Marco’s companion crossed the room and stood beside him, speaking in a lowered voice.  Marco could not at first hear what he said.  He himself stood quite still, waiting.  The white-haired man lifted his head and listened.  It seemed as though almost at once he was singularly interested.  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.  The Prince had merely said to him, “an old man whom it might interest to see you.”  He had plainly intended that, whatsoever happened, he must make no outward sign of seeing more than he had been told he would see—­“an old man.”  It was for him to show no astonishment or recognition.  He had been brought here not to see but to be seen.  The power of remaining still under scrutiny, which The Rat had often envied him, stood now in good stead because he had seen the white head and tall form not many days before, surmounted by brilliant emerald plumes, hung with jeweled decorations, in the royal carriage, escorted by banners, and helmets, and following troops whose tramping feet kept time to bursts of military music while the populace bared their heads and cheered.

“He is like his father,” this personage said to the Prince.  “But if any one but Loristan had sent him—­His looks please me.”  Then suddenly to Marco, “You were waiting outside while the storm was going on?”

“Yes, sir,” Marco answered.

Then the two exchanged some words still in the lowered voice.

“You read the news as you made your journey?” he was asked.  “You know how Samavia stands?”

“She does not stand,” said Marco.  “The Iarovitch and the Maranovitch have fought as hyenas fight, until each has torn the other into fragments—­and neither has blood or strength left.”

The two glanced at each other.

“A good simile,” said the older person.  “You are right.  If a strong party rose—­and a greater power chose not to interfere—­the country might see better days.”  He looked at him a few moments longer and then waved his hand kindly.

“You are a fine Samavian,” he said.  “I am glad of that.  You may go.  Good night.”

Marco bowed respectfully and the man with the tired face led him out of the room.

It was just before he left him in the small quiet chamber in which he was to sleep that the Prince gave him a final curious glance.  “I remember now,” he said.  “In the room, when you answered the question about Samavia, I was sure that I had seen you before.  It was the day of the celebration.  There was a break in the crowd and I saw a boy looking at me.  It was you.”

“Yes,” said Marco, “I have followed you each time you have gone out since then, but I could never get near enough to speak.  To-night seemed only one chance in a thousand.”