They returned together to the atrium, and Fabricius, addressing Baithene, said gravely—
“My son writes that thou art a prince in thine own land. I fear we have too many princes here already to have much room for more.”
“I am no prince now,” said Baithene, raising his frank, fearless eyes to Fabricius, “at least I have no kingdom and no subjects; and what we call a kingdom in our country would perhaps seem but a wilderness to thee.”
There was no complaining in his tone, simply the acknowledgment of an unpleasant fact; and no defiance in his look, only a kind of princely sense that nothing could rob him of his birthright, or change what he was in himself, or prevent his conquering circumstances by making the best of them.
The old Roman patrician was touched, he felt he had met an equal; but all he said was—
“Thy dog, at all events, seems a prince of dogs.”
And Bran acknowledged the compliment by an acquiescent wag of his tail.
Then turning to Miriam, Fabricius said—“I would see thy husband.”
“I will fetch him at once,” she replied. And without another word she went and brought in Eleazar, who was still keeping guard outside the gate.