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Updated: June 28, 2025
He stood up when he said the last words and added the "sir" as if he suddenly realized that there was a distance between them which was something akin to the distance between youth and maturity but yet was not the same. "You are a good Samavian but you forget," was Marco's answer. Lazarus' intense grimness increased with each day that passed.
When the sign was given to a man he walked under the arch to the dais, and there knelt and, lifting Marco's hand to his lips, kissed it with passionate fervor. Then he returned to the place he had left. One after another passed up the aisle of swords, one after another knelt, one after the other kissed the brown young hand, rose and went away.
But pine, although it has no great strength, is an excellent wood for building, it is so soft and easily worked." Forester's remarks, upon the different kinds of wood, were here interrupted by Marco's finding what he considered an excellent stick for a cane. When he had cut it, however, he found that it was not so straight as it had appeared to be while growing.
Marco's eyes looked bravely straight into his, but he said not one word. "Do you know what it would mean, Comrade?" his father went on. "You are right. It is not a game. And you are not thinking of it as one. But have you thought how it would be if something betrayed you and you were set up against a wall to be shot?" Marco stood up quite straight.
And that is the way to enter Venice, because not only do you approach her by sea, as is right, Venice being the bride of the sea not merely by poetical tradition but as a solemn and wonderful fact, but you see her from afar, and gradually more and more is disclosed, and your first near view, sudden and complete as you skirt the island of S. Giorgio Maggiore, has all the most desired ingredients: the Campanile of S. Marco, S. Marco's domes, the Doges' Palace, S. Theodore on one column and the Lion on the other, the Custom House, S. Maria della Salute, the blue Merceria clock, all the business of the Riva, and a gondola under your very prow.
I tell you the honest truth when I say I could squander away as many as a dozen feasts like this and never care that for the expense!" and I snapped my fingers. I could see myself rise a foot at a time in Marco's estimation, and when I fetched out those last words I was become a very tower for style and altitude. "So you see, you must let me have my way.
When Marco opened the door, the old soldier strode over to him, turned him about, and led him out of the room. "Pardon, sir, pardon!" he sobbed. "No one must see him, not even you. He suffers so horribly." He stood by a chair in Marco's own small bedroom, where he half pushed, half led him. He bent his grizzled head, and wept like a beaten child.
"I am an old man," he said. "My eyes are not good. If I had a light" and he glanced towards the house. It was The Rat who, with one whirl, swung through the door and seized the candle. He guessed what he wanted. He held it himself so that the flare fell on Marco's face. The old priest drew nearer and nearer. He gasped for breath. "You are the son of Stefan Loristan!" he cried.
Cara felt relieved; at the same time she felt a strange joy at her heart, which sent the conscious blood to her cheek. She was not thinking of the escaped Marco, but of Jarman. Later, when the police boat arrived, whether the detectives had been forewarned of Marco's escape or not, they contented themselves with a formal search of the little fishing-hut and departed.
Forester and Marco went back to the hut, where they had a most excellent dinner. They built a fire, and roasted the apples and toasted the bread. They cut it into slices with Marco's knife. They made wooden spoons for the honey out of pieces of pine, which answered very well indeed. Marco said it was the very best dinner he ever ate in his life.
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