only as marvels of art and handicraft. The
place was rich and mellow with exquisitely chosen beauties.

In a massive chair upon the heart sat a figure with bent head. It was a
tall old man with white hair and moustache. His elbows rested upon the
arm of his chair and he leaned his forehead on his hand as if he were
weary.

Marco's companion crossed the room and stood beside him, speaking in a
lowered voice. Marco could not at first hear what he said. He himself
stood quite still, waiting. The white-haired man lifted his head and
listened. It seemed as though almost at once he was singularly
interested. The lowered voice was slightly raised at last and Marco
heard the last two sentences:

"The only son of Stefan Loristan. Look at him."

The old man in the chair turned slowly and looked, steadily, and with
questioning curiosity touched with grave surprise. He had keen and
clear blue eyes.

Then Marco, still erect and silent, waited again. The Prince had
merely said to him, "an old man whom it might interest to see you." He
had plainly intended that, whatsoever happened, he must make no outward
sign of seeing more than he had been told he would see--"an old man."
It was for him to show no astonishment or recognition. He had been
brought here not to see but to be seen. The power of remaining still
under scrutiny, which The Rat had often envied him, stood now in good
stead because he had seen the white head and tall form not many days
before, surmounted by brilliant emerald plumes, hung with jeweled
decorations, in the royal carriage, escorted by banners, and helmets,
and following troops whose tramping feet kept time to bursts of
military music while the populace bared their heads and cheered.

"He is like his father," this personage said to the Prince. "But if any
one but Loristan had sent him--His looks please me." Then suddenly to
Marco, "You were waiting outside while the storm was going on?"

"Yes, sir," Marco answered.

Then the two exchanged some words still in the lowered voice.

"You read the news as you made your journey?" he was asked. "You know
how Samavia stands?"

"She does not stand," said Marco. "The Iarovitch and the Maranovitch
have fought as hyenas fight, until each has torn the other into
fragments--and neither has blood or strength left."

The two glanced at each other.

"A good simile," said the older person. "You are right. If a strong
party rose--and a greater power ch