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Around the heavy locks of his black hair the long dead painter of missals had set a faint glow of light like a halo. "Son of Stefan Loristan," the old priest said, in a shaken voice, "it is the Lost Prince! It is Ivor!" Then every man in the room fell on his knees. Even the men who had upheld the archway of swords dropped their weapons with a crash and knelt also. He was their saint this boy!
"You have spent your life in traveling from one country to another," persisted the man. "You know the European languages as if you were a courier, or the portier in a Viennese hotel. Do you not?" Marco did not answer. The Lovely Person began to speak to the man rapidly in Russian. "A spy and an adventurer Stefan Loristan has always been and always will be," she said. "We know what he is.
But just then the old priest lifted his hand above the crowd, and spoke in a voice of stern command. "Stand back, my children!" he cried. "Madness is not the homage you must bring to the son of Stefan Loristan. Obey! Obey!" His voice had a power in it that penetrated even the wildest herdsmen. The frenzied mass swayed back and left space about Marco, whose face The Rat could at last see.
The lowered voice was slightly raised at last and Marco heard the last two sentences: "The only son of Stefan Loristan. Look at him." The old man in the chair turned slowly and looked, steadily, and with questioning curiosity touched with grave surprise. He had keen and clear blue eyes. Then Marco, still erect and silent, waited again.
"It's what I've never had before sir." What he knew was that it meant some bit of space, out of all the world, where he would have a sort of right to stand, howsoever poor and bare it might be. "I'm not used to beds or to food enough," he said. But he did not dare to insist too much on that "place." It seemed too great a thing to be true. Loristan took his arm. "Come with me," he said.
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. Then followed a strange and picturesque ceremonial. The priest went about among the encircling crowd and spoke to one man after another sometimes to a group. A larger circle was formed.
If he was anxious, he could only be so for one reason, and each realized what the reason must be. Loristan had gone to Samavia to the torn and bleeding country filled with riot and danger. If he had gone, it could only have been because its danger called him and he went to face it at its worst. Lazarus had been left behind to watch over them.
But he was obliged to tell himself to go to sleep several times before his eyes closed for the rest of the night. Loristan referred only once during the next day to what had happened. "You did your errand well. You were not hurried or nervous," he said. "The Prince was pleased with your calmness." No more was said.
They went to the museums and galleries and learned things there, making from memory lists and descriptions which at night they showed to Loristan, when he was not too busy to talk to them. As the days passed, Marco saw that The Rat was gaining strength. This exhilarated him greatly. They often went to Hampstead Heath and walked in the wind and sun.
"They are doing something with Samavian flags and a lot of flowers and green things!" cried The Rat, in excitement. "Sir, they are decorating the outside of the carriage," Vorversk said. "The villagers on the line obtained permission from His Majesty. The son of Stefan Loristan could not be allowed to pass their homes without their doing homage."
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