-and close to it was a shed-like
house, which was of course the priest's.

The two boys stopped on the path to look at it.

"There is a candle burning in one of the little windows," said Marco.

"There is a well near the door--and some one is beginning to draw
water," said The Rat, next. "It is too dark to see who it is. Listen!"

They listened and heard the bucket descend on the chains, and splash in
the water. Then it was drawn up, and it seemed some one drank long.
Then they saw a dim figure move forward and stand still. Then they
heard a voice begin to pray aloud, as if the owner, being accustomed to
utter solitude, did not think of earthly hearers.

"Come," Marco said. And they went forward.

Because the stars were so many and the air so clear, the priest heard
their feet on the path, and saw them almost as soon as he heard them.
He ended his prayer and watched them coming. A lad on crutches, who
moved as lightly and easily as a bird--and a lad who, even yards away,
was noticeable for a bearing of his body which was neither haughty nor
proud but set him somehow aloof from every other lad one had ever seen.
A magnificent lad--though, as he drew near, the starlight showed his
face thin and his eyes hollow as if with fatigue or hunger.

"And who is this one?" the old priest murmured to himself. "WHO?"

Marco drew up before him and made a respectful reverence. Then he
lifted his black head, squared his shoulders and uttered his message
for the last time.

"The Lamp is lighted, Father," he said. "The Lamp is lighted."

The old priest stood quite still and gazed into his face. The next
moment he bent his head so that he could look at him closely. It
seemed almost as if he were frightened and wanted to make sure of
something. At the moment it flashed through The Rat's mind that the
old, old woman on the mountain-top had looked frightened in something
the same way.

"I am an old man," he said. "My eyes are not good. If I had a
light"--and he glanced towards the house.

It was The Rat who, with one whirl, swung through the door and seized
the candle. He guessed what he wanted. He held it himself so that the
flare fell on Marco's face.

The old priest drew nearer and nearer. He gasped for breath. "You are
the son of Stefan Loristan!" he cried. "It is HIS SON who brings the
Sign."

He fell upon his knees and hid his face in his hands. Both the boys
heard him sobbing and praying--praying and