As he lay upon his pillow that night, it seemed to Marco as if a load had lifted itself from his heart. It was the load of uncertainty and longing. He had so long borne the pain of feeling that he was too young to be allowed to serve in any way. His dreams had never been wild ones--they had in fact always been boyish and modest, howsoever romantic. But now no dream which could have passed through his brain would have seemed so wonderful as this--that the hour had come--the hour had come--and that he, Marco, was to be its messenger. He was to do no dramatic deed and be announced by no flourish of heralds. No one would know what he did. What he achieved could only be attained if he remained obscure and unknown and seemed to every one only a common ordinary boy who knew nothing whatever of important things. But his father had given to him a gift so splendid that he trembled with awe and joy as he thought of it. The Game had become real. He and The Rat were to carry with them The Sign, and it would be like carrying a tiny lamp to set aflame lights which would blaze from one mountain-top to another until half the world seemed on fire. As he had awakened out of his sleep when Lazarus touched him, so he awakened in the middle of the night again. But he was not aroused by a touch. When he opened his eyes he knew it was a look which had penetrated his sleep--a look in the eyes of his father who was standing by his side. In the road outside there was the utter silence he had noticed the night of the Prince's first visit--the only light was that of the lamp in the street, but he could see Loristan's face clearly enough to know that the mere intensity of his gaze had awakened him. The Rat was sleeping profoundly. Loristan spoke in Samavian and under his breath. "Beloved one," he said. "You are very young. Because I am your father--just at this hour I can feel nothing else. I have trained you for this through all the years of your life. I am proud of your young maturity and strength but--Beloved--you are a child! Can I do this thing!" For the moment, his face and his voice were scarcely like his own. He kneeled by the bedside, and, as he did it, Marco half sitting up caught his hand and held it hard against his breast. "Father, I know!" he cried under his breath also. "It is true. I am a child but am I not a man also? You yourself said it. I always knew that you were teaching me to be one--for some reason. It was my secret that I knew it. I learned well because I never forgot it. And I learned. Did I not?" He was so eager that he looked more like a boy than ever. But his young strength and courage were splendid to see. Loristan knew him through and through and read every boyish thought of his. "Yes," he answered slowly. "You did your part--and now if I--drew back--you would feel that I _had failed you--failed you_." "You!" Marco breathed it proudly. "You _could_ not fail even the weakest thing in the world."