And in this strange way out of the history of Samavia, five hundred years before Marco’s day, the young prince had walked—­singing softly to himself the old song of Samavia’s beauty and happiness.  For he was never seen again.

In every nook and cranny, high and low, they sought for him, believing that the king himself had made him prisoner in some secret place, or had privately had him killed.  The fury of the people grew to frenzy.  There were new risings, and every few days the palace was attacked and searched again.  But no trace of the prince was found.  He had vanished as a star vanishes when it drops from its place in the sky.  During a riot in the palace, when a last fruitless search was made, the king himself was killed.  A powerful noble who headed one of the uprisings made himself king in his place.  From that time, the once splendid little kingdom was like a bone fought for by dogs.  Its pastoral peace was forgotten.  It was torn and worried and shaken by stronger countries.  It tore and worried itself with internal fights.  It assassinated kings and created new ones.  No man was sure in his youth what ruler his maturity would live under, or whether his children would die in useless fights, or through stress of poverty and cruel, useless laws.  There were no more shepherds and herdsmen who were poets, but on the mountain sides and in the valleys sometimes some of the old songs were sung.  Those most beloved were songs about a Lost Prince whose name had been Ivor.  If he had been king, he would have saved Samavia, the verses said, and all brave hearts believed that he would still return.  In the modern cities, one of the jocular cynical sayings was, “Yes, that will happen when Prince Ivor comes again.”

In his more childish days, Marco had been bitterly troubled by the unsolved mystery.  Where had he gone—­the Lost Prince?  Had he been killed, or had he been hidden away in a dungeon?  But he was so big and brave, he would have broken out of any dungeon.  The boy had invented for himself a dozen endings to the story.

“Did no one ever find his sword or his cap—­or hear anything or guess anything about him ever—­ever—­ever?” he would say restlessly again and again.

One winter’s night, as they sat together before a small fire in a cold room in a cold city in Austria, he had been so eager and asked so many searching questions, that his father gave him an answer he had never given him before, and which was a sort of ending to the story, though not a satisfying one: 

“Everybody guessed as you are guessing.  A few very old shepherds in the mountains who like to believe ancient histories relate a story which most people consider a kind of legend.  It is that almost a hundred years after the prince was lost, an old shepherd told a story his long-dead father had confided to him in secret just before he died.  The father had said that, going out in the early morning on the mountain side, he had found in the forest what