“You are doing your work more like a man than a boy,” was the next speech, and it was made reflectively.  “No man could have behaved more perfectly than you did just now, when discretion and composure were necessary.”  Then, after a moment’s pause, “He was deeply interested and deeply pleased.  Good night.”

* * * * *

When the gardens had been thrown open the next morning and people were passing in and out again, Marco passed out also.  He was obliged to tell himself two or three times that he had not wakened from an amazing dream.  He quickened his pace after he had crossed the street, because he wanted to get home to the attic and talk to The Rat.  There was a narrow side-street it was necessary for him to pass through if he wished to make a short cut.  As he turned into it, he saw a curious figure leaning on crutches against a wall.  It looked damp and forlorn, and he wondered if it could be a beggar.  It was not.  It was The Rat, who suddenly saw who was approaching and swung forward.  His face was pale and haggard and he looked worn and frightened.  He dragged off his cap and spoke in a voice which was hoarse as a crow’s.

“God be thanked!” he said.  “God be thanked!” as people always said it when they received the Sign, alone.  But there was a kind of anguish in his voice as well as relief.

“Aide-de-camp!” Marco cried out—­The Rat had begged him to call him so.  “What have you been doing?  How long have you been here?”

“Ever since I left you last night,” said The Rat clutching tremblingly at his arm as if to make sure he was real.  “If there was not room for two in the hollow, there was room for one in the street.  Was it my place to go off duty and leave you alone—­was it?”

“You were out in the storm?”

“Weren’t you?” said The Rat fiercely.  “I huddled against the wall as well as I could.  What did I care?  Crutches don’t prevent a fellow waiting.  I wouldn’t have left you if you’d given me orders.  And that would have been mutiny.  When you did not come out as soon as the gates opened, I felt as if my head got on fire.  How could I know what had happened?  I’ve not the nerve and backbone you have.  I go half mad.”  For a second or so Marco did not answer.  But when he put his hand on the damp sleeve, The Rat actually started, because it seemed as though he were looking into the eyes of Stefan Loristan.

“You look just like your father!” he exclaimed, in spite of himself.  “How tall you are!”

“When you are near me,” Marco said, in Loristan’s own voice, “when you are near me, I feel—­I feel as if I were a royal prince attended by an army.  You are my army.”  And he pulled off his cap with quick boyishness and added, “God be thanked!”

The sun was warm in the attic window when they reached their lodging, and the two leaned on the rough sill as Marco told his story.  It took some time to relate; and when he ended, he took an envelope from his pocket and showed it to The Rat.  It contained a flat package of money.