"That is not the name," he said. "I beg your pardon, my boy."

He was about to go on, and had indeed taken a couple of steps away, when
he paused and turned to him again.

"You may tell your father that you are a very well-trained lad. I wanted
to find out for myself." And he went on.

Marco felt that his heart beat a little quickly. This was one of
several incidents which had happened during the last three years, and
made him feel that he was living among things so mysterious that their
very mystery hinted at danger. But he himself had never before seemed
involved in them. Why should it matter that he was well-behaved? Then he
remembered something. The man had not said "well-behaved," he had said
"well-_trained_." Well-trained in what way? He felt his forehead prickle
slightly as he thought of the smiling, keen look which set itself so
straight upon him. Had he spoken to him in Samavian for an experiment,
to see if he would be startled into forgetting that he had been trained
to seem to know only the language of the country he was temporarily
living in? But he had not forgotten. He had remembered well, and was
thankful that he had betrayed nothing. "Even exiles may be Samavian
soldiers. I am one. You must be one," his father had said on that day
long ago when he had made him take his oath. Perhaps remembering his
training was being a soldier. Never had Samavia needed help as she
needed it to-day. Two years before, a rival claimant to the throne had
assassinated the then reigning king and his sons, and since then, bloody
war and tumult had raged. The new king was a powerful man, and had a
great following of the worst and most self-seeking of the people.
Neighboring countries had interfered for their own welfare's sake,
and the newspapers had been full of stories of savage fighting and