taught him to know it by helping him to study curious detailed maps of
it--maps of its cities, maps of its mountains, maps of its roads. He had
told him stories of the wrongs done its people, of their sufferings and
struggles for liberty, and, above all, of their unconquerable courage.
When they talked together of its history, Marco's boy-blood burned and
leaped in his veins, and he always knew, by the look in his father's
eyes, that his blood burned also. His countrymen had been killed, they
had been robbed, they had died by thousands of cruelties and starvation,
but their souls had never been conquered, and, through all the years
during which more powerful nations crushed and enslaved them, they never
ceased to struggle to free themselves and stand unfettered as Samavians
had stood centuries before.

"Why do we not live there," Marco had cried on the day the promises were
made. "Why do we not go back and fight? When I am a man, I will be a
soldier and die for Samavia."

"We are of those who must _live_ for Samavia--working day and night," his
father had answered; "denying ourselves, training our bodies and souls,
using our brains, learning the things which are best to be done for our
people and our country. Even exiles may be Samavian soldiers--I am one,
you must be one."

"Are we exiles?" asked Marco.

"Yes," was the answer. "But even if we never set foot on Samavian soil,
we must give our lives to it. I have given mine since I was sixteen.
I shall give it until I die."

"Have you never lived there?" said Marco.