“The peasants who came to your father in Moscow spoke Samavian and were big men.  Do you remember them?” he asked from outside.

“I know nothing,” answered Marco.

“You are a young fool,” the voice replied.  “And I believe you know even more than we thought.  Your father will be greatly troubled when you do not come home.  I will come back to see you in a few hours, if it is possible.  I will tell you, however, that I have had disturbing news which might make it necessary for us to leave the house in a hurry.  I might not have time to come down here again before leaving.”

Marco stood with his back against a bit of wall and remained silent.

There was stillness for a few minutes, and then there was to be heard the sound of footsteps marching away.

When the last distant echo died all was quite silent, and Marco drew a long breath.  Unbelievable as it may appear, it was in one sense almost a breath of relief.  In the rush of strange feeling which had swept over him when he found himself facing the astounding situation up-stairs, it had not been easy to realize what his thoughts really were; there were so many of them and they came so fast.  How could he quite believe the evidence of his eyes and ears?  A few minutes, only a few minutes, had changed his prettily grateful and kindly acquaintance into a subtle and cunning creature whose love for Samavia had been part of a plot to harm it and to harm his father.

What did she and her companion want to do—­what could they do if they knew the things they were trying to force him to tell?

Marco braced his back against the wall stoutly.

“What will it be best to think about first?”

This he said because one of the most absorbingly fascinating things he and his father talked about together was the power of the thoughts which human beings allow to pass through their minds—­the strange strength of them.  When they talked of this, Marco felt as if he were listening to some marvelous Eastern story of magic which was true.  In Loristan’s travels, he had visited the far Oriental countries, and he had seen and learned many things which seemed marvels, and they had taught him deep thinking.  He had known, and reasoned through days with men who believed that when they desired a thing, clear and exalted thought would bring it to them.  He had discovered why they believed this, and had learned to understand their profound arguments.

What he himself believed, he had taught Marco quite simply from his childhood.  It was this:  he himself—­Marco, with the strong boy-body, the thick mat of black hair, and the patched clothes—­was the magician.  He held and waved his wand himself—­and his wand was his own Thought.  When special privation or anxiety beset them, it was their rule to say, “What will it be best to think about first?” which was Marco’s reason for saying it to himself now as he stood in the darkness which was like black velvet.