The wild circle swayed and closed upon him until The Rat was afraid.  He did not know that, overpowered by this frenzy of emotion, his own excitement was making him shake from head to foot like a leaf, and that tears were streaming down his cheeks.  The swaying crowd hid Marco from him, and he began to fight his way towards him because his excitement increased with fear.  The ecstasy-frenzied crowd of men seemed for the moment to have almost ceased to be sane.  Marco was only a boy.  They did not know how fiercely they were pressing upon him and keeping away the very air.

“Don’t kill him!  Don’t kill him!” yelled The Rat, struggling forward.  “Stand back, you fools!  I’m his aide-de-camp!  Let me pass!”

And though no one understood his English, one or two suddenly remembered they had seen him enter with the priest and so gave way.  But just then the old priest lifted his hand above the crowd, and spoke in a voice of stern command.

“Stand back, my children!” he cried.  “Madness is not the homage you must bring to the son of Stefan Loristan.  Obey!  Obey!” His voice had a power in it that penetrated even the wildest herdsmen.  The frenzied mass swayed back and left space about Marco, whose face The Rat could at last see.  It was very white with emotion, and in his eyes there was a look which was like awe.

The Rat pushed forward until he stood beside him.  He did not know that he almost sobbed as he spoke.

“I’m your aide-de-camp,” he said.  “I’m going to stand here!  Your father sent me!  I’m under orders!  I thought they’d crush you to death.”

He glared at the circle about them as if, instead of worshippers distraught with adoration, they had been enemies.  The old priest seeing him, touched Marco’s arm.

“Tell him he need not fear,” he said.  “It was only for the first few moments.  The passion of their souls drove them wild.  They are your slaves.”

“Those at the back might have pushed the front ones on until they trampled you under foot in spite of themselves!” The Rat persisted.

“No,” said Marco.  “They would have stopped if I had spoken.”

“Why didn’t you speak then?” snapped The Rat.

“All they felt was for Samavia, and for my father,” Marco said, “and for the Sign.  I felt as they did.”

The Rat was somewhat softened.  It was true, after all.  How could he have tried to quell the outbursts of their worship of Loristan—­of the country he was saving for them—­of the Sign which called them to freedom?  He could not.

Then followed a strange and picturesque ceremonial.  The priest went about among the encircling crowd and spoke to one man after another—­sometimes to a group.  A larger circle was formed.  As the pale old man moved about, The Rat felt as if some religious ceremony were going to be performed.  Watching it from first to last, he was thrilled to the core.