There swept over him a wave of remembrance which brought back, as if he were living through it again, the moment when he had stood in the darkness of the wine cellar with his back against the door and heard the man walk away and leave him alone.  He felt again as he had done then—­but now he was in another land and far away from his father.  He could do nothing to help himself unless Something showed him a way.

He made no sound, and the woman who held him saw only a flame leap under his dense black lashes.

But something within him called out.  It was as if he heard it.  It was that strong self—­the self that was Marco, and it called—­it called as if it shouted.

“Help!” it called—­to that Unknown Stranger Thing which had made worlds and which he and his father so often talked of and in whose power they so believed.  “Help!”

The Chancellor was drawing nearer.  Perhaps!  Should he—?

“You are too proud to kick and shout,” the voice went on.  “And people would only laugh.  Do you see?”

The stairs were crowded and the man who was at the head of them could only move slowly.  But he had seen the boy.

Marco turned so that he could face his captor squarely as if he were going to say something in answer to her.  But he was not.

Even as he made the movement of turning, the help he had called for came and he knew what he should do.  And he could do two things at once—­save himself and give his Sign—­because, the Sign once given, the Chancellor would understand.

“He will be here in a moment.  He has recognized you,” the woman said.

As he glanced up the stairs, the delicate grip of her hand unconsciously slackened.

Marco whirled away from her.  The bell rang which was to warn the audience that they must return to their seats and he saw the Chancellor hasten his pace.

A moment later, the old aristocrat found himself amazedly looking down at the pale face of a breathless lad who spoke to him in German and in such a manner that he could not but pause and listen.

“Sir,” he was saying, “the woman in violet at the foot of the stairs is a spy.  She trapped me once and she threatens to do it again.  Sir, may I beg you to protect me?”

He said it low and fast.  No one else could hear his words.

“What!  What!” the Chancellor exclaimed.

And then, drawing a step nearer and quite as low and rapidly but with perfect distinctness, Marco uttered four words: 

“The Lamp is lighted.”

The Help cry had been answered instantly.  Marco saw it at once in the old man’s eyes, notwithstanding that he turned to look at the woman at the foot of the staircase as if she only concerned him.

“What!  What!” he said again, and made a movement toward her, pulling his large moustache with a fierce hand.