Chapter XXVII. "It is the Lost Prince! It Is Ivor!"

The Lost Prince

by Francis Hodgson Burnett

Many times since their journey had begun the boys had found their
hearts beating with the thrill and excitement of things. The story
of which their lives had been a part was a pulse-quickening
experience. But as they carefully made their way down the steep
steps leading seemingly into the bowels of the earth, both Marco and
The Rat felt as though the old priest must hear the thudding in their
young sides.

" `The Forgers of the Sword.' Remember every word they say,"
The Rat whispered, "so that you can tell it to me afterwards. Don't
forget anything! I wish I knew Samavian."

At the foot of the steps stood the man who was evidently the
sentinel who worked the lever that turned the rock. He was a big
burly peasant with a good watchful face, and the priest gave him a
greeting and a blessing as he took from him the lantern he held
out.

They went through a narrow and dark passage, and down some more
steps, and turned a corner into another corridor cut out of rock and
earth. It was a wider corridor, but still dark, so that Marco and
The Rat had walked some yards before their eyes became sufficiently
accustomed to the dim light to see that the walls themselves seemed
made of arms stacked closely together.

"The Forgers of the Sword!" The Rat was unconsciously mumbling
to himself, "The Forgers of the Sword!"

It must have taken years to cut out the rounding passage they
threaded their way through, and longer years to forge the solid,
bristling walls. But The Rat remembered the story the stranger had
told his drunken father, of the few mountain herdsmen who, in their
savage grief and wrath over the loss of their prince, had banded
themselves together with a solemn oath which had been handed down
from generation to generation. The Samavians were a long-memoried
people, and the fact that their passion must be smothered had made it
burn all the more fiercely. Five hundred years ago they had first
sworn their oath; and kings had come and gone, had died or been
murdered, and dynasties had changed, but the Forgers of the Sword had
not changed or forgotten their oath or wavered in their belief that
some time--some time, even after the long dark years--the soul of
their Lost Prince would be among them once more, and that they would
kneel at the feet and kiss the hands of him for whose body that soul
had been reborn. And for the last hundred years their number and
power and their hiding places had so increased that Samavia was at
last honeycombed with them. And they only waited, breathless,--for
the Lighting of the Lamp.

The old priest knew how breathlessly, and he knew what he was
bringing them. Marco and The Rat, in spite of their fond boy-
imaginings, were not quite old enough to know how fierce and full of
flaming eagerness the breathless waiting of savage full-grown men
could be. But there was a tense-strung thrill in knowing that they
who were being led to them were the Bearers of the Sign. The Rat
went hot and cold; he gnawed his fingers as he went. He could almost
have shrieked aloud, in the intensity of his excitement, when the old
priest stopped before a big black door!

Marco made no sound. Excitement or danger always made him look
tall and quite pale. He looked both now.

The priest touched the door, and it opened.

They were looking into an immense cavern. Its walls and roof
were lined with arms--guns, swords, bayonets, javelins, daggers,
pistols, every weapon a desperate man might use. The place was full
of men, who turned towards the door when it opened. They all made
obeisance to the priest, but Marco realized almost at the same
instant that they started on seeing that he was not alone.

They were a strange and picturesque crowd as they stood under
their canopy of weapons in the lurid torchlight. Marco saw at once
that they were men of all classes, though all were alike roughly
dressed. They were huge mountaineers, and plainsmen young and mature
in years. Some of the biggest were men with white hair but with
bodies of giants, and with determination in their strong jaws. There
were many of these, Marco saw, and in each man's eyes, whether he
were young or old, glowed a steady unconquered flame. They had been
beaten so often, they had been oppressed and robbed, but in the eyes
of each one was this unconquered flame which, throughout all the long
tragedy of years had been handed down from father to son. It was
this which had gone on through centuries, keeping its oath and
forging its swords in the caverns of the earth, and which to-day
was--waiting.

The old priest laid his hand on Marco's shoulder, and gently
pushed him before him through the crowd which parted to make way for
them. He did not stop until the two stood in the very midst of the
circle, which fell back gazing wonderingly. Marco looked up at the
old man because for several seconds he did not speak. It was plain
that he did not speak because he also was excited, and could not. He
opened his lips and his voice seemed to fail him. Then he tried
again and spoke so that all could hear--even the men at the back of
the gazing circle.

"My children," he said, "this is the son of Stefan Loristan, and
he comes to bear the Sign. My son," to Marco, "speak!"

Then Marco understood what he wished, and also what he felt. He
felt it himself, that magnificent uplifting gladness, as he spoke,
holding his black head high and lifting his right hand.

"The Lamp is Lighted, brothers!" he cried. "The Lamp is
Lighted!"

Then The Rat, who stood apart, watching, thought that the
strange world within the cavern had gone mad! Wild smothered cries
broke forth, men caught each other in passionate embrace, they fell
upon their knees, they clutched one another sobbing, they wrung each
other's hands, they leaped into the air. It was as if they could not
bear the joy of hearing that the end of their waiting had come at
last. They rushed upon Marco, and fell at his feet. The Rat saw big
peasants kissing his shoes, his hands, every scrap of his clothing
they could seize. The wild circle swayed and closed upon him until
The Rat was afraid. He did not know that, overpowered by this frenzy
of emotion, his own excitement was making him shake from head to foot
like a leaf, and that tears were streaming down his cheeks. The
swaying crowd hid Marco from him, and he began to fight his way
towards him because his excitement increased with fear. The
ecstasy-frenzied crowd of men seemed for the moment to have almost
ceased to be sane. Marco was only a boy. They did not know how
fiercely they were pressing upon him and keeping away the very
air.

"Don't kill him! Don't kill him!" yelled The Rat, struggling
forward. "Stand back, you fools! I'm his aide-de-camp! Let me
pass!"

And though no one understood his English, one or two suddenly
remembered they had seen him enter with the priest and so gave way.
But just then the old priest lifted his hand above the crowd, and
spoke in a voice of stern command.

"Stand back, my children!" he cried. "Madness is not the homage
you must bring to the son of Stefan Loristan. Obey! Obey!" His
voice had a power in it that penetrated even the wildest herdsmen.
The frenzied mass swayed back and left space about Marco, whose face
The Rat could at last see. It was very white with emotion, and in
his eyes there was a look which was like awe.

The Rat pushed forward until he stood beside him. He did not
know that he almost sobbed as he spoke.

"I'm your aide-de-camp," he said. "I'm going to stand here!
Your father sent me! I'm under orders! I thought they'd crush you
to death."

He glared at the circle about them as if, instead of worshippers
distraught with adoration, they had been enemies. The old priest
seeing him, touched Marco's arm.

"Tell him he need not fear," he said. "It was only for the
first few moments. The passion of their souls drove them wild. They
are your slaves."

"Those at the back might have pushed the front ones on until
they trampled you under foot in spite of themselves!" The Rat
persisted.

"No," said Marco. "They would have stopped if I had spoken."

"Why didn't you speak then?" snapped The Rat.

"All they felt was for Samavia, and for my father," Marco said,
"and for the Sign. I felt as they did."

The Rat was somewhat softened. It was true, after all. How
could he have tried to quell the outbursts of their worship of
Loristan-- of the country he was saving for them--of the Sign which
called them to freedom? He could not.

Then followed a strange and picturesque ceremonial. The priest
went about among the encircling crowd and spoke to one man after
another--sometimes to a group. A larger circle was formed. As the
pale old man moved about, The Rat felt as if some religious ceremony
were going to be performed. Watching it from first to last, he was
thrilled to the core.

At the end of the cavern a block of stone had been cut out to
look like an altar. It was covered with white, and against the wall
above it hung a large picture veiled by a curtain. From the roof
there swung before it an ancient lamp of metal suspended by chains.
In front of the altar was a sort of stone dais. There the priest
asked Marco to stand, with his aide-de-camp on the lower level in
attendance. A knot of the biggest herdsmen went out and returned.
Each carried a huge sword which had perhaps been of the earliest made
in the dark days gone by. The bearers formed themselves into a line
on either side of Marco. They raised their swords and formed a
pointed arch above his head and a passage twelve men long. When the
points first clashed together The Rat struck himself hard upon his
breast. His exultation was too keen to endure. He gazed at Marco
standing still--in that curiously splendid way in which both he and
his father could stand still--and wondered how he could do it. He
looked as if he were prepared for any strange thing which could
happen to him--because he was "under orders." The Rat knew that he
was doing whatsoever he did merely for his father's sake. It was as
if he felt that he was representing his father, though he was a mere
boy; and that because of this, boy as he was, he must bear himself
nobly and remain outwardly undisturbed.

At the end of the arch of swords, the old priest stood and gave
a sign to one man after another. When the sign was given to a man he
walked under the arch to the dais, and there knelt and, lifting
Marco's hand to his lips, kissed it with passionate fervor. Then he
returned to the place he had left. One after another passed up the
aisle of swords, one after another knelt, one after the other kissed
the brown young hand, rose and went away. Sometimes The Rat heard a
few words which sounded almost like a murmured prayer, sometimes he
heard a sob as a shaggy head bent, again and again he saw eyes wet
with tears. Once or twice Marco spoke a few Samavian words, and the
face of the man spoken to flamed with joy. The Rat had time to see,
as Marco had seen, that many of the faces were not those of peasants.
Some of them were clear cut and subtle and of the type of scholars
or nobles. It took a long time for them all to kneel and kiss the
lad's hand, but no man omitted the ceremony; and when at last it was
at an end, a strange silence filled the cavern. They stood and gazed
at each other with burning eyes.

The priest moved to Marco's side, and stood near the altar. He
leaned forward and took in his hand a cord which hung from the veiled
picture--he drew it and the curtain fell apart. There seemed to
stand gazing at them from between its folds a tall kingly youth with
deep eyes in which the stars of God were stilly shining, and with a
smile wonderful to behold. Around the heavy locks of his black hair
the long dead painter of missals had set a faint glow of light like a
halo.

"Son of Stefan Loristan," the old priest said, in a shaken
voice, "it is the Lost Prince! It is Ivor!"

Then every man in the room fell on his knees. Even the men who
had upheld the archway of swords dropped their weapons with a crash
and knelt also. He was their saint--this boy! Dead for five hundred
years, he was their saint still.

"Ivor! Ivor!" the voices broke into a heavy murmur. "Ivor!
Ivor!" as if they chanted a litany.

Marco started forward, staring at the picture, his breath caught
in his throat, his lips apart.

"But--but--" he stammered, "but if my father were as young as he
is--he would be like him!"

"When you are as old as he is, you will be like him--you!" said
the priest. And he let the curtain fall.

The Rat stood staring with wide eyes from Marco to the picture
and from the picture to Marco. And he breathed faster and faster and
gnawed his finger ends. But he did not utter a word. He could not
have done it, if he tried.

Then Marco stepped down from the dais as if he were in a dream,
and the old man followed him. The men with swords sprang to their
feet and made their archway again with a new clash of steel. The old
man and the boy passed under it together. Now every man's eyes were
fixed on Marco. At the heavy door by which he had entered, he
stopped and turned to meet their glances. He looked very young and
thin and pale, but suddenly his father's smile was lighted in his
face. He said a few words in Samavian clearly and gravely, saluted,
and passed out.

"What did you say to them?" gasped The Rat, stumbling after him
as the door closed behind them and shut in the murmur of impassioned
sound.

"There was only one thing to say," was the answer. "They are
men--I am only a boy. I thanked them for my father, and told them he
would never--never forget."