The Rat started a little.

“That’s true!” he said.  “You’re sharper than I am.  It oughtn’t to be blabbed about, or the Maranovitch might hear enough to make them stop and listen.  I’ll get him to promise.  There’s one queer thing about him,” he added very slowly, as if he were thinking it over, “I suppose it’s part of the gentleman that’s left in him.  If he makes a promise, he never breaks it, drunk or sober.”

“Ask him to make one,” said Marco.  The next moment he changed the subject because it seemed the best thing to do.  “Go on and tell us what our own Secret Party is to do.  We’re forgetting,” he whispered.

The Rat took up his game with renewed keenness.  It was a game which attracted him immensely because it called upon his imagination and held his audience spellbound, besides plunging him into war and strategy.

“We’re preparing for the rising,” he said.  “It must come soon.  We’ve waited so long.  The caverns are stacked with arms.  The Maranovitch and the Iarovitch are fighting and using all their soldiers, and now is our time.”  He stopped and thought, his elbows on his knees.  He began to bite his nails again.

“The Secret Signal must be given,” he said.  Then he stopped again, and the Squad held its breath and pressed nearer with a softly shuffling sound.  “Two of the Secret Ones must be chosen by lot and sent forth,” he went on; and the Squad almost brought ruin and disgrace upon itself by wanting to cheer again, and only just stopping itself in time.  “Must be chosen by lot,” The Rat repeated, looking from one face to another.  “Each one will take his life in his hand when he goes forth.  He may have to die a thousand deaths, but he must go.  He must steal in silence and disguise from one country to another.  Wherever there is one of the Secret Party, whether he is in a hovel or on a throne, the messengers must go to him in darkness and stealth and give him the sign.  It will mean, ‘The hour has come.  God save Samavia!’”

“God save Samavia!” whispered the Squad, excitedly.  And, because they saw Marco raise his hand to his forehead, every one of them saluted.

They all began to whisper at once.

“Let’s draw lots now.  Let’s draw lots, Rat.  Don’t let’s ’ave no waitin’.”

The Rat began to look about him with dread anxiety.  He seemed to be examining the sky.

“The darkness is not as thick as it was,” he whispered.  “Midnight has passed.  The dawn of day will be upon us.  If any one has a piece of paper or a string, we will draw the lots before we part.”

Cad had a piece of string, and Marco had a knife which could be used to cut it into lengths.  This The Rat did himself.  Then, after shutting his eyes and mixing them, he held them in his hand ready for the drawing.

“The Secret One who draws the longest lot is chosen.  The Secret One who draws the shortest is chosen,” he said solemnly.