The Rat pushed forward until he stood beside him. He did not know that he almost sobbed as he spoke.
"I'm your aide-de-camp," he said. "I'm going to stand here! Your father sent me! I'm under orders! I thought they'd crush you to death."
He glared at the circle about them as if, instead of worshippers distraught with adoration, they had been enemies. The old priest seeing him, touched Marco's arm.
"Tell him he need not fear," he said. "It was only for the first few moments. The passion of their souls drove them wild. They are your slaves."
"Those at the back might have pushed the front ones on until they trampled you under foot in spite of themselves!" The Rat persisted.
"No," said Marco. "They would have stopped if I had spoken."
"Why didn't you speak then?" snapped The Rat.
"All they felt was for Samavia, and for my father," Marco said, "and for the Sign. I felt as they did."
The Rat was somewhat softened. It was true, after all. How could he have tried to quell the outbursts of their worship of Loristan—of the country he was saving for them—of the Sign which called them to freedom? He could not.