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Updated: September 15, 2025
"As I know yours, sir," Marco answered. Then followed a number of questions. Loristan asked them as he had often asked them before. They were questions as to the height and build of the originals of the pictures, of the color of their hair and eyes, and the order of their complexions. Marco answered them all.
"It is The Rat's plan for giving the signal for a Rising," he said. Loristan made a slight movement. "Does he think there will be a Rising?" he asked. "He says that must be what the Secret Party has been preparing for all these years. And it must come soon. The other nations see that the fighting must be put an end to even if they have to stop it themselves.
It seemed as if it might turn out badly." "Beloved one," Loristan said the words in their own Samavian, "until you are fed and at rest, you shall not talk at all." Afterward, when he was himself again and was allowed to tell his strange story, Marco found that both his father and Lazarus had at once had suspicions when he had not returned. They knew no ordinary event could have kept him.
Loristan had said that he might sometime have a story to tell when he had but few moments to tell it in some story which meant life or death to some one. He told this one quickly and well. He made Loristan see the well-dressed man with the deliberate manner and the keen eyes, and he made him hear his voice when he said, "Tell your father that you are a very well-trained lad."
"Who would have listened to me?" cried The Rat. "You were the son of Stefan Loristan." "You were the friend of his son," answered Marco. "You went at the command of Stefan Loristan. You were the army of the son of Stefan Loristan. That I have told you. Where I go, you will go. We will say no more of this not one word." And he lay down again in the silence of a prince of the blood.
"There grows a man for Samavia," he said to Lazarus, who watched him. "God be thanked!" Lazarus's voice was low and hoarse, and he saluted quite reverently. "Your sir!" he said. "God save the Prince!" "Yes," Loristan answered, after a moment's hesitation, "when he is found." And he went back to his table smiling his beautiful smile.
He tried to believe he felt the wall against his back. "If I were shot, I should be shot for Samavia," he said. "And for you, Father." Even as he was speaking, the front door-bell rang and Lazarus evidently opened it. He spoke to some one, and then they heard his footsteps approaching the back sitting-room. "Open the door," said Loristan, and Marco opened it.
Once, when he was seven or eight years old, a boy had asked him what his father's work was. "His own father is a carpenter, and he asked me if my father was one," Marco brought the story to Loristan. "I said you were not. Then he asked if you were a shoemaker, and another one said you might be a bricklayer or a tailor and I didn't know what to tell them."
"I am the son of Stefan Loristan," Marco said to himself, in order to hold himself steady. "I am on my way to my father." Afterward, he was moving through the line of guarding soldiers to the entrance, where two great state-carriages stood; and there, outside, waited even a huger and more frenzied crowd than that left behind. He saluted there again, and again, and again, on all sides.
He cleared his throat nervously at intervals and more than once left his chair as if to look for something. It was almost midnight when Loristan, standing near Marco, put his arm round his shoulders. "The Game" he began, and then was silent a few moments while Marco felt his arm tighten its hold.
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