“A sentinel ought to be posted at the end of the passage,” Marco whispered.

“Ben, take your gun!” commanded The Rat.

Ben rose stealthily, and, shouldering his weapon, crept on tiptoe to the opening.  There he stood on guard.

“My father says there’s been a Secret Party in Samavia for a hundred years,” The Rat whispered.

“Who told him?” asked Marco.

“A man who has been in Samavia,” answered The Rat.  “He said it was the most wonderful Secret Party in the world, because it has worked and waited so long, and never given up, though it has had no reason for hoping.  It began among some shepherds and charcoal-burners who bound themselves by an oath to find the Lost Prince and bring him back to the throne.  There were too few of them to do anything against the Maranovitch, and when the first lot found they were growing old, they made their sons take the same oath.  It has been passed on from generation to generation, and in each generation the band has grown.  No one really knows how large it is now, but they say that there are people in nearly all the countries in Europe who belong to it in dead secret, and are sworn to help it when they are called.  They are only waiting.  Some are rich people who will give money, and some are poor ones who will slip across the frontier to fight or to help to smuggle in arms.  They even say that for all these years there have been arms made in caves in the mountains, and hidden there year after year.  There are men who are called Forgers of the Sword, and they, and their fathers, and grandfathers, and great-grandfathers have always made swords and stored them in caverns no one knows of, hidden caverns underground.”

Marco spoke aloud the thought which had come into his mind as he listened, a thought which brought fear to him.  “If the people in the streets talk about it, they won’t be hidden long.”

“It isn’t common talk, my father says.  Only very few have guessed, and most of them think it is part of the Lost Prince legend,” said The Rat.  “The Maranovitch and Iarovitch laugh at it.  They have always been great fools.  They’re too full of their own swagger to think anything can interfere with them.”

“Do you talk much to your father?” Marco asked him.

The Rat showed his sharp white teeth in a grin.

“I know what you’re thinking of,” he said.  “You’re remembering that I said he was always drunk.  So he is, except when he’s only half drunk.  And when he’s half drunk, he’s the most splendid talker in London.  He remembers everything he has ever learned or read or heard since he was born.  I get him going and listen.  He wants to talk and I want to hear.  I found out almost everything I know in that way.  He didn’t know he was teaching me, but he was.  He goes back into being a gentleman when he’s half drunk.”

“If—­if you care about the Samavians, you’d better ask him not to tell people about the Secret Party and the Forgers of the Sword,” suggested Marco.