As he walked through the streets, he was thinking of one of these stories.  It was one he had heard first when he was very young, and it had so seized upon his imagination that he had asked often for it.  It was, indeed, a part of the long-past history of Samavia, and he had loved it for that reason.  Lazarus had often told it to him, sometimes adding much detail, but he had always liked best his father’s version, which seemed a thrilling and living thing.  On their journey from Russia, during an hour when they had been forced to wait in a cold wayside station and had found the time long, Loristan had discussed it with him.  He always found some such way of making hard and comfortless hours easier to live through.

“Fine, big lad—­for a foreigner,” Marco heard a man say to his companion as he passed them this morning.  “Looks like a Pole or a Russian.”

It was this which had led his thoughts back to the story of the Lost Prince.  He knew that most of the people who looked at him and called him a “foreigner” had not even heard of Samavia.  Those who chanced to recall its existence knew of it only as a small fierce country, so placed upon the map that the larger countries which were its neighbors felt they must control and keep it in order, and therefore made incursions into it, and fought its people and each other for possession.  But it had not been always so.  It was an old, old country, and hundreds of years ago it had been as celebrated for its peaceful happiness and wealth as for its beauty.  It was often said that it was one of the most beautiful places in the world.  A favorite Samavian legend was that it had been the site of the Garden of Eden.  In those past centuries, its people had been of such great stature, physical beauty, and strength, that they had been like a race of noble giants.  They were in those days a pastoral people, whose rich crops and splendid flocks and herds were the envy of less fertile countries.  Among the shepherds and herdsmen there were poets who sang their own songs when they piped among their sheep upon the mountain sides and in the flower-thick valleys.  Their songs had been about patriotism and bravery, and faithfulness to their chieftains and their country.  The simple courtesy of the poorest peasant was as stately as the manner of a noble.  But that, as Loristan had said with a tired smile, had been before they had had time to outlive and forget the Garden of Eden.  Five hundred years ago, there had succeeded to the throne a king who was bad and weak.  His father had lived to be ninety years old, and his son had grown tired of waiting in Samavia for his crown.  He had gone out into the world, and visited other countries and their courts.  When he returned and became king, he lived as no Samavian king had lived before.  He was an extravagant, vicious man of furious temper and bitter jealousies.  He was jealous of the larger courts and countries he had seen, and tried to introduce their customs and