan would mention the name of a place, perhaps a street in Paris or a hotel in Vienna, and Marco would at once make a rapid sketch of the face under whose photograph the name of the locality had been written. It was not long before he could begin his sketch without more than a moment's hesitation. And yet even when this had become the case, they still played the game night after night.
He said it grandly and with a queer indignation, his black head held up and his eyes angry. Loristan laid his hand against his mouth. "Hush! hush!" he said. "Is it an insult to a man to think he may be a carpenter or make a good suit of clothes? If I could make our clothes, we should go better dressed. If I were a shoemaker, your toes would not be making their way into the world as they are now."
Marco was not a mere boy to them, he was the son of Stefan Loristan; and they were Samavians. They watched over him, not as Lazarus did, but with a gravity and forethought which somehow seemed to encircle him with a rampart. Without any air of subservience, they constituted themselves his attendants. His comfort, his pleasure, even his entertainment, were their private care.
"Every night and every morning," said Marco, "I shall pray that I may be called to do it, and that I may do it well." "You will do it well, Comrade, if you are called. That I could make oath," Loristan answered him. The Squad had collected in the inclosure behind the church when Marco appeared at the arched end of the passage.
"The sword in my hand for Samavia! "The heart in my breast for Samavia! "The swiftness of my sight, the thought of my brain, the life of my life for Samavia. "Here grows a man for Samavia. "God be thanked!" Then Loristan put his hand on the child's shoulder, and his dark face looked almost fiercely proud. "From this hour," he said, "you and I are comrades at arms."
He did not know that his small hand opened and shut with a fierce understanding grip because those of his blood had for long centuries past carried swords and fought with them. Loristan gave him the big bared weapon, and stood erect before him. "Repeat these words after me sentence by sentence!" he commanded. And as he spoke them Marco echoed each one loudly and clearly.
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