“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.