They pushed their way through the ferns and wandered in and out through trees until they found the little path.  The hill was thickly clothed with forest and the little path was sometimes dark and steep; but they knew that, if they followed it, they would at last come out to a place where there were scarcely any trees at all, and on a crag they would find the tiny church waiting for them.  The priest might not be there.  They might have to wait for him, but he would be sure to come back for morning Mass and for vespers, wheresoever he wandered between times.

There were many stars in the sky when at last a turn of the path showed them the church above them.  It was little and built of rough stone.  It looked as if the priest himself and his scattered flock might have broken and carried or rolled bits of the hill to put it together.  It had the small, round, mosque-like summit the Turks had brought into Europe in centuries past.  It was so tiny that it would hold but a very small congregation—­and close to it was a shed-like house, which was of course the priest’s.

The two boys stopped on the path to look at it.

“There is a candle burning in one of the little windows,” said Marco.

“There is a well near the door—­and some one is beginning to draw water,” said The Rat, next.  “It is too dark to see who it is.  Listen!”

They listened and heard the bucket descend on the chains, and splash in the water.  Then it was drawn up, and it seemed some one drank long.  Then they saw a dim figure move forward and stand still.  Then they heard a voice begin to pray aloud, as if the owner, being accustomed to utter solitude, did not think of earthly hearers.

“Come,” Marco said.  And they went forward.

Because the stars were so many and the air so clear, the priest heard their feet on the path, and saw them almost as soon as he heard them.  He ended his prayer and watched them coming.  A lad on crutches, who moved as lightly and easily as a bird—­and a lad who, even yards away, was noticeable for a bearing of his body which was neither haughty nor proud but set him somehow aloof from every other lad one had ever seen.  A magnificent lad—­though, as he drew near, the starlight showed his face thin and his eyes hollow as if with fatigue or hunger.

“And who is this one?” the old priest murmured to himself. “Who?”

Marco drew up before him and made a respectful reverence.  Then he lifted his black head, squared his shoulders and uttered his message for the last time.

“The Lamp is lighted, Father,” he said.  “The Lamp is lighted.”

The old priest stood quite still and gazed into his face.  The next moment he bent his head so that he could look at him closely.  It seemed almost as if he were frightened and wanted to make sure of something.  At the moment it flashed through The Rat’s mind that the old, old woman on the mountain-top had looked frightened in something the same way.