"King Ivor!" he murmured as if he were in a dream. "King Ivor!"
The Rat started up on his elbow.
"You will see him," he cried out. "He's not a dream any longer. The Game is not a game now—and it is ended—it is won! It was real—HE was real! Marco, I don't believe you hear."
"Yes, I do," answered Marco, "but it is almost more a dream than when it was one."
"The greatest patriot in the world is like a king himself!" raved The Rat. "If there is no bigger honor to give him, he will be made a prince—and Commander-in-Chief—and Prime Minister! Can't you hear those Samavians shouting, and singing, and praying? You'll see it all! Do you remember the mountain climber who was going to save the shoes he made for the Bearer of the Sign? He said a great day might come when one could show them to the people. It's come! He'll show them! I know how they'll take it!" His voice suddenly dropped—as if it dropped into a pit. "You'll see it all. But I shall not."
Then Marco awoke from his dream and lifted his head. "Why not?" he demanded. It sounded like a demand.
"Because I know better than to expect it!" The Rat groaned. "You've taken me a long way, but you can't take me to the palace of a king. I'm not such a fool as to think that, even if your father—"
He broke off because Marco did more than lift his head. He sat upright.
"You bore the Sign as much as I did," he said. "We bore it together."
"Who would have listened to ME?" cried The Rat. "YOU were the son of Stefan Loristan."