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195 pages

English

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Description

Twelve-year-old Marco has lived his entire life in a series of dingy, barely habitable rented flats, moving around Europe at a moment's notice, and seeing his father only sporadically. Remarkably, along the way, Marco has attained a formidable intelligence, and his kind heart and even disposition shine through in everything he does. One day, secrets from his past begin to surface, and suddenly the mystery of his true identity begins to fall into place.

Sujets

Children's

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 septembre 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776586417
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

THE LOST PRINCE
* * *
FRANCIS HODGSON BURNETT

*
The Lost Prince First published in 1915 Epub ISBN 978-1-77658-641-7 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77658-642-4 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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I - The New Lodgers at No. 7 Philibert Place II - A Young Citizen of the World III - The Legend of the Lost Prince IV - The Rat V - "Silence is Still the Order" VI - The Drill and the Secret Party VII - "The Lamp is Lighted!" VIII - An Exciting Game IX - "It is Not a Game" X - The Rat—And Samavia XI - "Come with Me" XII - "Only Two Boys" XIII - Loristan Attends a Drill of the Squad, and Marco Meets a Samavian XIV - Marco Does Not Answer XV - A Sound in a Dream XVI - The Rat to the Rescue XVII - "It is a Very Bad Sign" XVIII - "Cities and Faces" XIX - "That is One!" XX - Marco Goes to the Opera XXI - "Help!" XXII - The Night Vigil XXIII - The Silver Horn XXIV - "How Shall We Find Him?" XXV - A Voice in the Night XXVI - Across the Frontier XXVII - "It is the Lost Prince! It is Ivor!" XXVIII - "Extra! Extra! Extra!" XXIX - 'Twixt Night and Morning XXX - The Game is at an End XXXI - "The Son of Stefan Loristan"
I - The New Lodgers at No. 7 Philibert Place
*
There are many dreary and dingy rows of ugly houses in certain parts ofLondon, but there certainly could not be any row more ugly or dingierthan Philibert Place. There were stories that it had once been moreattractive, but that had been so long ago that no one remembered thetime. It stood back in its gloomy, narrow strips of uncared-for, smokygardens, whose broken iron railings were supposed to protect it from thesurging traffic of a road which was always roaring with the rattle ofbusses, cabs, drays, and vans, and the passing of people who wereshabbily dressed and looked as if they were either going to hard work orcoming from it, or hurrying to see if they could find some of it to doto keep themselves from going hungry. The brick fronts of the houseswere blackened with smoke, their windows were nearly all dirty and hungwith dingy curtains, or had no curtains at all; the strips of ground,which had once been intended to grow flowers in, had been trodden downinto bare earth in which even weeds had forgotten to grow. One of themwas used as a stone-cutter's yard, and cheap monuments, crosses, andslates were set out for sale, bearing inscriptions beginning with"Sacred to the Memory of." Another had piles of old lumber in it,another exhibited second-hand furniture, chairs with unsteady legs,sofas with horsehair stuffing bulging out of holes in their covering,mirrors with blotches or cracks in them. The insides of the houses wereas gloomy as the outside. They were all exactly alike. In each a darkentrance passage led to narrow stairs going up to bedrooms, and tonarrow steps going down to a basement kitchen. The back bedroom lookedout on small, sooty, flagged yards, where thin cats quarreled, or sat onthe coping of the brick walls hoping that sometime they might feel thesun; the front rooms looked over the noisy road, and through theirwindows came the roar and rattle of it. It was shabby and cheerless onthe brightest days, and on foggy or rainy ones it was the most forlornplace in London.
At least that was what one boy thought as he stood near the ironrailings watching the passers-by on the morning on which this storybegins, which was also the morning after he had been brought by hisfather to live as a lodger in the back sitting-room of the house No. 7.
He was a boy about twelve years old, his name was Marco Loristan, and hewas the kind of boy people look at a second time when they have lookedat him once. In the first place, he was a very big boy—tall for hisyears, and with a particularly strong frame. His shoulders were broadand his arms and legs were long and powerful. He was quite used tohearing people say, as they glanced at him, "What a fine, big lad!" Andthen they always looked again at his face. It was not an English faceor an American one, and was very dark in coloring. His features werestrong, his black hair grew on his head like a mat, his eyes were largeand deep set, and looked out between thick, straight, black lashes. Hewas as un-English a boy as one could imagine, and an observing personwould have been struck at once by a sort of silent look expressed byhis whole face, a look which suggested that he was not a boy who talkedmuch.
This look was specially noticeable this morning as he stood before theiron railings. The things he was thinking of were of a kind likely tobring to the face of a twelve-year-old boy an unboyish expression.
He was thinking of the long, hurried journey he and his father and theirold soldier servant, Lazarus, had made during the last few days—thejourney from Russia. Cramped in a close third-class railway carriage,they had dashed across the Continent as if something important orterrible were driving them, and here they were, settled in London asif they were going to live forever at No. 7 Philibert Place. He knew,however, that though they might stay a year, it was just as probablethat, in the middle of some night, his father or Lazarus might waken himfrom his sleep and say, "Get up—dress yourself quickly. We must go atonce." A few days later, he might be in St. Petersburg, Berlin, Vienna,or Budapest, huddled away in some poor little house as shabby andcomfortless as No. 7 Philibert Place.
He passed his hand over his forehead as he thought of it and watched thebusses. His strange life and his close association with his father hadmade him much older than his years, but he was only a boy, after all,and the mystery of things sometimes weighed heavily upon him, and sethim to deep wondering.
In not one of the many countries he knew had he ever met a boy whoselife was in the least like his own. Other boys had homes in which theyspent year after year; they went to school regularly, and played withother boys, and talked openly of the things which happened to them, andthe journeys they made. When he remained in a place long enough to makea few boy-friends, he knew he must never forget that his whole existencewas a sort of secret whose safety depended upon his own silence anddiscretion.
This was because of the promises he had made to his father, and theyhad been the first thing he remembered. Not that he had ever regrettedanything connected with his father. He threw his black head up as hethought of that. None of the other boys had such a father, not one ofthem. His father was his idol and his chief. He had scarcely ever seenhim when his clothes had not been poor and shabby, but he had also neverseen him when, despite his worn coat and frayed linen, he had not stoodout among all others as more distinguished than the most noticeable ofthem. When he walked down a street, people turned to look at him evenoftener than they turned to look at Marco, and the boy felt as if it wasnot merely because he was a big man with a handsome, dark face, butbecause he looked, somehow, as if he had been born to command armies,and as if no one would think of disobeying him. Yet Marco had neverseen him command any one, and they had always been poor, and shabbilydressed, and often enough ill-fed. But whether they were in one countryor another, and whatsoever dark place they seemed to be hiding in, thefew people they saw treated him with a sort of deference, and nearlyalways stood when they were in his presence, unless he bade them sitdown.
"It is because they know he is a patriot, and patriots are respected,"the boy had told himself.
He himself wished to be a patriot, though he had never seen his owncountry of Samavia. He knew it well, however. His father had talked tohim about it ever since that day when he had made the promises. He hadtaught him to know it by helping him to study curious detailed maps ofit—maps of its cities, maps of its mountains, maps of its roads. He hadtold him stories of the wrongs done its people, of their sufferings andstruggles for liberty, and, above all, of their unconquerable courage.When they talked together of its history, Marco's boy-blood burned andleaped in his veins, and he always knew, by the look in his father'seyes, that his blood burned also. His countrymen had been killed, theyhad been robbed, they had died by thousands of cruelties and starvation,but their souls had never been conquered, and, through all the yearsduring which more powerful nations crushed and enslaved them, they neverceased to struggle to free themselves and stand unfettered as Samavianshad stood centuries before.
"Why do we not live there," Marco had cried on the day the promises weremade. "Why do we not go back and fight? When I am a man, I will be asoldier and die for Samavia."
"We are of those who must live for Samavia—working day and night," hisfather had answered; "denying ourselves, training our bodies and souls,using our brains, learning the things which are best to be done for ourpeople and our country. Even exiles may be Samavian soldiers—I am one,you must be one."
"Are we exiles?" asked Marco.
"Yes," was the answer. "But even if we never set foot on Samavian soil,we must give our lives to it. I have given mine since I was sixteen.I shall give it until I die."
"Have you never lived there?" said Marco.
A strange look shot across his father's face.
"No," he answered, and said no more. Marco watching him, knew he mustnot ask the question again.
The next words his father sa