He broke off because Marco did more than lift his head.  He sat upright.

“You bore the Sign as much as I did,” he said.  “We bore it together.”

“Who would have listened to me?” cried The Rat. “You were the son of Stefan Loristan.”

“You were the friend of his son,” answered Marco.  “You went at the command of Stefan Loristan.  You were the army of the son of Stefan Loristan.  That I have told you.  Where I go, you will go.  We will say no more of this—­not one word.”

And he lay down again in the silence of a prince of the blood.  And The Rat knew that he meant what he said, and that Stefan Loristan also would mean it.  And because he was a boy, he began to wonder what Mrs. Beedle would do when she heard what had happened—­what had been happening all the time a tall, shabby “foreigner” had lived in her dingy back sitting-room, and been closely watched lest he should go away without paying his rent, as shabby foreigners sometimes did.  The Rat saw himself managing to poise himself very erect on his crutches while he told her that the shabby foreigner was—­well, was at least the friend of a King, and had given him his crown—­and would be made a prince and a Commander-in-Chief—­and a Prime Minister—­because there was no higher rank or honor to give him.  And his son—­whom she had insulted—­was Samavia’s idol because he had borne the Sign.  And also that if she were in Samavia, and Marco chose to do it he could batter her wretched lodging-house to the ground and put her in a prison—­“and serve her jolly well right!”

The next day passed, and the next; and then there came a letter.  It was from Loristan, and Marco turned pale when Lazarus handed it to him.  Lazarus and The Rat went out of the room at once, and left him to read it alone.  It was evidently not a long letter, because it was not many minutes before Marco called them again into the room.

“In a few days, messengers—­friends of my father’s—­will come to take us to Samavia.  You and I and Lazarus are to go,” he said to The Rat.

“God be thanked!” said Lazarus.  “God be thanked!”

Before the messengers came, it was the end of the week.  Lazarus had packed their few belongings, and on Saturday Mrs. Beedle was to be seen hovering at the top of the cellar steps, when Marco and The Rat left the back sitting-room to go out.

“You needn’t glare at me!” she said to Lazarus, who stood glowering at the door which he had opened for them.  “Young Master Loristan, I want to know if you’ve heard when your father is coming back?”

“He will not come back,” said Marco.

“He won’t, won’t he?  Well, how about next week’s rent?” said Mrs. Beedle.  “Your man’s been packing up, I notice.  He’s not got much to carry away, but it won’t pass through that front door until I’ve got what’s owing me.  People that can pack easy think they can get away easy, and they’ll bear watching.  The week’s up to-day.”