little hand on
his father's arm, and clutched and almost fiercely shook it. "I wanted
to say that you were not like their fathers, not at all. I knew you
were not, though you were quite as poor. You are not a bricklayer or a
shoemaker, but a patriot--you could not be only a bricklayer--you!" He
said it grandly and with a queer indignation, his black head held up
and his eyes angry.

Loristan laid his hand against his mouth.

"Hush! hush!" he said. "Is it an insult to a man to think he may be a
carpenter or make a good suit of clothes? If I could make our clothes,
we should go better dressed. If I were a shoemaker, your toes would
not be making their way into the world as they are now." He was
smiling, but Marco saw his head held itself high, too, and his eyes
were glowing as he touched his shoulder. "I know you did not tell them
I was a patriot," he ended. "What was it you said to them?"

"I remembered that you were nearly always writing and drawing maps, and
I said you were a writer, but I did not know what you wrote--and that
you said it was a poor trade. I heard you say that once to Lazarus.
Was that a right thing to tell them?"

"Yes. You may always say it if you are asked. There are poor fellows
enough who write a thousand different things which bring them little
money. There is nothing strange in my being a writer."

So Loristan answered him, and from that time if, by any chance, his
father's means of livelihood were inquired into, it was simple enough
and true enough to say that he wrote to earn his bread.

In the first days of strangeness to a new place, Marco often walked a
great deal. He was strong and untiring, and it amused him to wander
through unknown streets, and look at shops, and houses, and people. He
did not confine himself to the great thoroughfares, but liked to branch
off into the side streets and odd, deserted-looking squares, and even
courts and alleyways. He often stopped to watch workmen and talk to
them if they were friendly. In this way he made stray acquaintances in
his strollings, and learned a good many things. He had a fondness for
wandering musicians, and, from an old Italian who had in his youth been
a singer in opera, he had learned to sing a number of songs in his
strong, musical boy-voice. He knew well many of the songs of the
people in several countries.

It was very dull this first morning, and he wished that he had
something to do or some one to speak