get home.  No. 7 Philibert Place rose before them in its noisy dinginess as the one desirable spot on earth.  To Marco it held his father.  And it was Loristan alone that The Rat saw when he thought of it.  Loristan as he would look when he saw him come into the room with Marco, and stand up and salute, and say:  “I have brought him back, sir.  He has carried out every single order you gave him—­every single one.  So have I.”  So he had.  He had been sent as his companion and attendant, and he had been faithful in every thought.  If Marco would have allowed him, he would have waited upon him like a servant, and have been proud of the service.  But Marco would never let him forget that they were only two boys and that one was of no more importance than the other.  He had secretly even felt this attitude to be a sort of grievance.  It would have been more like a game if one of them had been the mere servitor of the other, and if that other had blustered a little, and issued commands, and demanded sacrifices.  If the faithful vassal could have been wounded or cast into a dungeon for his young commander’s sake, the adventure would have been more complete.  But though their journey had been full of wonders and rich with beauties, though the memory of it hung in The Rat’s mind like a background of tapestry embroidered in all the hues of the earth with all the splendors of it, there had been no dungeons and no wounds.  After the adventure in Munich their unimportant boyishness had not even been observed by such perils as might have threatened them.  As The Rat had said, they had “blown like grains of dust” through Europe and had been as nothing.  And this was what Loristan had planned, this was what his grave thought had wrought out.  If they had been men, they would not have been so safe.

From the time they had left the old priest on the hillside to begin their journey back to the frontier, they both had been given to long silences as they tramped side by side or lay on the moss in the forests.  Now that their work was done, a sort of reaction had set in.  There were no more plans to be made and no more uncertainties to contemplate.  They were on their way back to No. 7 Philibert Place—­Marco to his father, The Rat to the man he worshipped.  Each of them was thinking of many things.  Marco was full of longing to see his father’s face and hear his voice again.  He wanted to feel the pressure of his hand on his shoulder—­to be sure that he was real and not a dream.  This last was because during this homeward journey everything that had happened often seemed to be a dream.  It had all been so wonderful—­the climber standing looking down at them the morning they awakened on the Gaisburg; the mountaineer shoemaker measuring his foot in the small shop; the old, old woman and her noble lord; the Prince with his face turned upward as he stood on the balcony looking at the moon; the old priest kneeling and weeping for joy; the great cavern with the yellow light upon the crowd of passionate faces; the curtain which fell apart and showed the still eyes and the black hair with the halo about it!  Now that they were left behind, they all seemed like things he had dreamed.  But he had not dreamed them; he was going back to tell his father about them.  And how good it would be to feel his hand on his shoulder!