lad whose very coat was patched by the old soldier who stood "at
attention" before him.

"Yes, sir," Lazarus answered. "Where was it your wish to go?"

Marco knitted his black brows a little in trying to recall distinct
memories of the last time he had been in London.

"I have been to so many places, and have seen so many things since I was
here before, that I must begin to learn again about the streets and
buildings I do not quite remember."

"Yes, sir," said Lazarus. "There _have_ been so many. I also forget. You
were but eight years old when you were last here."

"I think I will go and find the royal palace, and then I will walk about
and learn the names of the streets," Marco said.

"Yes, sir," answered Lazarus, and this time he made his military salute.

Marco lifted his right hand in recognition, as if he had been a young
officer. Most boys might have looked awkward or theatrical in making
the gesture, but he made it with naturalness and ease, because he had
been familiar with the form since his babyhood. He had seen officers
returning the salutes of their men when they encountered each other by
chance in the streets, he had seen princes passing sentries on their
way to their carriages, more august personages raising the quiet,
recognizing hand to their helmets as they rode through applauding
crowds. He had seen many royal persons and many royal pageants, but
always only as an ill-clad boy standing on the edge of the crowd of