The Complete Works of Frances Hodgson Burnett. Frances Hodgson Burnett

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СКАЧАТЬ than the most noticeable of them. When he walked down a street, people turned to look at him even oftener than they turned to look at Marco, and the boy felt as if it was not merely because he was a big man with a handsome, dark face, but because he looked, somehow, as if he had been born to command armies, and as if no one would think of disobeying him. Yet Marco had never seen him command any one, and they had always been poor, and shabbily dressed, and often enough ill-fed. But whether they were in one country or another, and whatsoever dark place they seemed to be hiding in, the few people they saw treated him with a sort of deference, and nearly always stood when they were in his presence, unless he bade them sit down.

      “It is because they know he is a patriot, and patriots are respected,” the boy had told himself.

      He himself wished to be a patriot, though he had never seen his own country of Samavia. He knew it well, however. His father had talked to him about it ever since that day when he had made the promises. He had taught him to know it by helping him to study curious detailed maps of it—maps of its cities, maps of its mountains, maps of its roads. He had told him stories of the wrongs done its people, of their sufferings and struggles for liberty, and, above all, of their unconquerable courage. When they talked together of its history, Marco’s boy-blood burned and leaped in his veins, and he always knew, by the look in his father’s eyes, that his blood burned also. His countrymen had been killed, they had been robbed, they had died by thousands of cruelties and starvation, but their souls had never been conquered, and, through all the years during which more powerful nations crushed and enslaved them, they never ceased to struggle to free themselves and stand unfettered as Samavians had stood centuries before.

      “Why do we not live there,” Marco had cried on the day the promises were made. “Why do we not go back and fight? When I am a man, I will be a soldier and die for Samavia.”

      “We are of those who must LIVE for Samavia—working day and night,” his father had answered; “denying ourselves, training our bodies and souls, using our brains, learning the things which are best to be done for our people and our country. Even exiles may be Samavian soldiers—I am one, you must be one.”

      “Are we exiles?” asked Marco.

      “Yes,” was the answer. “But even if we never set foot on Samavian soil, we must give our lives to it. I have given mine since I was sixteen. I shall give it until I die.”

      “Have you never lived there?” said Marco.

      A strange look shot across his father’s face.

      “No,” he answered, and said no more. Marco watching him, knew he must not ask the question again.

      The next words his father said were about the promises. Marco was quite a little fellow at the time, but he understood the solemnity of them, and felt that he was being honored as if he were a man.

      “When you are a man, you shall know all you wish to know,” Loristan said. “Now you are a child, and your mind must not be burdened. But you must do your part. A child sometimes forgets that words may be dangerous. You must promise never to forget this. Wheresoever you are; if you have playmates, you must remember to be silent about many things. You must not speak of what I do, or of the people who come to see me. You must not mention the things in your life which make it different from the lives of other boys. You must keep in your mind that a secret exists which a chance foolish word might betray. You are a Samavian, and there have been Samavians who have died a thousand deaths rather than betray a secret. You must learn to obey without question, as if you were a soldier. Now you must take your oath of allegiance.”

      He rose from his seat and went to a corner of the room. He knelt down, turned back the carpet, lifted a plank, and took something from beneath it. It was a sword, and, as he came back to Marco, he drew it out from its sheath. The child’s strong, little body stiffened and drew itself up, his large, deep eyes flashed. He was to take his oath of allegiance upon a sword as if he were a man. He did not know that his small hand opened and shut with a fierce understanding grip because those of his blood had for long centuries past carried swords and fought with them.

      Loristan gave him the big bared weapon, and stood erect before him.

      “Repeat these words after me sentence by sentence!” he commanded.

      And as he spoke them Marco echoed each one loudly and clearly.

      “The sword in my hand—for Samavia!

      “The heart in my breast—for Samavia!

      “The swiftness of my sight, the thought of my brain, the life of my life—for Samavia.

      “Here grows a man for Samavia.

      “God be thanked!”

      Then Loristan put his hand on the child’s shoulder, and his dark face looked almost fiercely proud.

      “From this hour,” he said, “you and I are comrades at arms.”

      And from that day to the one on which he stood beside the broken iron railings of No. 7 Philibert Place, Marco had not forgotten for one hour.

      II

A YOUNG CITIZEN OF THE WORLD

      He had been in London more than once before, but not to the lodgings in Philibert Place. When he was brought a second or third time to a town or city, he always knew that the house he was taken to would be in a quarter new to him, and he should not see again the people he had seen before. Such slight links of acquaintance as sometimes formed themselves between him and other children as shabby and poor as himself were easily broken. His father, however, had never forbidden him to make chance acquaintances. He had, in fact, told him that he had reasons for not wishing him to hold himself aloof from other boys. The only barrier which must exist between them must be the barrier of silence concerning his wanderings from country to country. Other boys as poor as he was did not make constant journeys, therefore they would miss nothing from his boyish talk when he omitted all mention of his. When he was in Russia, he must speak only of Russian places and Russian people and customs. When he was in France, Germany, Austria, or England, he must do the same thing. When he had learned English, French, German, Italian, and Russian he did not know. He had seemed to grow up in the midst of changing tongues which all seemed familiar to him, as languages are familiar to children who have lived with them until one scarcely seems less familiar than another. He did remember, however, that his father had always been unswerving in his attention to his pronunciation and method of speaking the language of any country they chanced to be living in.

      “You must not seem a foreigner in any country,” he had said to him. “It is necessary that you should not. But when you are in England, you must not know French, or German, or anything but English.”

      Once, when he was seven or eight years old, a boy had asked him what his father’s work was.

      “His own father is a carpenter, and he asked me if my father was one,” Marco brought the story to Loristan. “I said you were not. Then he asked if you were a shoemaker, and another one said you might be a bricklayer or a tailor—and I didn’t know what to tell them.” He had been out playing in a London street, and he put a grubby little hand on his father’s arm, and clutched and almost fiercely shook it. “I wanted to say that you were not like their fathers, not at all. I knew you were not, though you were quite as poor. You are not a bricklayer or a shoemaker, but a patriot—you could not be only a bricklayer—you!” He said it grandly and with a queer indignation, his black head held СКАЧАТЬ