“You mean—?” he suggested softly.

“Ivor Fedorovitch.  King Ivor he ought to be.  And the people would obey him, and the good days would come again.”

“It is five hundred years since Ivor Fedorovitch left the good monks.”  Loristan still spoke softly.

“But, Father,” Marco protested, “even The Rat said what you said—­that he was too young to be able to come back while the Maranovitch were in power.  And he would have to work and have a home, and perhaps he is as poor as we are.  But when he had a son he would call him Ivor and tell him—­and his son would call his son Ivor and tell him—­and it would go on and on.  They could never call their eldest sons anything but Ivor.  And what you said about the training would be true.  There would always be a king being trained for Samavia, and ready to be called.”  In the fire of his feelings he sprang from his chair and stood upright.  “Why!  There may be a king of Samavia in some city now who knows he is king, and, when he reads about the fighting among his people, his blood gets red-hot.  They’re his own people—­his very own!  He ought to go to them—­he ought to go and tell them who he is!  Don’t you think he ought, Father?”

“It would not be as easy as it seems to a boy,” Loristan answered.  “There are many countries which would have something to say—­Russia would have her word, and Austria, and Germany; and England never is silent.  But, if he were a strong man and knew how to make strong friends in silence, he might sometime be able to declare himself openly.”

“But if he is anywhere, some one—­some Samavian—­ought to go and look for him.  It ought to be a Samavian who is very clever and a patriot—­” He stopped at a flash of recognition.  “Father!” he cried out.  “Father!  You—­you are the one who could find him if any one in the world could.  But perhaps—­” and he stopped a moment again because new thoughts rushed through his mind.  “Have you ever looked for him?” he asked hesitating.

Perhaps he had asked a stupid question—­perhaps his father had always been looking for him, perhaps that was his secret and his work.

But Loristan did not look as if he thought him stupid.  Quite the contrary.  He kept his handsome eyes fixed on him still in that curious way, as if he were studying him—­as if he were much more than twelve years old, and he were deciding to tell him something.

“Comrade at arms,” he said, with the smile which always gladdened Marco’s heart, “you have kept your oath of allegiance like a man.  You were not seven years old when you took it.  You are growing older.  Silence is still the order, but you are man enough to be told more.”  He paused and looked down, and then looked up again, speaking in a low tone.  “I have not looked for him,” he said, “because—­I believe I know where he is.”

Marco caught his breath.