No more was said.  Marco knew that the quiet mention of the stranger’s title had been made merely as a designation.  If it was necessary to mention him again in the future, he could be referred to as “the Prince.”  In various Continental countries there were many princes who were not royal or even serene highnesses—­who were merely princes as other nobles were dukes or barons.  Nothing special was revealed when a man was spoken of as a prince.  But though nothing was said on the subject of the incident, it was plain that much work was being done by Loristan and Lazarus.  The sitting-room door was locked, and the maps and documents, usually kept in the iron box, were being used.

Marco went to the Tower of London and spent part of the day in living again the stories which, centuries past, had been inclosed within its massive and ancient stone walls.  In this way, he had throughout boyhood become intimate with people who to most boys seemed only the unreal creatures who professed to be alive in school-books of history.  He had learned to know them as men and women because he had stood in the palaces they had been born in and had played in as children, had died in at the end.  He had seen the dungeons they had been imprisoned in, the blocks on which they had laid their heads, the battlements on which they had fought to defend their fortressed towers, the thrones they had sat upon, the crowns they had worn, and the jeweled scepters they had held.  He had stood before their portraits and had gazed curiously at their “Robes of Investiture,” sewn with tens of thousands of seed-pearls.  To look at a man’s face and feel his pictured eyes follow you as you move away from him, to see the strangely splendid garments he once warmed with his living flesh, is to realize that history is not a mere lesson in a school-book, but is a relation of the life stories of men and women who saw strange and splendid days, and sometimes suffered strange and terrible things.

There were only a few people who were being led about sight-seeing.  The man in the ancient Beef-eaters’ costume, who was their guide, was good-natured, and evidently fond of talking.  He was a big and stout man, with a large face and a small, merry eye.  He was rather like pictures of Henry the Eighth, himself, which Marco remembered having seen.  He was specially talkative when he stood by the tablet that marks the spot where stood the block on which Lady Jane Grey had laid her young head.  One of the sightseers who knew little of English history had asked some questions about the reasons for her execution.

“If her father-in-law, the Duke of Northumberland, had left that young couple alone—­her and her husband, Lord Guildford Dudley—­they’d have kept their heads on.  He was bound to make her a queen, and Mary Tudor was bound to be queen herself.  The duke wasn’t clever enough to manage a conspiracy and work up the people.  These Samavians we’re reading about in the papers would have done it better.  And they’re half-savages.”