ck to the frontier, they both had been given to long
silences as they tramped side by side or lay on the moss in the
forests. Now that their work was done, a sort of reaction had set in.
There were no more plans to be made and no more uncertainties to
contemplate. They were on their way back to No. 7 Philibert
Place--Marco to his father, The Rat to the man he worshipped. Each of
them was thinking of many things. Marco was full of longing to see his
father's face and hear his voice again. He wanted to feel the pressure
of his hand on his shoulder--to be sure that he was real and not a
dream. This last was because during this homeward journey everything
that had happened often seemed to be a dream. It had all been so
wonderful--the climber standing looking down at them the morning they
awakened on the Gaisburg; the mountaineer shoemaker measuring his foot
in the small shop; the old, old woman and her noble lord; the Prince
with his face turned upward as he stood on the balcony looking at the
moon; the old priest kneeling and weeping for joy; the great cavern
with the yellow light upon the crowd of passionate faces; the curtain
which fell apart and showed the still eyes and the black hair with the
halo about it! Now that they were left behind, they all seemed like
things he had dreamed. But he had not dreamed them; he was going back
to tell his father about them. And how GOOD it would be to feel his
hand on his shoulder!

The Rat gnawed his finger ends a great deal. His thoughts were more
wild and feverish than Marco's. They leaped forward in spite of him.
It was no use to pull himself up and tell himself that he was a fool.
Now that all was over, he had time to be as great a fool as he was
inclined to be. But how he longed to reach London and stand face to
face with Loristan! The sign was given. The Lamp was lighted. What
would happen next? His crutches were under his arms before the train
drew up.

"We're there! We're there!" he cried restlessly to Marco. They had no
luggage to delay them. They took their bags and followed the crowd
along the platform. The rain was rattling like bullets against the
high glassed roof. People turned to look at Marco, seeing the glow of
exultant eagerness in his face. They thought he must be some boy coming
home for the holidays and going to make a visit at a place he delighted
in. The rain was dancing on the pavements when they reached the
entrance.

"A cab won't