The Lost Prince | Page 6

between them must be the barrier of
silence concerning his wanderings from country to country. Other boys
as poor as he was did not make constant journeys, therefore they would
miss nothing from his boyish talk when he omitted all mention of his.
When he was in Russia, he must speak only of Russian places and
Russian people and customs. When he was in France, Germany,
Austria, or England, he must do the same thing. When he had learned
English, French, German, Italian, and Russian he did not know. He had
seemed to grow up in the midst of changing tongues which all seemed
familiar to him, as languages are familiar to children who have lived

with them until one scarcely seems less familiar than another. He did
remember, however, that his father had always been unswerving in his
attention to his pronunciation and method of speaking the language of
any country they chanced to be living in.
``You must not seem a foreigner in any country,'' he had said to him.
``It is necessary that you should not. But when you are in England, you
must not know French, or German, or anything but English.''
Once, when he was seven or eight years old, a boy had asked him what
his father's work was.
``His own father is a carpenter, and he asked me if my father was one,''
Marco brought the story to Loristan. ``I said you were not. Then he
asked if you were a shoemaker, and another one said you might be a
bricklayer or a tailor--and I didn't know what to tell them.'' He had been
out playing in a London street, and he put a grubby 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 to. To do nothing whatever is a depressing
thing at all times, but perhaps it is more especially so when one is a big,
healthy boy twelve years old. London as he saw it in the Marylebone
Road seemed to him a hideous place. It was murky and shabby-looking,
and full of dreary-faced people. It was