"He has not? But—you are Marco Loristan?"
"Yes. That is my name."
Suddenly she leaned forward and her long lovely eyes filled with fire.
"Then you are a Samavian, and you know of the disasters overwhelming us. You know all the hideousness and barbarity of what is being done. Your father's son must know it all!"
"Every one knows it," said Marco.
"But it is your country—your own! Your blood must burn in your veins!"
Marco stood quite still and looked at her. His eyes told whether his blood burned or not, but he did not speak. His look was answer enough, since he did not wish to say anything.
"What does your father think? I am a Samavian myself, and I think night and day. What does he think of the rumor about the descendant of the Lost Prince? Does he believe it?"
Marco was thinking very rapidly. Her beautiful face was glowing with emotion, her beautiful voice trembled. That she should be a Samavian, and love Samavia, and pour her feeling forth even to a boy, was deeply moving to him. But howsoever one was moved, one must remember that silence was still the order. When one was very young, one must remember orders first of all.
"It might be only a newspaper story," he said. "He says one cannot trust such things. If you know him, you know he is very calm."