“I see it!” The Rat exclaimed at last.  “It is that very old-looking one standing a little way from the rest.  It is not as tumbled down as most of them.  And there are some red flowers on the balcony.”

“Yes!  That’s it!” said Marco.

They walked up to the low black door and, as he stopped on the threshold, Marco took off his cap.  He did this because, sitting in the doorway on a low wooden chair, the old, old woman with the eagle eyes was sitting knitting.

There was no one else in the room and no one anywhere within sight.  When the old, old woman looked up at him with her young eagle’s eyes, holding her head high on her long neck, Marco knew he need not ask for water or for anything else.

“The Lamp is lighted,” he said, in his low but strong and clear young voice.

She dropped her knitting upon her knees and gazed at him a moment in silence.  She knew German it was clear, for it was in German she answered him.

“God be thanked!” she said.  “Come in, young Bearer of the Sign, and bring your friend in with you.  I live alone and not a soul is within hearing.”

She was a wonderful old woman.  Neither Marco nor The Rat would live long enough to forget the hours they spent in her strange dark house.  She kept them and made them spend the night with her.

“It is quite safe,” she said.  “I live alone since my man fell into the crevasse and was killed because his rope broke when he was trying to save his comrade.  So I have two rooms to spare and sometimes climbers are glad to sleep in them.  Mine is a good warm house and I am well known in the village.  You are very young,” she added shaking her head.  “You are very young.  You must have good blood in your veins to be trusted with this.”

“I have my father’s blood,” answered Marco.

“You are like some one I once saw,” the old woman said, and her eagle eyes set themselves hard upon him.  “Tell me your name.”

There was no reason why he should not tell it to her.

“It is Marco Loristan,” he said.

“What!  It is that!” she cried out, not loud but low.

To Marco’s amazement she got up from her chair and stood before him, showing what a tall old woman she really was.  There was a startled, even an agitated, look in her face.  And suddenly she actually made a sort of curtsey to him—­bending her knee as peasants do when they pass a shrine.

“It is that!” she said again.  “And yet they dare let you go on a journey like this!  That speaks for your courage and for theirs.”

But Marco did not know what she meant.  Her strange obeisance made him feel awkward.  He stood up because his training had told him that when a woman stands a man also rises.

“The name speaks for the courage,” he said, “because it is my father’s.”

She watched him almost anxiously.

“You do not even know!” she breathed—­and it was an exclamation and not a question.