He leaned on his crutches in the crowd and watched the glitter of the passing pageant.  Now and then he glanced at Marco, who watched also with a steady eye which, The Rat saw, nothing would escape:  How absorbed he always was in the Game!  How impossible it was for him to forget it or to remember it only as a boy would!  Often it seemed that he was not a boy at all.  And the Game, The Rat knew in these days, was a game no more but a thing of deep and deadly earnest—­a thing which touched kings and thrones, and concerned the ruling and swaying of great countries.  And they—­two lads pushed about by the crowd as they stood and stared at the soldiers—­carried with them that which was even now lighting the Lamp.  The blood in The Rat’s veins ran quickly and made him feel hot as he remembered certain thoughts which had forced themselves into his mind during the past weeks.  As his brain had the trick of “working things out,” it had, during the last fortnight at least, been following a wonderful even if rather fantastic and feverish fancy.  A mere trifle had set it at work, but, its labor once begun, things which might have once seemed to be trifles appeared so no longer.  When Marco was asleep, The Rat lay awake through thrilled and sometimes almost breathless midnight hours, looking backward and recalling every detail of their lives since they had known each other.  Sometimes it seemed to him that almost everything he remembered—­the Game from first to last above all—­had pointed to but one thing.  And then again he would all at once feel that he was a fool and had better keep his head steady.  Marco, he knew, had no wild fancies.  He had learned too much and his mind was too well balanced.  He did not try to “work out things.”  He only thought of what he was under orders to do.

“But,” said The Rat more than once in these midnight hours, “if it ever comes to a draw whether he is to be saved or I am, he is the one that must come to no harm.  Killing can’t take long—­and his father sent me with him.”

This thought passed through his mind as the tramping feet went by.  As a sudden splendid burst of approaching music broke upon his ear, a queer look twisted his face.  He realized the contrast between this day and that first morning behind the churchyard, when he had sat on his platform among the Squad and looked up and saw Marco in the arch at the end of the passage.  And because he had been good-looking and had held himself so well, he had thrown a stone at him.  Yes—­blind gutter-bred fool that he’d been:—­his first greeting to Marco had been a stone, just because he was what he was.  As they stood here in the crowd in this far-off foreign city, it did not seem as if it could be true that it was he who had done it.

He managed to work himself closer to Marco’s side.  “Isn’t it splendid?” he said, “I wish I was an emperor myself.  I’d have these fellows out like this every day.”  He said it only because he wanted to say something, to speak, as a reason for getting closer to him.  He wanted to be near enough to touch him and feel that they were really together and that the whole thing was not a sort of magnificent dream from which he might awaken to find himself lying on his heap of rags in his corner of the room in Bone Court.