As Marco got into his carriage, he caught sight of a boy about his own age who was peeping from behind a bush.  Suddenly he darted away, and they all saw him tearing down the street towards the station as fast as his legs would carry him.

But the horses were faster than he was.  The party reached the station, and was escorted quickly to its place in a special saloon-carriage which awaited it.  As the train made its way out of the station, Marco saw the boy who had run before them rush on to the platform, waving his arms and shouting something with wild delight.  The people who were standing about turned to look at him, and the next instant they had all torn off their caps and thrown them up in the air and were shouting also.  But it was not possible to hear what they said.

“We were only just in time,” said Vorversk, and Baron Rastka nodded.

The train went swiftly, and stopped only once before they reached Melzarr.  This was at a small station, on the platform of which stood peasants with big baskets of garlanded flowers and evergreens.  They put them on the train, and soon both Marco and The Rat saw that something unusual was taking place.  At one time, a man standing on the narrow outside platform of the carriage was plainly seen to be securing garlands and handing up flags to men who worked on the roof.

“They are doing something with Samavian flags and a lot of flowers and green things!” cried The Rat, in excitement.

“Sir, they are decorating the outside of the carriage,” Vorversk said.  “The villagers on the line obtained permission from His Majesty.  The son of Stefan Loristan could not be allowed to pass their homes without their doing homage.”

“I understand,” said Marco, his heart thumping hard against his uniform.  “It is for my father’s sake.”

* * * * *

At last, embowered, garlanded, and hung with waving banners, the train drew in at the chief station at Melzarr.

“Sir,” said Rastka, as they were entering, “will you stand up that the people may see you?  Those on the outskirts of the crowd will have the merest glimpse, but they will never forget.”

Marco stood up.  The others grouped themselves behind him.  There arose a roar of voices, which ended almost in a shriek of joy which was like the shriek of a tempest.  Then there burst forth the blare of brazen instruments playing the National Hymn of Samavia, and mad voices joined in it.

If Marco had not been a strong boy, and long trained in self-control, what he saw and heard might have been almost too much to be borne.  When the train had come to a full stop, and the door was thrown open, even Rastka’s dignified voice was unsteady as he said, “Sir, lead the way.  It is for us to follow.”

And Marco, erect in the doorway, stood for a moment, looking out upon the roaring, acclaiming, weeping, singing and swaying multitude—­and saluted just as he had saluted The Squad, looking just as much a boy, just as much a man, just as much a thrilling young human being.