As Marco ate, he told his father the story of The Rat and his followers.  Loristan listened, as the boy had known he would, with the far-off, intently-thinking smile in his dark eyes.  It was a look which always fascinated Marco because it meant that he was thinking so many things.  Perhaps he would tell some of them and perhaps he would not.  His spell over the boy lay in the fact that to him he seemed like a wonderful book of which one had only glimpses.  It was full of pictures and adventures which were true, and one could not help continually making guesses about them.  Yes, the feeling that Marco had was that his father’s attraction for him was a sort of spell, and that others felt the same thing.  When he stood and talked to commoner 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.