years before Marco's day, the young prince had walked--singing softly
to himself the old song of Samavia's beauty and happiness. For he was
never seen again.

In every nook and cranny, high and low, they sought for him, believing
that the king himself had made him prisoner in some secret place, or
had privately had him killed. The fury of the people grew to frenzy.
There were new risings, and every few days the palace was attacked and
searched again. But no trace of the prince was found. He had vanished as
a star vanishes when it drops from its place in the sky. During a riot
in the palace, when a last fruitless search was made, the king himself
was killed. A powerful noble who headed one of the uprisings made
himself king in his place. From that time, the once splendid little
kingdom was like a bone fought for by dogs. Its pastoral peace was
forgotten. It was torn and worried and shaken by stronger countries.
It tore and worried itself with internal fights. It assassinated kings
and created new ones. No man was sure in his youth what ruler his
maturity would live under, or whether his children would die in useless
fights, or through stress of poverty and cruel, useless laws. There were
no more shepherds and herdsmen who were poets, but on the mountain sides
and in the valleys sometimes some of the old songs were sung. Those most
beloved were songs about a Lost Prince whose name had been Ivor. If he
had been king, he would have saved Samavia, the verses said, and all
brave hearts believed that he would still return. In the modern cities,
one of the jocular cynical sayings was, "Yes, that will happen when
Prince Ivor comes again."

In his more childish days, Marco had been bitterly troubled by the
unsolved mystery. Where had he gone--the Lost Prince? Had he been
killed, or had he been hidden away in a dungeon? But he was so big and