XXIX 'Twixt Night and Morning

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After this, they waited. They did not know what they waited for, nor could they guess even vaguely how the waiting would end. All that Lazarus could tell them he told. He would have been willing to stand respectfully for hours relating to Marco the story of how the period of their absence had passed for his Master and himself. He told how Loristan had spoken each day of his son, how he had often been pale with anxiousness, how in the evenings he had walked to and fro in his room, deep in thought, as he looked down unseeingly at the carpet.

``He permitted me to talk of you, sir,'' Lazarus said. ``I saw that he wished to hear your name often. I reminded him of the times when you had been so young that most children of your age would have been in the hands of nurses, and yet you were strong and silent and sturdy and traveled with us as if you were not a child at all--never crying when you were tired and were not properly fed. As if you understood--as if you understood,'' he added, proudly. ``If, through the power of God a creature can be a man at six years old, you were that one. Many a dark day I have looked into your solemn, watching eyes, and have been half afraid; because that a child should answer one's gaze so gravely seemed almost an unearthly thing.''

``The chief thing I remember of those days,'' said Marco, ``is that he was with me, and that whenever I was hungry or tired, I knew he must be, too.''

The feeling that they were ``waiting'' was so intense that it filled the days with strangeness. When the postman's knock was heard at the door, each of them endeavored not to start. A letter might some day come which would tell them--they did not know what. But no letters came. When they went out into the streets, they found themselves hurrying on their way back in spite of themselves. Something might have happened. Lazarus read the papers faithfully, and in the evening told Marco and The Rat all the news it was ``well that they should hear.'' But the disorders of Samavia had ceased to occupy much space. They had become an old story, and after the excitement of the assassination of Michael Maranovitch had died out, there seemed to be a lull in events. Michael's son had not dared to try to take his father's place, and there were rumors that he also had been killed. The head of the Iarovitch had declared himself king but had not been crowned because of disorders in his own party. The country seemed existing in a nightmare of suffering, famine and suspense.

``Samavia is `waiting' too,'' The Rat broke forth one night as they talked together, ``but it won't wait long--it can't. If I were a Samavian and in Samavia--''

``My father is a Samavian and he is in Samavia,'' Marco's grave young voice interposed. The Rat flushed red as he realized what he had said. ``What a fool I am!'' he groaned. ``I--I beg your pardon-- sir.'' He stood up when he said the last words and added the ``sir'' as if he suddenly realized that there was a distance between them which was something akin to the distance between youth and maturity-- but yet was not the same.