The priest moved to Marco's side, and stood near the altar. He
leaned forward and took in his hand a cord which hung from the
veiled picture--he drew it and the curtain fell apart. There
seemed to stand gazing at them from between its folds a tall
kingly youth with deep eyes in which the stars of God were stilly
shining, and with a smile wonderful to behold. Around the heavy
locks of his black hair the long dead painter of missals had set
a faint glow of light like a halo.
``Son of Stefan Loristan,'' the old priest said, in a shaken
voice, ``it is the Lost Prince! It is Ivor!''
Then every man in the room fell on his knees. Even the men who
had upheld the archway of swords dropped their weapons with a
crash and knelt also. He was their saint--this boy! Dead for
five hundred years, he was their saint still.
``Ivor! Ivor!'' the voices broke into a heavy murmur. ``Ivor!
Ivor!'' as if they chanted a litany.
Marco started forward, staring at the picture, his breath caught
in his throat, his lips apart.
``But--but--'' he stammered, ``but if my father were as young as
he is--he would be LIKE him!''
``When you are as old as he is, YOU will be like him--YOU!'' said
the priest. And he let the curtain fall.
The Rat stood staring with wide eyes from Marco to the picture
and from the picture to Marco. And he breathed faster and faster
and gnawed his finger ends. But he did not utter a word. He
could not have done it, if he tried.
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