ommoner people, he
held his tall body with singular quiet grace which was like power. He
never stirred or moved himself as if he were nervous or uncertain. He
could hold his hands (he had beautiful slender and strong hands) quite
still; he could stand on his fine arched feet without shuffling them.
He could sit without any ungrace or restlessness. His mind knew what
his body should do, and gave it orders without speaking, and his fine
limbs and muscles and nerves obeyed. So he could stand still and at
ease and look at the people he was talking to, and they always looked
at him and listened to what he said, and somehow, courteous and
uncondescending as his manner unfailingly was, it used always to seem
to Marco as if he were "giving an audience" as kings gave them.

He had often seen people bow very low when they went away from him, and
more than once it had happened that some humble person had stepped out
of his presence backward, as people do when retiring before a
sovereign. And yet his bearing was the quietest and least assuming in
the world.

"And they were talking about Samavia? And he knew the story of the
Lost Prince?" he said ponderingly. "Even in that place!"

"He wants to hear about wars--he wants to talk about them," Marco
answered. "If he could stand and were old enough, he would go and
fight for Samavia himself."

"It is a blood-drenched and sad place now!" said Loristan. "The people
are mad when they are not heartbroken and terrified."

Suddenly Marco struck the table with a sounding slap of his boy's hand.
He did it before he realized any intention in his own mind.

"Why should either one of the Iarovitch or one of the Maranovitch be
king!" he cried. "They were only savage peasants when they first
fought for the crown hundreds of years ago. The most savage one got
it, and they have been fighting ever since. Only the Fedorovitch were
born kings. There is only one man in the world who has the right to
the throne--and I don't know whether he is in the world or not. But I
believe he is! I do!"

Loristan looked at his hot twelve-year-old face with a reflective
curiousness. He saw that the flame which had leaped up in him had
leaped without warning--just as a fierce heart-beat might have shaken
him.

"You mean--?" he suggested softly.

"Ivor Fedorovitch. King Ivor he ought to be. And the people would
obey him, and the good days would come again."

"It is five hundred years since Iv