d almost fiercely proud.

"From this hour," he said, "you and I are comrades at arms."

And from that day to the one on which he stood beside the broken iron
railings of No. 7 Philibert Place, Marco had not forgotten for one hour.

II

A YOUNG CITIZEN OF THE WORLD

He had been in London more than once before, but not to the lodgings in
Philibert Place. When he was brought a second or third time to a town
or city, he always knew that the house he was taken to would be in a
quarter new to him, and he should not see again the people he had seen
before. Such slight links of acquaintance as sometimes formed
themselves between him and other children as shabby and poor as himself
were easily broken. His father, however, had never forbidden him to
make chance acquaintances. He had, in fact, told him that he had
reasons for not wishing him to hold himself aloof from other boys. The
only barrier which must exist between them must be the barrier of
silence concerning his wanderings from country to country. Other boys
as poor as he was did not make constant journeys, therefore they would
miss nothing from his boyish talk when he omitted all mention of his.
When he was in Russia, he must speak only of Russian places and Russian
people and customs. When he was in France, Germany, Austria, or
England, he must do the same thing. When he had learned English,
French, German, Italian, and Russian he did not know. He had seemed to
grow up in the midst of changing tongues which all seemed familiar to
him, as languages are familiar to children who have lived with them
until one scarcely seems less familiar than another. He did remember,
however, that his father had always been unswerving in his attention to
his pronunciation and method of speaking the language of any country
they chanced to be living in.

"You must not seem a foreigner in any country," he had said to him.
"It is necessary that you should not. But when you are in England, you
must not know French, or German, or anything but English."

Once, when he was seven or eight years old, a boy had asked him what
his father's work was.

"His own father is a carpenter, and he asked me if my father was one,"
Marco brought the story to Loristan. "I said you were not. Then he
asked if you were a shoemaker, and another one said you might be a
bricklayer or a tailor--and I didn't know what to tell them." He had
been out playing in a London street, and he put a grubby