Chapter V. "Silence Is Still the Order"

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

　　They were even poorer than usual just now, and the supper Marcoand his father sat down to was scant enough. Lazarus stoodupright behind his master's chair and served him with strictestceremony. Their poor lodgings were always kept with a soldierlycleanliness and order. When an object could be polished it wasforced to shine, no grain of dust was allowed to lie undisturbed,and this perfection was not attained through the ministrations ofa lodging house slavey. Lazarus made himself extremely popularby taking the work of caring for his master's rooms entirely outof the hands of the overburdened maids of all work. He hadlearned to do many things in his young days in barracks. Hecarried about with him coarse bits of table-cloths and towels,which he laundered as if they had been the finest linen. Hemended, he patched, he darned, and in the hardest fight the poormust face--the fight with dirt and dinginess--he always held hisown. They had nothing but dry bread and coffee this evening, butLazarus had made the coffee and the bread was good.As Marco ate, he told his father the story of The Rat and hisfollowers. Loristan listened, as the boy had known he would,with the far-off, intently-thinking smile in his dark eyes. Itwas a look which always fascinated Marco because it meant that hewas thinking so many things. Perhaps he would tell some of themand perhaps he would not. His spell over the boy lay in the factthat to him he seemed like a wonderful book of which one had onlyglimpses. It was full of pictures and adventures which weretrue, and one could not help continually making guesses aboutthem. Yes, the feeling that Marco had was that his father'sattraction for him was a sort of spell, and that others felt thesame thing. When he stood and talked to commoner people, he heldhis tall body with singular quiet grace which was like power. Henever stirred or moved himself as if he were nervous oruncertain. He could hold his hands (he had beautiful slender andstrong hands) quite still; he could stand on his fine arched feetwithout shuffling them. He could sit without any ungrace orrestlessness. His mind knew what his body should do, and gave itorders without speaking, and his fine limbs and muscles andnerves obeyed. So he could stand still and at ease and look atthe people he was talking to, and they always looked at him andlistened to what he said, and somehow, courteous anduncondescending as his manner unfailingly was, it used always toseem to Marco as if he were "giving an audience" as kings gavethem.He had often seen people bow very low when they went away fromhim, and more than once it had happened that some humble personhad stepped out of his presence backward, as people do whenretiring before a sovereign. And yet his bearing was thequietest and least assuming in the world."And they were talking about Samavia? And he knew the story ofthe Lost Prince?" he said ponderingly. "Even in that place!""He wants to hear about wars--he wants to talk about them,"Marco answered. "If he could stand and were old enough, hewould go and fight for Samavia himself.""It is a blood-drenched and sad place now!" said Loristan."The people are mad when they are not heartbroken andterrified."Suddenly Marco struck the table with a sounding slap of his boy'shand. He did it before he realized any intention in his ownmind."Why should either one of the Iarovitch or one of theMaranovitch be king!" he cried. "They were only savagepeasants when they first fought for the crown hundreds of yearsago. The most savage one got it, and they have been fightingever since. Only the Fedorovitch were born kings. There is onlyone man in the world who has the right to the throne--and I don'tknow whether he is in the world or not. But I believe he is! Ido!"Loristan looked at his hot twelve-year-old face with a reflectivecuriousness. He saw that the flame which had leaped up in himhad leaped without warning--just as a fierce heart-beat mighthave shaken him."You mean--?" he suggested softly."Ivor Fedorovitch. King Ivor he ought to be. And the peoplewould obey him, and the good days would come again.""It is five hundred years since Ivor Fedorovitch left the goodmonks." Loristan still spoke softly."But, Father," Marco protested, "even The Rat said what yousaid--that he was too young to be able to come back while theMaranovitch were in power. And he would have to work and have ahome, and perhaps he is as poor as we are. But when he had a sonhe would call him Ivor and tell him--and his son would call hisson Ivor and tell him--and it would go on and on. They couldnever call their eldest sons anything but Ivor. And what yousaid about the training would be true. There would always be aking being trained for Samavia, and ready to be called." In thefire of his feelings he sprang from his chair and stood upright."Why! There may be a king of Samavia in some city now who knowshe is king, and, when he reads about the fighting among hispeople, his blood gets red-hot. They're his own people--his veryown! He ought to go to them--he ought to go and tell them who heis! Don't you think he ought, Father?""It would not be as easy as it seems to a boy," Loristananswered. "There are many countries which would have somethingto say-- Russia would have her word, and Austria, and Germany;and England never is silent. But, if he were a strong man andknew how to make strong friends in silence, he might sometime beable to declare himself openly.""But if he is anywhere, some one--some Samavian--ought to go andlook for him. It ought to be a Samavian who is very clever and apatriot--" He stopped at a flash of recognition. "Father!"he cried out. "Father! You--you are the one who could find himif any one in the world could. But perhaps--" and he stopped amoment again because new thoughts rushed through his mind."Have you ever looked for him?" he asked hesitating.Perhaps he had asked a stupid question--perhaps his father hadalways been looking for him, perhaps that was his secret and hiswork.But Loristan did not look as if he thought him stupid. Quite thecontrary. He kept his handsome eyes fixed on him still in thatcurious way, as if he were studying him--as if he were much morethan twelve years old, and he were deciding to tell himsomething."Comrade at arms," he said, with the smile which alwaysgladdened Marco's heart, "you have kept your oath of allegiancelike a man. You were not seven years old when you took it. Youare growing older. Silence is still the order, but you are manenough to be told more." He paused and looked down, and thenlooked up again, speaking in a low tone. "I have not looked forhim," he said, "because--I believe I know where he is."Marco caught his breath."Father!" He said only that word. He could say no more. Heknew he must not ask questions. "Silence is still the order."But as they faced each other in their dingy room at the back ofthe shabby house on the side of the roaring common road--asLazarus stood stock- still behind his father's chair and kept hiseyes fixed on the empty coffee cups and the dry bread plate, andeverything looked as poor as things always did--there was a kingof Samavia--an Ivor Fedorovitch with the blood of the Lost Princein his veins--alive in some town or city this moment! AndMarco's own father knew where he was!He glanced at Lazarus, but, though the old soldier's face lookedas expressionless as if it were cut out of wood, Marco realizedthat he knew this thing and had always known it. He had been acomrade at arms all his life. He continued to stare at the breadplate.Loristan spoke again and in an even lower voice. "The Samavianswho are patriots and thinkers," he said, "formed themselvesinto a secret party about eighty years ago. They formed it whenthey had no reason for hope, but they formed it because one ofthem discovered that an Ivor Fedorovitch was living. He was headforester on a great estate in the Austrian Alps. The nobleman heserved had always thought him a mystery because he had thebearing and speech of a man who had not been born a servant, andhis methods in caring for the forests and game were those of aman who was educated and had studied his subject. But he neverwas familiar or assuming, and never professed superiority overany of his fellows. He was a man of great stature, and wasextraordinarily brave and silent. The nobleman who was hismaster made a sort of companion of him when they hunted together.Once he took him with him when he traveled to Samavia to huntwild horses. He found that he knew the country strangely well,and that he was familiar with Samavian hunting and customs.Before he returned to Austria, the man obtained permission to goto the mountains alone. He went among the shepherds and madefriends among them, asking many questions.One night around a forest fire he heard the songs about the LostPrince which had not been forgotten even after nearly fivehundred years had passed. The shepherds and herdsmen talkedabout Prince Ivor, and told old stories about him, and relatedthe prophecy that he would come back and bring again Samavia'sgood days. He might come only in the body of one of hisdescendants, but it would be his spirit which came, because hisspirit would never cease to love Samavia. One very old shepherdtottered to his feet and lifted his face to the myriad starsbestrewn like jewels in the blue sky above the forest trees, andhe wept and prayed aloud that the great God would send their kingto them. And the stranger huntsman stood upright also and liftedhis face to the stars. And, though he said no word, the herdsmannearest to him saw tears on his cheeks--great, heavy tears. Thenext day, the stranger went to the monastery where the order ofgood monks lived who had taken care of the Lost Prince. When hehad left Samavia, the secret society was formed, and the membersof it knew that an Ivor Fedorovitch had passed through hisancestors' country as the servant of another man. But the secretsociety was only a small one, and, though it has been growingever since and it has done good deeds and good work in secret,the huntsman died an old man before it was strong enough even todare to tell Samavia what it knew.""Had he a son?" cried Marco. "Had he a son?""Yes. He had a son. His name was Ivor. And he was trained asI told you. That part I knew to be true, though I should havebelieved it was true even if I had not known. There has alwaysbeen a king ready for Samavia--even when he has labored with hishands and served others. Each one took the oath of allegiance.""As I did?" said Marco, breathless with excitement. When oneis twelve years old, to be so near a Lost Prince who might endwars is a thrilling thing."The same," answered Loristan.Marco threw up his hand in salute." `Here grows a man for Samavia! God be thanked!' " he quoted."And he is somewhere? And you know?"Loristan bent his head in acquiescence."For years much secret work has been done, and the Fedorovitchparty has grown until it is much greater and more powerful thanthe other parties dream. The larger countries are tired of theconstant war and disorder in Samavia. Their interests aredisturbed by them, and they are deciding that they must havepeace and laws which can be counted on. There have been Samavianpatriots who have spent their lives in trying to bring this aboutby making friends in the most powerful capitals, and workingsecretly for the future good of their own land. Because Samaviais so small and uninfluential, it has taken a long time but whenKing Maran and his family were assassinated and the war brokeout, there were great powers which began to say that if some kingof good blood and reliable characteristics were given the crown,he should be upheld.""His blood,"-- Marco's intensity made his voice drop almost toa whisper,--"his blood has been trained for five hundred years,Father! If it comes true--" though he laughed a little, he wasobliged to wink his eyes hard because suddenly he felt tears rushinto them, which no boy likes--"the shepherds will have to makea new song --it will have to be a shouting one about a princegoing away and a king coming back!""They are a devout people and observe many an ancient rite andceremony. They will chant prayers and burn altar-fires on theirmountain sides," Loristan said. "But the end is not yet--theend is not yet. Sometimes it seems that perhaps it is near--butGod knows!"Then there leaped back upon Marco the story he had to tell, butwhich he had held back for the last--the story of the man whospoke Samavian and drove in the carriage with the King. He knewnow that it might mean some important thing which he could nothave before suspected."There is something I must tell you," he said.He had learned to relate incidents in few but clear words when herelated them to his father. It had been part of his training.Loristan had said that he might sometime have a story to tellwhen he had but few moments to tell it in--some story which meantlife or death to some one. He told this one quickly and well.He made Loristan see the well-dressed man with the deliberatemanner and the keen eyes, and he made him hear his voice when hesaid, "Tell your father that you are a very well-trained lad.""I am glad he said that. He is a man who knows what trainingis," said Loristan. "He is a person who knows what all Europeis doing, and almost all that it will do. He is an ambassadorfrom a powerful and great country. If he saw that you are awell-trained and fine lad, it might--it might even be good forSamavia.""Would it matter that I was well-trained? Could it matter toSamavia?" Marco cried out.Loristan paused for a moment--watching him gravely--looking himover--his big, well-built boy's frame, his shabby clothes, andhis eagerly burning eyes.He smiled one of his slow wonderful smiles."Yes. It might even matter to Samavia!" he answered.