The Lost Prince by Frances Hodgson Burnett (first ebook reader TXT) 📕

without a name. I called like that when I was shut in the wine-cellar. I remembered some of the things the old Buddhist told my father.”

The Rat moved restlessly.

“The help came that time,” he admitted. “How did it come tonight?”

“In that thought which flashed into my mind almost the next second. It came like lightning. All at once I knew if I ran to the Chancellor and said the woman was a spy, it would startle him into listening to me; and that then I could give him the Sign; and that when I gave him the Sign, he would know I was speaking the truth and would protect me.”

“It was a splendid thought!” The Rat said. “And it was quick.

But it was you who thought of it.”

“All thinking is part of the Big Thought,” said Marco slowly. “It KNOWS—It KNOWS. And the outside part of us somehow broke the chain that linked us to It. And we are always trying to mend the chain, without knowing it. That is what our thinking is—trying to mend the chain. But we shall find out how to do it sometime. The old Buddhist told my father so—just as the sun was rising from behind a high peak of the Himalayas.” Then he added hastily, “I am only telling you what my father told me, and he only told me what the old hermit told him.”

“Does your father believe what he told him?” The Rat’s bewilderment had become an eager and restless thing.

“Yes, he believes it. He always thought something like it, himself. That is why he is so calm and knows so well how to wait.”

“Is THAT it!” breathed The Rat. “Is that why? Has—has he mended the chain?” And there was awe in his voice, because of this one man to whom he felt any achievement was possible.

“I believe he has,” said Marco. “Don’t you think so yourself?”

“He has done something,” The Rat said.

He seemed to be thinking things over before he spoke again— and then even more slowly than Marco.

“If he could mend the chain,” he said almost in a whisper, “he could find out where the descendant of the Lost Prince is. He would know what to do for Samavia!”

He ended the words with a start, and his whole face glowed with a new, amazed light.

“Perhaps he does know!” he cried. “If the help comes like thoughts —as yours did—perhaps his thought of letting us give the Sign was part of it. We—just we two every-day boys—are part of it!”

“The old Buddhist said—” began Marco.

“Look here!” broke in The Rat. “Tell me the whole story. I want to hear it.”

It was because Loristan had heard it, and listened and believed, that The Rat had taken fire. His imagination seized upon the idea, as it would have seized on some theory of necromancy proved true and workable.

With his elbows on the table and his hands in his hair, he leaned forward, twisting a lock with restless fingers. His breath quickened.

“Tell it,” he said, “I want to hear it all!”

“I shall have to tell it in my own words,” Marco said. “And it won’t be as wonderful as it was when my father told it to me. This is what I remember:

“My father had gone through much pain and trouble. A great load was upon him, and he had been told he was going to die before his work was done. He had gone to India, because a man he was obliged to speak to had gone there to hunt, and no one knew when he would return. My father followed him for months from one wild place to another, and, when he found him, the man would not hear or believe what he had come so far to say. Then he had jungle-fever and almost died. Once the natives left him for dead in a bungalow in the forest, and he heard the jackals howling round him all the night. Through all the hours he was only alive enough to be conscious of two things—all the rest of him seemed gone from his body: his thought knew that his work was unfinished—and his body heard the jackals howl!”

“Was the work for Samavia?” The Rat put in quickly. “If he had died that night, the descendant of the Lost Prince never would have been found—never!” The Rat bit his lip so hard that a drop of blood started from it.

“When he was slowly coming alive again, a native, who had gone back and stayed to wait upon him, told him that near the summit of a mountain, about fifty miles away, there was a ledge which jutted out into space and hung over the valley, which was thousands of feet below. On the ledge there was a hut in which there lived an ancient Buddhist, who was a holy man, as they called him, and who had been there during time which had not been measured. They said that their grandparents and great-grandparents had known of him, though very few persons had ever seen him. It was told that the most savage beast was tame before him. They said that a man-eating tiger would stop to salute him, and that a thirsty lioness would bring her whelps to drink at the spring near his hut.”

“That was a lie,” said The Rat promptly.

Marco neither laughed nor frowned.

“How do we KNOW?” he said. “It was a native’s story, and it might be anything. My father neither said it was true nor false. He listened to all that was told him by natives. They said that the holy man was the brother of the stars. He knew all things past and to come, and could heal the sick. But most people, especially those who had sinful thoughts, were afraid to go near him.”

“I’d like to have seen—” The Rat pondered aloud, but he did not finish.

“Before my father was well, he had made up his mind to travel to the ledge if he could. He felt as if he must go. He thought that if he were going to die, the hermit might tell him some wise thing to do for Samavia.”

“He might have given him a message to leave to the Secret Ones,” said The Rat.

“He was so weak when he set out on his journey that he wondered if he would reach the end of it. Part of the way he traveled by bullock cart, and part, he was carried by natives. But at last the bearers came to a place more than halfway up the mountain, and would go no further. Then they went back and left him to climb the rest of the way himself. They had traveled slowly and he had got more strength, but he was weak yet. The forest was more wonderful than anything he had ever seen. There were tropical trees with foliage like lace, and some with huge leaves, and some of them seemed to reach the sky. Sometimes he could barely see gleams of blue through them. And vines swung down from their high branches, and caught each other, and matted together; and there were hot scents, and strange flowers, and dazzling birds darting about, and thick moss, and little cascades bursting out. The path grew narrower and steeper, and the flower scents and the sultriness made it like walking in a hothouse. He heard rustlings in the undergrowth, which might have been made by any kind of wild animal; once he stepped across a deadly snake without seeing it. But it was asleep and did not hurt him. He knew the natives had been convinced that he would not reach the ledge; but for some strange reason he believed he should. He stopped and rested many times, and he drank some milk he had brought in a canteen. The higher he climbed, the more wonderful everything was, and a strange feeling began to fill him. He said his body stopped being tired and began to feel very light. And his load lifted itself from his heart, as if it were not his load any more but belonged to something stronger. Even Samavia seemed to be safe. As he went higher and higher, and looked down the abyss at the world below, it appeared as if it were not real but only a dream he had wakened from—only a dream.”

The Rat moved restlessly.

“Perhaps he was light-headed with the fever,” he suggested.

“The fever had left him, and the weakness had left him,” Marco answered. “It seemed as if he had never really been ill at all— as if no one could be ill, because things like that were only dreams, just as the world was.”

“I wish I’d been with him! Perhaps I could have thrown these away—down into the abyss!” And The Rat shook his crutches which rested against the table. “I feel as if I was climbing, too. Go on.”

Marco had become more absorbed than The Rat. He had lost himself in the memory of the story.

“I felt that I was climbing, when he told me,” he said. “I felt as if I were breathing in the hot flower-scents and pushing aside the big leaves and giant ferns. There had been a rain, and they were wet and shining with big drops, like jewels, that showered over him as he thrust his way through and under them. And the stillness and the height—the stillness and the height! I can’t make it real to you as he made it to me! I can’t! I was there. He took me. And it was so high—and so still—and so beautiful that I could scarcely bear it.”

But the truth was, that with some vivid boy-touch he had carried his hearer far. The Rat was deadly quiet. Even his eyes had not moved. He spoke almost as if he were in a sort of trance. “It’s real,” he said. “I’m there now. As high as you—go on—go on. I want to climb higher.”

And Marco, understanding, went on.

“The day was over and the stars were out when he reached the place were the ledge was. He said he thought that during the last part of the climb he never looked on the earth at all. The stars were so immense that he could not look away from them. They seemed to be drawing him up. And all overhead was like violet velvet, and they hung there like great lamps of radiance. Can you see them? You must see them. My father saw them all night long. They were part of the wonder.”

“I see them,” The Rat answered, still in his trance-like voice and without stirring, and Marco knew he did.

“And there, with the huge stars watching it, was the hut on the ledge. And there was no one there. The door was open. And outside it was a low bench and table of stone. And on the table was a meal of dates and rice, waiting. Not far from the hut was a deep spring, which ran away in a clear brook. My father drank and bathed his face there. Then he went out on the ledge, and sat down and waited, with his face turned up to the stars. He did not lie down, and he thought he saw the stars all the time he waited. He was sure he did not sleep. He did not know how long he sat there alone. But at last he drew his eyes from the stars, as if he had been commanded to do it. And he was not alone any more. A yard or so away from him sat the holy man. He knew it was the hermit because his eyes were different from any human eyes he