Chapter XXV. A Voice in the Night

The Lost Prince

by Francis Hodgson Burnett

Late that afternoon there wandered about the gardens two quiet,
inconspicuous, rather poorly dressed boys. They looked at the
palace, the shrubs, and the flower-beds, as strangers usually did,
and they sat on the seats and talked as people were accustomed to
seeing boys talk together. It was a sunny day and exceptionally
warm, and there were more saunterers and sitters than usual, which
was perhaps the reason why the portier at the entrance gates gave
such slight notice to the pair that he did not observe that, though
two boys came in, only one went out. He did not, in fact, remember,
when he saw The Rat swing by on his crutches at closing-time, that he
had entered in company with a dark-haired lad who walked without any
aid. It happened that, when The Rat passed out, the portier at the
entrance was much interested in the aspect of the sky, which was
curiously threatening. There had been heavy clouds hanging about all
day and now and then blotting out the sunshine entirely, but the sun
had refused to retire altogether. Just now, however, the clouds had
piled themselves in thunderous, purplish mountains, and the sun had
been forced to set behind them.

"It's been a sort of battle since morning," the portier said.
"There will be some crashes and cataracts to-night." That was what
The Rat had thought when they had sat in the Fountain Garden on a
seat which gave them a good view of the balcony and the big evergreen
shrub, which they knew had the hollow in the middle, though its
circumference was so imposing. "If there should be a big storm, the
evergreen will not save you much, though it may keep off the worst,"
The Rat said. "I wish there was room for two."

He would have wished there was room for two if he had seen Marco
marching to the stake. As the gardens emptied, the boys rose and
walked round once more, as if on their way out. By the time they had
sauntered toward the big evergreen, nobody was in the Fountain
Garden, and the last loiterers were moving toward the arched stone
entrance to the streets.

When they drew near one side of the evergreen, the two were
together. When The Rat swung out on the other side of it, he was
alone! No one noticed that anything had happened; no one looked
back. So The Rat swung down the walks and round the flower-beds and
passed into the street. And the portier looked at the sky and made
his remark about the "crashes" and "cataracts."

As the darkness came on, the hollow in the shrub seemed a very
safe place. It was not in the least likely that any one would enter
the closed gardens; and if by rare chance some servant passed
through, he would not be in search of people who wished to watch all
night in the middle of an evergreen instead of going to bed and to
sleep. The hollow was well inclosed with greenery, and there was
room to sit down when one was tired of standing.

Marco stood for a long time because, by doing so, he could see
plainly the windows opening on the balcony if he gently pushed aside
some flexible young boughs. He had managed to discover in his first
visit to the gardens that the windows overlooking the Fountain Garden
were those which belonged to the Prince's own suite of rooms. Those
which opened on to the balcony lighted his favorite apartment, which
contained his best-loved books and pictures and in which he spent
most of his secluded leisure hours.

Marco watched these windows anxiously. If the Prince had not
gone to Budapest,--if he were really only in retreat, and hiding from
his gay world among his treasures,--he would be living in his
favorite rooms and lights would show themselves. And if there were
lights, he might pass before a window because, since he was inclosed
in his garden, he need not fear being seen. The twilight deepened
into darkness and, because of the heavy clouds, it was very dense.
Faint gleams showed themselves in the lower part of the palace, but
none was lighted in the windows Marco watched. He waited so long
that it became evident that none was to be lighted at all. At last
he loosed his hold on the young boughs and, after standing a few
moments in thought, sat down upon the earth in the midst of his
embowered tent. The Prince was not in his retreat; he was probably
not in Vienna, and the rumor of his journey to Budapest had no doubt
been true. So much time lost through making a mistake--but it was
best to have made the venture. Not to have made it would have been
to lose a chance. The entrance was closed for the night and there
was no getting out of the gardens until they were opened for the next
day. He must stay in his hiding- place until the time when people
began to come and bring their books and knitting and sit on the
seats. Then he could stroll out without attracting attention. But
he had the night before him to spend as best he could. That would
not matter at all. He could tuck his cap under his head and go to
sleep on the ground. He could command himself to waken once every
half-hour and look for the lights. He would not go to sleep until it
was long past midnight--so long past that there would not be one
chance in a hundred that anything could happen. But the clouds which
made the night so dark were giving forth low rumbling growls. At
intervals a threatening gleam of light shot across them and a sudden
swish of wind rushed through the trees in the garden. This happened
several times, and then Marco began to hear the patter of raindrops.
They were heavy and big drops, but few at first, and then there was a
new and more powerful rush of wind, a jagged dart of light in the
sky, and a tremendous crash. After that the clouds tore themselves
open and poured forth their contents in floods. After the protracted
struggle of the day it all seemed to happen at once, as if a horde of
huge lions had at one moment been let loose: flame after flame of
lightning, roar and crash and sharp reports of thunder, shrieks of
hurricane wind, torrents of rain, as if some tidal-wave of the skies
had gathered and rushed and burst upon the earth. It was such a
storm as people remember for a lifetime and which in few lifetimes is
seen at all.

Marco stood still in the midst of the rage and flooding,
blinding roar of it. After the first few minutes he knew he could do
nothing to shield himself. Down the garden paths he heard cataracts
rushing. He held his cap pressed against his eyes because he seemed
to stand in the midst of darting flames. The crashes, cannon reports
and thunderings, and the jagged streams of light came so close to one
another that he seemed deafened as well as blinded. He wondered if
he should ever be able to hear human voices again when it was over.
That he was drenched to the skin and that the water poured from his
clothes as if he were himself a cataract was so small a detail that
he was scarcely aware of it. He stood still, bracing his body, and
waited. If he had been a Samavian soldier in the trenches and such a
storm had broken upon him and his comrades, they could only have
braced themselves and waited. This was what he found himself
thinking when the tumult and downpour were at their worst. There
were men who had waited in the midst of a rain of bullets.

It was not long after this thought had come to him that there
occurred the first temporary lull in the storm. Its fury perhaps
reached its height and broke at that moment. A yellow flame had torn
its jagged way across the heavens, and an earth-rending crash had
thundered itself into rumblings which actually died away before
breaking forth again. Marco took his cap from his eyes and drew a
long breath. He drew two long breaths. It was as he began drawing a
third and realizing the strange feeling of the almost stillness about
him that he heard a new kind of sound at the side of the garden
nearest his hiding-place. It sounded like the creak of a door
opening somewhere in the wall behind the laurel hedge. Some one was
coming into the garden by a private entrance. He pushed aside the
young boughs again and tried to see, but the darkness was too dense.
Yet he could hear if the thunder would not break again. There was
the sound of feet on the wet gravel, the footsteps of more than one
person coming toward where he stood, but not as if afraid of being
heard; merely as if they were at liberty to come in by what entrance
they chose. Marco remained very still. A sudden hope gave him a
shock of joy. If the man with the tired face chose to hide himself
from his acquaintances, he might choose to go in and out by a private
entrance. The footsteps drew near, crushing the wet gravel, passed
by, and seemed to pause somewhere near the balcony; and them flame
lit up the sky again and the thunder burst forth once more.

But this was its last greal peal. The storm was at an end.
Only fainter and fainter rumblings and mutterings and paler and paler
darts followed. Even they were soon over, and the cataracts in the
paths had rushed themselves silent. But the darkness was still
deep.

It was deep to blackness in the hollow of the evergreen. Marco
stood in it, streaming with rain, but feeling nothing because he was
full of thought. He pushed aside his greenery and kept his eyes on
the place in the blackness where the windows must be, though he could
not see them. It seemed that he waited a long time, but he knew it
only seemed so really. He began to breathe quickly because he was
waiting for something.

Suddenly he saw exactly where the windows were--because they
were all lighted!

His feeling of relief was great, but it did not last very long.
It was true that something had been gained in the certainty that his
man had not left Vienna. But what next? It would not be so easy to
follow him if he chose only to go out secretly at night. What next?
To spend the rest of the night watching a lighted window was not
enough. To-morrow night it might not be lighted. But he kept his
gaze fixed upon it. He tried to fix all his will and thought-power
on the person inside the room. Perhaps he could reach him and make
him listen, even though he would not know that any one was speaking
to him. He knew that thoughts were strong things. If angry thoughts
in one man's mind will create anger in the mind of another, why
should not sane messages cross the line?

"I must speak to you. I must speak to you!" he found himself
saying in a low intense voice. "I am outside here waiting. Listen!
I must speak to you!"

He said it many times and kept his eyes fixed upon the window
which opened on to the balcony. Once he saw a man's figure cross the
room, but he could not be sure who it was. The last distant
rumblings of thunder had died away and the clouds were breaking. It
was not long before the dark mountainous billows broke apart, and a
brilliant full moon showed herself sailing in the rift, suddenly
flooding everything with light. Parts of the garden were silver
white, and the tree shadows were like black velvet. A silvery lance
pierced even into the hollow of Marco's evergreen and struck across
his face.

Perhaps it was this sudden change which attracted the attention
of those inside the balconied room. A man's figure appeared at the
long windows. Marco saw now that it was the Prince. He opened the
windows and stepped out on to the balcony.

"It is all over," he said quietly. And he stood with his face
lifted, looking at the great white sailing moon.

He stood very still and seemed for the moment to forget the
world and himself. It was a wonderful, triumphant queen of a moon.
But something brought him back to earth. A low, but strong and
clear, boy-voice came up to him from the garden path below.

"The Lamp is lighted. The Lamp is lighted," it said, and the
words sounded almost as if some one were uttering a prayer. They
seemed to call to him, to arrest him, to draw him.

He stood still a few seconds in dead silence. Then he bent over
the balustrade. The moonlight had not broken the darkness below.

"That is a boy's voice," he said in a low tone, "but I cannot
see who is speaking."

"Yes, it is a boy's voice," it answered, in a way which somehow
moved him, because it was so ardent. "It is the son of Stefan
Loristan. The Lamp is lighted."

"Wait. I am coming down to you," the Prince said.

In a few minutes Marco heard a door open gently not far from
where he stood. Then the man he had been following so many days
appeared at his side.

"How long have you been here?" he asked.

"Before the gates closed. I hid myself in the hollow of the big
shrub there, Highness," Marco answered.

"Then you were out in the storm?"

"Yes, Highness."

The Prince put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I cannot see
you --but it is best to stand in the shadow. You are drenched to the
skin."

"I have been able to give your Highness--the Sign," Marco
whispered. "A storm is nothing."

There was a silence. Marco knew that his companion was pausing
to turn something over in his mind.

"So-o?" he said slowly, at length. "The Lamp is lighted, And
you are sent to bear the Sign." Something in his voice made Marco
feel that he was smiling.

"What a race you are! What a race--you Samavian Loristans!"

He paused as if to think the thing over again.

"I want to see your face," he said next. "Here is a tree with a
shaft of moonlight striking through the branches. Let us step aside
and stand under it."

Marco did as he was told. The shaft of moonlight fell upon his
uplifted face and showed its young strength and darkness, quite
splendid for the moment in a triumphant glow of joy in obstacles
overcome. Raindrops hung on his hair, but he did not look draggled,
only very wet and picturesque. He had reached his man. He had given
the Sign.

The Prince looked him over with interested curiosity.

"Yes," he said in his cool, rather dragging voice. "You are the
son of Stefan Loristan. Also you must be taken care of. You must
come with me. I have trained my household to remain in its own
quarters until I require its service. I have attached to my own
apartments a good safe little room where I sometimes keep people.

You can dry your clothes and sleep there. When the gardens are
opened again, the rest will be easy."

But though he stepped out from under the trees and began to move
towards the palace in the shadow, Marco noticed that he moved
hesitatingly, as if he had not quite decided what he should do. He
stopped rather suddenly and turned again to Marco, who was following
him.

"There is some one in the room I just now left," he said, "an
old man--whom it might interest to see you. It might also be a good
thing for him to feel interest in you. I choose that he shall see
you --as you are."

"I am at your command, Highness," Marco answered. He knew his
companion was smiling again.

"You have been in training for more centuries than you know," he
said; "and your father has prepared you to encounter the unexpected
without surprise."

They passed under the balcony and paused at a low stone doorway
hidden behind shrubs. The door was a beautiful one, Marco saw when
it was opened, and the corridor disclosed was beautiful also, though
it had an air of quiet and aloofness which was not so much secret as
private. A perfect though narrow staircase mounted from it to the
next floor. After ascending it, the Prince led the way through a
short corridor and stopped at the door at the end of it. "We are
going in here," he said.

It was a wonderful room--the one which opened on to the balcony.
Each piece of furniture in it, the hangings, the tapestries, and
pictures on the wall were all such as might well have found
themselves adorning a museum. Marco remembered the common report of
his escort's favorite amusement of collecting wonders and furnishing
his house with the things others exhibited only as marvels of art
and handicraft. The place was rich and mellow with exquisitely
chosen beauties.

In a massive chair upon the heart sat a figure with bent head.
It was a tall old man with white hair and moustache. His elbows
rested upon the arm of his chair and he leaned his forehead on his
hand as if he were weary.

Marco's companion crossed the room and stood beside him,
speaking in a lowered voice. Marco could not at first hear what he
said. He himself stood quite still, waiting. The white-haired man
lifted his head and listened. It seemed as though almost at once he
was singularly interested. The lowered voice was slightly raised at
last and Marco heard the last two sentences:

"The only son of Stefan Loristan. Look at him."

The old man in the chair turned slowly and looked, steadily, and
with questioning curiosity touched with grave surprise. He had keen
and clear blue eyes.

Then Marco, still erect and silent, waited again. The Prince
had merely said to him, "an old man whom it might interest to see
you." He had plainly intended that, whatsoever happened, he must
make no outward sign of seeing more than he had been told he would
see --"an old man." It was for him to show no astonishment or
recognition. He had been brought here not to see but to be seen.
The power of remaining still under scrutiny, which The Rat had often
envied him, stood now in good stead because he had seen the white
head and tall form not many days before, surmounted by brilliant
emerald plumes, hung with jeweled decorations, in the royal carriage,
escorted by banners, and helmets, and following troops whose tramping
feet kept time to bursts of military music while the populace bared
their heads and cheered.

"He is like his father," this personage said to the Prince.
"But if any one but Loristan had sent him--His looks please me."
Then suddenly to Marco, "You were waiting outside while the storm was
going on?"

"Yes, sir," Marco answered.

Then the two exchanged some words still in the lowered voice.


"You read the news as you made your journey?" he was asked.
"You know how Samavia stands?"

"She does not stand," said Marco. "The Iarovitch and the
Maranovitch have fought as hyenas fight, until each has torn the
other into fragments--and neither has blood or strength left."

The two glanced at each other.

"A good simile," said the older person. "You are right. If a
strong party rose--and a greater power chose not to interfere--the
country might see better days." He looked at him a few moments
longer and then waved his hand kindly.

"You are a fine Samavian," he said. "I am glad of that. You
may go. Good night."

Marco bowed respectfully and the man with the tired face led him
out of the room.

It was just before he left him in the small quiet chamber in
which he was to sleep that the Prince gave him a final curious
glance. "I remember now," he said. "In the room, when you answered
the question about Samavia, I was sure that I had seen you before.
It was the day of the celebration. There was a break in the crowd
and I saw a boy looking at me. It was you."

"Yes," said Marco, "I have followed you each time you have gone
out since then, but I could never get near enough to speak. To-
night seemed only one chance in a thousand."

"You are doing your work more like a man than a boy," was the
next speech, and it was made reflectively. "No man could have
behaved more perfectly than you did just now, when discretion and
composure were necessary." Then, after a moment's pause, "He was
deeply interested and deeply pleased. Good night."

When the gardens had been thrown open the next morning and
people were passing in and out again, Marco passed out also. He was
obliged to tell himself two or three times that he had not wakened
from an amazing dream. He quickened his pace after he had crossed
the street, because he wanted to get home to the attic and talk to
The Rat. There was a narrow side-street it was necessary for him to
pass through if he wished to make a short cut. As he turned into it,
he saw a curious figure leaning on crutches against a wall. It
looked damp and forlorn, and he wondered if it could be a beggar. It
was not. It was The Rat, who suddenly saw who was approaching and
swung forward. His face was pale and haggard and he looked worn and
frightened. He dragged off his cap and spoke in a voice which was
hoarse as a crow's.

"God be thanked!" he said. "God be thanked!" as people always
said it when they received the Sign, alone. But there was a kind of
anguish in his voice as well as relief.

"Aide-de-camp!" Marco cried out--The Rat had begged him to call
him so. "What have you been doing? How long have you been here?"

"Ever since I left you last night," said The Rat clutching
tremblingly at his arm as if to make sure he was real. "If there was
not room for two in the hollow, there was room for one in the
street.

Was it my place to go off duty and leave you alone--was it?"

"You were out in the storm?"

"Weren't you?" said The Rat fiercely. "I huddled against the
wall as well as I could. What did I care? Crutches don't prevent a
fellow waiting. I wouldn't have left you if you'd given me orders.
And that would have been mutiny. When you did not come out as soon
as the gates opened, I felt as if my head got on fire. How could I
know what had happened? I've not the nerve and backbone you have. I
go half mad." For a second or so Marco did not answer. But when he
put his hand on the damp sleeve, The Rat actually started, because it
seemed as though he were looking into the eyes of Stefan Loristan.

"You look just like your father!" he exclaimed, in spite of
himself. "How tall you are!"

"When you are near me," Marco said, in Loristan's own voice,
"when you are near me, I feel--I feel as if I were a royal prince
attended by an army. You are my army." And he pulled off his cap
with quick boyishness and added, "God be thanked!"

The sun was warm in the attic window when they reached their
lodging, and the two leaned on the rough sill as Marco told his
story. It took some time to relate; and when he ended, he took an
envelope from his pocket and showed it to The Rat. It contained a
flat package of money.

"He gave it to me just before he opened the private door," Marco
explained. "And he said to me, `It will not be long now. After
Samavia, go back to London as quickly as you can--as quickly as you
can!' "

"I wonder--what he meant?" The Rat said, slowly. A tremendous
thought had shot through his mind. But it was not a thought he could
speak of to Marco.

"I cannot tell. I thought that it was for some reason he did
not expect me to know," Marco said. "We will do as he told us. As
quickly as we can." They looked over the newspapers, as they did
every day. All that could be gathered from any of them was that the
opposing armies of Samavia seemed each to have reached the
culmination of disaster and exhaustion. Which party had the power
left to take any final step which could call itself a victory, it was
impossible to say. Never had a country been in a more desperate
case.

"It is the time!" said The Rat, glowering over his map. "If the
Secret Party rises suddenly now, it can take Melzarr almost without a
blow. It can sweep through the country and disarm both armies.

They're weakened--they're half starved--they're bleeding to
death; they want to be disarmed. Only the Iarovitch and the
Maranovitch keep on with the struggle because each is fighting for
the power to tax the people and make slaves of them. If the Secret
Party does not rise, the people will, and they'll rush on the palaces
and kill every Maranovitch and Iarovitch they find. And serve them
right!"

"Let us spend the rest of the day in studying the road-map
again," said Marco. "To-night we must be on the way to Samavia!"