tars of God were stilly shining, and with a smile
wonderful to behold. Around the heavy locks of his black hair the
long dead painter of missals had set a faint glow of light like a halo.

"Son of Stefan Loristan," the old priest said, in a shaken voice, "it
is the Lost Prince! It is Ivor!"

Then every man in the room fell on his knees. Even the men who had
upheld the archway of swords dropped their weapons with a crash and
knelt also. He was their saint--this boy! Dead for five hundred
years, he was their saint still.

"Ivor! Ivor!" the voices broke into a heavy murmur. "Ivor! Ivor!" as
if they chanted a litany.

Marco started forward, staring at the picture, his breath caught in his
throat, his lips apart.

"But--but--" he stammered, "but if my father were as young as he is--he
would be LIKE him!"

"When you are as old as he is, YOU will be like him--YOU!" said the
priest. And he let the curtain fall.

The Rat stood staring with wide eyes from Marco to the picture and from
the picture to Marco. And he breathed faster and faster and gnawed his
finger ends. But he did not utter a word. He could not have done it,
if he tried.

Then Marco stepped down from the dais as if he were in a dream, and the
old man followed him. The men with swords sprang to their feet and
made their archway again with a new clash of steel. The old man and
the boy passed under it together. Now every man's eyes were fixed on
Marco. At the heavy door by which he had entered, he stopped and
turned to meet their glances. He looked very young and thin and pale,
but suddenly his father's smile was lighted in his face. He said a few
words in Samavian clearly and gravely, saluted, and passed out.

"What did you say to them?" gasped The Rat, stumbling after him as the
door closed behind them and shut in the murmur of impassioned sound.

"There was only one thing to say," was the answer. "They are men--I am
only a boy. I thanked them for my father, and told them he would
never--never forget."

XXVIII

"EXTRA! EXTRA! EXTRA!"

It was raining in London--pouring. It had been raining for two weeks,
more or less, generally more. When the train from Dover drew in at
Charing Cross, the weather seemed suddenly to have considered that it
had so far been too lenient and must express itself much more
vigorously. So it had gathered together its resources and poured them
forth in a deluge which surprised even Londoners.

The