were not merely old masters to him, but men who were great, men who seemed to him to have wielded beautiful swords and held high, splendid lights.  His father could not go often with him, but he always took him for the first time to the galleries, museums, libraries, and historical places which were richest in treasures of art, beauty, or story.  Then, having seen them once through his eyes, Marco went again and again alone, and so grew intimate with the wonders of the world.  He knew that he was gratifying a wish of his father’s when he tried to train himself to observe all things and forget nothing.  These palaces of marvels were his school-rooms, and his strange but rich education was the most interesting part of his life.  In time, he knew exactly the places where the great Rembrandts, Vandykes, Rubens, Raphaels, Tintorettos, or Frans Hals hung; he knew whether this masterpiece or that was in Vienna, in Paris, in Venice, or Munich, or Rome.  He knew stories of splendid crown jewels, of old armor, of ancient crafts, and of Roman relics dug up from beneath the foundations of old German cities.  Any boy wandering to amuse himself through museums and palaces on “free days” could see what he saw, but boys living fuller and less lonely lives would have been less likely to concentrate their entire minds on what they looked at, and also less likely to store away facts with the determination to be able to recall at any moment the mental shelf on which they were laid.  Having no playmates and nothing to play with, he began when he was a very little fellow to make a sort of game out of his rambles through picture-galleries, and the places which, whether they called themselves museums or not, were storehouses or relics of antiquity.  There were always the blessed “free days,” when he could climb any marble steps, and enter any great portal without paying an entrance fee.  Once inside, there were plenty of plainly and poorly dressed people to be seen, but there were not often boys as young as himself who were not attended by older companions.  Quiet and orderly as he was, he often found himself stared at.  The game he had created for himself was as simple as it was absorbing.  It was to try how much he could remember and clearly describe to his father when they sat together at night and talked of what he had seen.  These night talks filled his happiest hours.  He never felt lonely then, and when his father sat and watched him with a certain curious and deep attention in his dark, reflective eyes, the boy was utterly comforted and content.  Sometimes he brought back rough and crude sketches of objects he wished to ask questions about, and Loristan could always relate to him the full, rich story of the thing he wanted to know.  They were stories made so splendid and full of color in the telling that Marco could not forget them.

III

THE LEGEND OF THE LOST PRINCE