XXVI Across the Frontier

More Books

More by this Author

When they were given food from some poor store, Marco would offer a little money in return. He dare not excite suspicion by offering much. He was obliged to let it be imagined that in his flight from his ruined home he had been able to snatch at and secrete some poor hoard which might save him from starvation. Often the women would not take what he offered. Their journey was a hard and hungry one. They must make it all on foot and there was little food to be found. But each of them knew how to live on scant fare. They traveled mostly by night and slept among the ferns and undergrowth through the day. They drank from running brooks and bathed in them. Moss and ferns made soft and sweet-smelling beds, and trees roofed them. Sometimes they lay long and talked while they rested. And at length a day came when they knew they were nearing their journey's end.

``It is nearly over now,'' Marco said, after they had thrown themselves down in the forest in the early hours of one dewy morning. ``He said `After Samavia, go back to London as quickly as you can --AS QUICKLY AS YOU CAN.' He said it twice. As if--something were going to happen.''

``Perhaps it will happen more suddenly than we think--the thing he meant,'' answered The Rat.

Suddenly he sat up on his elbow and leaned towards Marco.

``We are in Samavia!'' he said ``We two are in Samavia! And we are near the end!''

Marco rose on his elbow also. He was very thin as a result of hard travel and scant feeding. His thinness made his eyes look immense and black as pits. But they burned and were beautiful with their own fire.

``Yes,'' he said, breathing quickly. ``And though we do not know what the end will be, we have obeyed orders. The Prince was next to the last one. There is only one more. The old priest.''

``I have wanted to see him more than I have wanted to see any of the others,'' The Rat said.

``So have I,'' Marco answered. ``His church is built on the side of this mountain. I wonder what he will say to us.''

Both had the same reason for wanting to see him. In his youth he had served in the monastery over the frontier--the one which, till it was destroyed in a revolt, had treasured the five-hundred-year-old story of the beautiful royal lad brought to be hidden among the brotherhood by the ancient shepherd. In the monastery the memory of the Lost Prince was as the memory of a saint. It had been told that one of the early brothers, who was a decorator and a painter, had made a picture of him with a faint halo shining about his head. The young acolyte who had served there must have heard wonderful legends. But the monastery had been burned, and the young acolyte had in later years crossed the frontier and become the priest of a few mountaineers whose little church clung to the mountain side. He had worked hard and faithfully and was worshipped by his people. Only the secret Forgers of the Sword knew that his most ardent worshippers were those with whom he prayed and to whom he gave blessings in dark caverns under the earth, where arms piled themselves and men with dark strong faces sat together in the dim light and laid plans and wrought schemes.