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He had been so interested that once or twice he had called on Lazarus as an old soldier and Samavian to give his opinions of certain routes and of the customs and habits of people in towns and villages by the way.
Since it was the king who had worked this wrong, they would have none of him. They would depose him and make his son king in his place. It was at this part of the story that Marco was always most deeply interested. The young prince was totally unlike his father. He was a true royal Samavian.
It was safe to describe places and people, and he so described them that The Squad squirmed in its delight at feeling itself marching in a procession attending the Emperor in Vienna; standing in line before palaces; climbing, with knapsacks strapped tight, up precipitous mountain roads; defending mountain-fortresses; and storming Samavian castles. The Squad glowed and exulted.
Men like your father must think, and plan, and feel that they must must find a way. Even a woman feels it. Even a boy must. Stefan Loristan cannot be sitting quietly at home, knowing that Samavian hearts are being shot through and Samavian blood poured forth. He cannot think and say nothing!" Marco started in spite of himself. He felt as if his father had been struck in the face.
He stood still, bracing his body, and waited. If he had been a Samavian soldier in the trenches and such a storm had broken upon him and his comrades, they could only have braced themselves and waited. This was what he found himself thinking when the tumult and downpour were at their worst. There were men who had waited in the midst of a rain of bullets.
"The peasants who came to your father in Moscow spoke Samavian and were big men. Do you remember them?" he asked from outside. "I know nothing," answered Marco. "You are a young fool," the voice replied. "And I believe you know even more than we thought. Your father will be greatly troubled when you do not come home. I will come back to see you in a few hours, if it is possible.
People nearly always stop a moment to listen to music and find out where it comes from. And if any of my own people came near, they would stop at once and now and then I will shout for help." Once when they had stopped to rest on Hampstead Heath, he had sung a valiant Samavian song for The Rat. The Rat had wanted to hear how he would sing when they went on their secret journey.
"Then, ten to one, he's a sort of gentleman," said The Rat. Then quite suddenly he threw another question at him. "What's the name of the other Samavian party?" "The Maranovitch. The Maranovitch and the Iarovitch have been fighting with each other for five hundred years.
But for this he might have started at the extraordinary sound of the Samavian words suddenly uttered in a London street by an English gentleman. He might even have answered the question in Samavian himself. But he did not. He courteously lifted his cap and replied in English: "Excuse me?" The gentleman's clever eyes scrutinized him keenly. Then he also spoke in English.
"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.
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