atrocities, and of starving peasants.

Marco had late one evening entered their lodgings to find Loristan
walking to and fro like a lion in a cage, a paper crushed and torn
in his hands, and his eyes blazing. He had been reading of cruelties
wrought upon innocent peasants and women and children. Lazarus was
standing staring at him with huge tears running down his cheeks. When
Marco opened the door, the old soldier strode over to him, turned him
about, and led him out of the room.

"Pardon, sir, pardon!" he sobbed. "No one must see him, not even you.
He suffers so horribly."

He stood by a chair in Marco's own small bedroom, where he half pushed,
half led him. He bent his grizzled head, and wept like a beaten child.

"Dear God of those who are in pain, assuredly it is now the time to give
back to us our Lost Prince!" he said, and Marco knew the words were a
prayer, and wondered at the frenzied intensity of it, because it seemed
so wild a thing to pray for the return of a youth who had died five
hundred years before.

When he reached the palace, he was still thinking of the man who had
spoken to him. He was thinking of him even as he looked at the majestic
gray stone building and counted the number of its stories and windows.
He walked round it that he might make a note in his memory of its size
and form and its entrances, and guess at the size of its gardens. This
he did because it was part of his game, and part of his strange
training.