Both boys fell back.

“Not read the papers!” they exclaimed together.

Lazarus had never before been quite so reverential and ceremonious.

“Your pardon, sir,” he said.  “I may read them at your orders, and report such things as it is well that you should know.  There have been dark tales told and there may be darker ones.  He asked that you would not read for yourself.  If you meet again—­when you meet again”—­he corrected himself hastily—­“when you meet again, he says you will understand.  I am your servant.  I will read and answer all such questions as I can.”

The Rat handed him the paper and they returned to the back room together.

“You shall tell us what he would wish us to hear,” Marco said.

The news was soon told.  The story was not a long one as exact details had not yet reached London.  It was briefly that the head of the Maranovitch party had been put to death by infuriated soldiers of his own army.  It was an army drawn chiefly from a peasantry which did not love its leaders, or wish to fight, and suffering and brutal treatment had at last roused it to furious revolt.

“What next?” said Marco.

“If I were a Samavian—­” began The Rat and then he stopped.

Lazarus stood biting his lips, but staring stonily at the carpet.  Not The Rat alone but Marco also noted a grim change in him.  It was grim because it suggested that he was holding himself under an iron control.  It was as if while tortured by anxiety he had sworn not to allow himself to look anxious and the resolve set his jaw hard and carved new lines in his rugged face.  Each boy thought this in secret, but did not wish to put it into words.  If he was anxious, he could only be so for one reason, and each realized what the reason must be.  Loristan had gone to Samavia—­to the torn and bleeding country filled with riot and danger.  If he had gone, it could only have been because its danger called him and he went to face it at its worst.  Lazarus had been left behind to watch over them.  Silence was still the order, and what he knew he could not tell them, and perhaps he knew little more than that a great life might be lost.

Because his master was absent, the old soldier seemed to feel that he must comfort himself with a greater ceremonial reverance than he had ever shown before.  He held himself within call, and at Marco’s orders, as it had been his custom to hold himself with regard to Loristan.  The ceremonious service even extended itself to The Rat, who appeared to have taken a new place in his mind.  He also seemed now to be a person to be waited upon and replied to with dignity and formal respect.

When the evening meal was served, Lazarus drew out Loristan’s chair at the head of the table and stood behind it with a majestic air.

“Sir,” he said to Marco, “the Master requested that you take his seat at the table until—­while he is not with you.”