Other editions of book The Lost Prince

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This book is about Marco Loristan, his father Stefan, and his friend, a street urchin nicknamed The Rat. Marco's father, Stefan, is a Samavian patriot working to overthrow the cruel dictatorship in the kingdom of Samavia. Marco and his father come to London where Marco strikes up a friendship with a crippled street urchin known as The Rat who is transformed through friendship. Stefan, realizing that two boys are less likely to be noticed, entrusts them with a mission to travel across Europe giving a secret sign. Who is the lost prince? Will he regain the throne? This story ends with an interesting twist. Marco’s relationship with his father and his unswerving loyalty and faith in him are very touching. The story of a revolution and the adventures two boys have bringing it about. An enjoyable read for people of all ages.

This book is about Marco Loristan, his father Stefan, and his friend, a street urchin nicknamed The Rat. Marco's father, Stefan, is a Samavian patriot working to overthrow the cruel dictatorship in the kingdom of Samavia. Marco and his father come to London where Marco strikes up a friendship with a crippled street urchin known as The Rat who is transformed through friendship. Stefan, realizing that two boys are less likely to be noticed, entrusts them with a mission to travel across Europe giving a secret sign. Who is the lost prince? Will he regain the throne? This story ends with an interesting twist. Marco’s relationship with his father and his unswerving loyalty and faith in him are very touching. The story of a revolution and the adventures two boys have bringing it about. An enjoyable read for people of all ages.

There are many dreary and dingy rows of ugly houses in certain parts of London, but there certainly could not be any row more ugly or dingier than Philibert Place. There were stories that it had once been more attractive, but that had been so long ago that no one remembered the time. It stood back in its gloomy, narrow strips of uncared-for, smoky gardens, whose broken iron railings were supposed to protect it from the surging traffic of a road which was always roaring with the rattle of busses, cabs, drays, and vans, and the passing of people who were shabbily dressed and looked as if they were either going to hard work or coming from it, or hurrying to see if they could find some of it to do to keep themselves from going hungry. The brick fronts of the houses were blackened with smoke, their windows were nearly all dirty and hung with dingy curtains, or had no curtains at all; the strips of ground, which had once been intended to grow flowers in, had been trodden down into bare earth in which even weeds had forgotten to grow. One of them was used as a stone-cutter's yard, and cheap monuments, crosses, and slates 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.

A tale with the glamor of medieval romance, which centers about the mystery that five hundred years before Marco's day, the young prince of the kingdom of Samavia had walked away over the mountains, singing, and had never been heard from. And Marco, a lad of twelve, pledged to the future service of Samavia, lives an unpretentious, wandering life, trained in all worthy thinA tale with the glamor of medieval romance, which centers about the mystery that five hundred years before Marco's day, the young prince of the kingdom of Samavia had walked away over the mountains, singing, and had never been heard from. And Marco, a lad of twelve, pledged to the future service of Samavia, lives an unpretentious, wandering life, trained in all worthy things by his father, til his journey as Bearer of the Sign is ended, and his appointed time has come.-

Where was the prince? They must see him and tell him their ultimatum. It was he whom they wanted for a king. They trusted him and would obey him. They began to shout aloud his name, calling him in a sort of chant in unison, "Prince Ivor--Prince Ivor--Prince Ivor!'' But no answer came. The people of the palace had hidden themselves, and the place was utterly silent.There are many dreary and dingy rows of ugly houses in certain parts of London, but there certainly could not be any row more ugly or dingier than Philibert Place. There were stories that it had once been more attractive, but that had been so long ago that no one remembered the time. It stood back in its gloomy, narrow strips of uncared–for, smoky gardens, whose broken iron railings were supposed to protect it from the surging traffic of a road which was always roaring with the rattle of busses, cabs, drays, and vans, and the passing of people who were shabbily dressed and looked as if they were either going to hard work or coming from it, or hurrying to see if they could find some of it to do to keep themselves from going hungry. The brick fronts of the houses were blackened with smoke, their windows were nearly all dirty and hung with dingy curtains, or had no curtains at all; the strips of ground, which had once been intended to grow flowers in, had been trodden down into bare earth in which even weeds had forgotten to grow. One of them was used as a stone–cutter’s yard, and cheap monuments, crosses, and slates 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 were as gloomy as the outside. They were all exactly alike. In each a dark entrance passage led to narrow stairs going up to bedrooms, and to narrow steps going down to a basement kitchen. The back bedroom looked out on small, sooty, flagged yards, where thin cats quarreled, or sat on the coping of the brick walls hoping that sometime they might feel the sun; the front rooms looked over the noisy road, and through their windows came the roar and rattle of it. It was shabby and cheerless on the brightest days, and on foggy or rainy ones it was the most forlorn place in London.

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