V
``SILENCE IS STILL THE ORDER''
They were even poorer than usual just now, and the supper Marco
and his father sat down to was scant enough. Lazarus stood
upright behind his master's chair and served him with strictest
ceremony. Their poor lodgings were always kept with a soldierly
cleanliness and order. When an object could be polished it was
forced to shine, no grain of dust was allowed to lie undisturbed,
and this perfection was not attained through the ministrations of
a lodging house slavey. Lazarus made himself extremely popular
by taking the work of caring for his master's rooms entirely out
of the hands of the overburdened maids of all work. He had
learned to do many things in his young days in barracks. He
carried about with him coarse bits of table-cloths and towels,
which he laundered as if they had been the finest linen. He
mended, he patched, he darned, and in the hardest fight the poor
must face--the fight with dirt and dinginess--he always held his
own. They had nothing but dry bread and coffee this evening, but
Lazarus had made the coffee and the bread was good.
As Marco ate, he told his father the story of The Rat and his
followers. Loristan listened, as the boy had known he would,
with the far-off, intently-thinking smile in his dark eyes. It
was a look which always fascinated Marco because it meant that he
was thinking so many things. Perhaps he would tell some of them
and perhaps he would not. His spell over the boy lay in the fact
that to him he seemed like a wonderful book of which one had only
glimpses. It was full of pictures and adventures which were
true, and one could not help continually making guesses about
them. Yes, the feeling that Marco had was that his father's
attraction for him was a sort of spell, and that others felt the
same thing. When he stood and talked to commoner people, he held
his tall body with singular quiet grace which was like power. He
never stirred or moved himself as if he were nervous or
uncertain. He could hold his hands (he had beautiful slender and
strong hands) quite still; he could stand on his fine arched feet
without shuffling them. He could sit without any ungrace or
restlessness. His mind knew what his body should do, and gave it
orders without speaking, and his fine limbs and muscles and
nerves obeyed. So he could stand still and at ease and look at
the people he was talking to, and they always looked at him and
listened to what he said, and somehow, courteous and
uncondescending as his manner unfailingly was, it used always to
seem to Marco as if he were ``giving an audience'' as kings gave
them.
He had often seen people bow very low when they went away from
him, and more than once it had happened that some humble person
had stepped out of his presence backward, as people do when
retiring before a sovereign. And yet his bearing was the
quietest and least assuming in the world.
``And they were talking about Samavia? And he knew the story of
the Lost Prince?'' he said ponderingly. ``Even in that place!''
``He wants to hear about wars--he wants to talk about them,''
Marco answered. ``If he could stand and were old enough, he
would go and fight for Samavia himself.''
``It is a blood-drenched and sad place now!'' said Loristan.
``The people are mad when they are not heartbroken and
terrified.''
Suddenly Marco struck the table with a sounding slap of his boy's
hand. He did it before he realized any intention in his own
mind.
``Why should either one of the Iarovitch or one of the
Maranovitch be king!'' he cried. ``They were only savage
peasants when they first fought for the crown hundreds of years
ago. The most savage one got it, and they have been fighting
ever since. Only the Fedorovitch were born kings. There is only
one man in the world who has the right to the throne--and I don't
know whether he is in the world or not. But I believe he is! I
do!''
Loristan looked at his hot twelve-year-old face with a reflective
curiousness. He saw that the flame which had leaped up in him
had leaped without warning--just as a fierce heart-beat might
have shaken him.
``You mean--?'' he suggested softly.
``Ivor Fedorovitch. King Ivor he ought to be. And the people
would obey him, and the good days would come again.''
``It is five hundred years since Ivor Fedorovitch left the good
monks.'' Loristan still spoke softly.
``But, Father,'' Marco protested, ``even The Rat said what you
said--that he was too young to be able to come back while the
Maranovitch were in power. And he would have to work and have a
home, and perhaps he is as poor as we are. But when he had a son
he would call him Ivor and TELL him--and his son would call HIS
son Ivor and tell HIM--and it would go on and on. They could
never call their eldest sons anything but Ivor. And what you
said about the training would be true. There would always be a
king being trained for Samavia, and ready to be called.'' In the
fire of his feelings he sprang from his chair and stood upright.
``Why! There may be a king of Samavia in some city now who knows
he is king, and, when he reads about the fighting among his
people, his blood gets red-hot. They're his own people--his very
own! He ought to go to them--he ought to go and tell them who he
is! Don't you think he ought, Father?''
``It would not be as easy as it seems to a boy,'' Loristan
answered. ``There are many countries which would have something
to say-- Russia would have her word, and Austria, and Germany;
and England never is silent. But, if he were a strong man and
knew how to make strong friends in silence, he might sometime be
able to declare himself openly.''
``But if he is anywhere, some one--some Samavian--ought to go and
look for him. It ought to be a Samavian who is very clever and a
patriot--'' He stopped at a flash of recognition. ``Father!''
he cried out. ``Father! You--you are the one who could find him
if any one in the world could. But perhaps--'' and he stopped a
moment again because new thoughts rushed through his mind.
``Have YOU ever looked for him?'' he asked hesitating.
Perhaps he had asked a stupid question--perhaps his father had
always been looking for him, perhaps that was his secret and his
work.
But Loristan did not look as if he thought him stupid. Quite the
contrary. He kept his handsome eyes fixed on him still in that
curious way, as if he were studying him--as if he were much more
than twelve years old, and he were deciding to tell him
something.
``Comrade at arms,'' he said, with the smile which always
gladdened Marco's heart, ``you have kept your oath of allegiance
like a man. You were not seven years old when you took it. You
are growing older. Silence is still the order, but you are man
enough to be told more.'' He paused and looked down, and then
looked up again, speaking in a low tone. ``I have not looked for
him,'' he said, ``because--I believe I know where he is.''
Marco caught his breath.
``Father!'' He said only that word. He could say no more. He
knew he must not ask questions. ``Silence is still the order.''
But as they faced each other in their dingy room at the back of
the shabby house on the side of the roaring common road--as
Lazarus stood stock- still behind his father's chair and kept his
eyes fixed on the empty coffee cups and the dry bread plate, and
everything looked as poor as things always did--there was a king
of Samavia--an Ivor Fedorovitch with the blood of the Lost Prince
in his veins--alive in some town or city this moment! And
Marco's own father knew where he was!
He glanced at Lazarus, but, though the old soldier's face looked
as expressionless as if it were cut out of wood, Marco realized
that he knew this thing and had always known it. He had been a
comrade at arms all his life. He continued to stare at the bread
plate.
Loristan spoke again and in an even lower voice. ``The Samavians
who are patriots and thinkers,'' he said, ``formed themselves
into a secret party about eighty years ago. They formed it when
they had no reason for hope, but they formed it because one of
them discovered that an Ivor Fedorovitch was living. He was head
forester on a great estate in the Austrian Alps. The nobleman he
served had always thought him a mystery because he had the
bearing and speech of a man who had not been born a servant, and
his methods in caring for the forests and game were those of a
man who was educated and had studied his subject. But he never
was familiar or assuming, and never professed superiority over
any of his fellows. He was a man of great stature, and was
extraordinarily brave and silent. The nobleman who was his
master made a sort of companion of him when they hunted together.
Once he took him with him when he traveled to Samavia to hunt
wild horses. He found that he knew the country strangely well,
and that he was familiar with Samavian hunting and customs.
Before he returned to Austria, the man obtained permission to go
to the mountains alone. He went among the shepherds and made
friends among them, asking many questions.
One night around a forest fire he heard the songs about the Lost
Prince which had not been forgotten even after nearly five
hundred years had passed. The shepherds and herdsmen talked
about Prince Ivor, and told old stories about him, and related
the prophecy that he would come back and bring again Samavia's
good days. He might come only in the body of one of his
descendants, but it would be his spirit which came, because his
spirit would never cease to love Samavia. One very old shepherd
tottered to his feet and lifted his face to the myriad stars
bestrewn like jewels in the blue sky above the forest trees, and
he wept and prayed aloud that the great God would send their king
to them. And the stranger huntsman stood upright also and lifted
his face to the stars. And, though he said no word, the herdsman
nearest to him saw tears on his cheeks--great, heavy tears. The
next day, the stranger went to the monastery where the order of
good monks lived who had taken care of the Lost Prince. When he
had left Samavia, the secret society was formed, and the members
of it knew that an Ivor Fedorovitch had passed through his
ancestors' country as the servant of another man. But the secret
society was only a small one, and, though it has been growing
ever since and it has done good deeds and good work in secret,
the huntsman died an old man before it was strong enough even to
dare to tell Samavia what it knew.''
``Had he a son?'' cried Marco. ``Had he a son?''
``Yes. He had a son. His name was Ivor. And he was trained as
I told you. That part I knew to be true, though I should have
believed it was true even if I had not known. There has ALWAYS
been a king ready for Samavia--even when he has labored with his
hands and served others. Each one took the oath of allegiance.''
``As I did?'' said Marco, breathless with excitement. When one
is twelve years old, to be so near a Lost Prince who might end
wars is a thrilling thing.
``The same,'' answered Loristan.
Marco threw up his hand in salute.
`` `Here grows a man for Samavia! God be thanked!' '' he quoted.
``And HE is somewhere? And you know?''
Loristan bent his head in acquiescence.
``For years much secret work has been done, and the Fedorovitch
party has grown until it is much greater and more powerful than
the other parties dream. The larger countries are tired of the
constant war and disorder in Samavia. Their interests are
disturbed by them, and they are deciding that they must have
peace and laws which can be counted on. There have been Samavian
patriots who have spent their lives in trying to bring this about
by making friends in the most powerful capitals, and working
secretly for the future good of their own land. Because Samavia
is so small and uninfluential, it has taken a long time but when
King Maran and his family were assassinated and the war broke
out, there were great powers which began to say that if some king
of good blood and reliable characteristics were given the crown,
he should be upheld.''
``HIS blood,''-- Marco's intensity made his voice drop almost to
a whisper,--``HIS blood has been trained for five hundred years,
Father! If it comes true--'' though he laughed a little, he was
obliged to wink his eyes hard because suddenly he felt tears rush
into them, which no boy likes--``the shepherds will have to make
a new song --it will have to be a shouting one about a prince
going away and a king coming back!''
``They are a devout people and observe many an ancient rite and
ceremony. They will chant prayers and burn altar-fires on their
mountain sides,'' Loristan said. ``But the end is not yet--the
end is not yet. Sometimes it seems that perhaps it is near--but
God knows!''
Then there leaped back upon Marco the story he had to tell, but
which he had held back for the last--the story of the man who
spoke Samavian and drove in the carriage with the King. He knew
now that it might mean some important thing which he could not
have before suspected.
``There is something I must tell you,'' he said.
He had learned to relate incidents in few but clear words when he
related them to his father. It had been part of his training.
Loristan had said that he might sometime have a story to tell
when he had but few moments to tell it in--some story which meant
life or death to some one. He told this one quickly and well.
He made Loristan see the well-dressed man with the deliberate
manner and the keen eyes, and he made him hear his voice when he
said, ``Tell your father that you are a very well-trained lad.''
``I am glad he said that. He is a man who knows what training
is,'' said Loristan. ``He is a person who knows what all Europe
is doing, and almost all that it will do. He is an ambassador
from a powerful and great country. If he saw that you are a
well-trained and fine lad, it might--it might even be good for
Samavia.''
``Would it matter that _I_ was well-trained? COULD it matter to
Samavia?'' Marco cried out.
Loristan paused for a moment--watching him gravely--looking him
over--his big, well-built boy's frame, his shabby clothes, and
his eagerly burning eyes.
He smiled one of his slow wonderful smiles.
``Yes. It might even matter to Samavia!'' he answered.
