Marcus: the Young Centurion Part 12

"No," said Serge, gruffly; "no. But I think I have seen someone like you before."

"And I," said the visitor, "have seen many such like you, but few who bear such a character as your young master gives."

"Eh?" cried Serge, sharply. "Why, what's he been saying about me?"

"Told me what a brave old soldier you have been."

"Oh! Oh! Stuff!" growled Serge, sourly.

"And of how carefully you have taught him the duties of a soldier, and told him all about the war."

"There!" cried Serge, angrily, stepping forward to bring his big, hairy fist down upon the table with a thump. "I don't know you, or who you are, but you have come here tired, and been given refreshment and rest, and, instead of being thankful, you have been putting all sorts of things in this boy's head again that he ought to have forgot."

"Serge! Serge!" cried Marcus, excitedly. "Mind what you are saying!

This is a stranger, and a n.o.ble gentleman from Rome."

"I don't care who he is," replied the old soldier, fiercely. "He's no business to be coming here and talking like this. Now, look here, sir,"

he continued, turning upon the visitor, who sat smiling coldly with his eyes half closed, "this lad's father, my old officer--and a better never stepped or led men against Rome's enemies--gave me his commands, and they were these: that young Marcus here was to give up all thoughts of soldiering and war, and those commands, as his old follower, I am going to carry out. So, as you have eaten and are rested, the sooner you go on your journey the better, and leave us here at peace."

"Serge!" cried Marcus, firmly; and he drew himself up with his father's angry look, "you mean well, and wish to do your duty, but this is not the way to speak to a stranger and my father's guest."

"He's not your father's guest, my lad, but yours, and he's taken upon himself to say to you what he shouldn't say, and set you against your father's commands."

"Even if he has, Serge, he must be treated as a guest--I don't know your name, sir," continued the boy, turning to the visitor, "but in my father's name I ask you to forgive his true old servant's blunt, honest speech."

The visitor rose, grave and stern.

"It is forgiven, my boy," he said; "for after hearing what he has said I can only respect him for his straightforward honesty. My man, I am an old soldier too. I regret that I have spoken as I did, and I respect you more and more. Rome lost a brave soldier when you left her ranks.

Will you shake hands?"

Serge drew back a little, and looked puzzled.

"Yes, give me your hand," said the visitor. "I am rested and refreshed, but I am not yet going away. I am going to stay and see Cracis, who was once my dear old friend."

"You knew my master?" cried Serge, with the puzzled look deepening in his eyes.

"Thoroughly," was the reply, "and we have fought together in the past.

He will forgive me what I have said, as I do you, and I shall tell him when he comes how glad I am to see that he has such a son and is so bravely served."

For answer the old soldier hesitatingly took the proffered hand, and then gladly made his retreat, the pair following him slowly out into the shady piazza, where they stood watching till he disappeared, when the visitor, after glancing round, gathered his toga round him, and sank down into a stone seat, beside one of the shadow-flecked pillars, frowning heavily the while.

"He means well, sir," said Marcus, hastily; "but I'm sure my father would have been sorry if he had heard. I am glad, though, that I asked you in."

"Why?" said the visitor, with a peculiar look in his eyes.

"Because you say you are an old friend of his, and, of course, I didn't know. It was only out of civility that I did so."

"Yes, so I suppose," was the reply. "Poor fellow! Your man meant well," continued the visitor, with his whole manner changed, and he spoke in a half-mocking, cynical way which puzzled and annoyed the boy.

"A poor, weak, foolish fellow, though, who hardly understands what he meant. Don't you think he was very weak, bull-headed and absurd?"

"Well--no," said the boy, quickly, and his face began to flush, and grew the deeper in tint as he noticed a supercilious, mocking smile playing upon the visitor's lips. "Serge is a very true, honest fellow, and thought he was doing right."

"Yes, of course," said the other, "but some people in meaning to do right often commit themselves and do great wrong."

"But you knew my father well?" said Marcus, hastily, to change the conversation. "I never heard him mention you."

"No, I suppose not," said the visitor, thoughtfully, but with a mocking smile upon his lip growing more marked as he went on. "I don't suppose he would ever mention me. A very good, true fellow, Cracis, and, as I said, we were once great friends. But a weak and foolish man who got into very great trouble with the Senate and with me. There was great trouble at the time, and I had to defend him."

"You had to defend my father?" said Marcus, turning pale, and with a strange sensation rising in his breast. "What for?"

"Why, there was that charge of cowardice--the retreat he headed from the Gaulish troops," continued the visitor, watching the boy intently all the while. "He was charged with being a coward, and--"

"It was a lie!" cried the boy, fiercely. "You know it was a lie. My father is the bravest, truest man that ever lived, and you who speak so can be no friend of his. Old Serge was right, for he saw at once what kind of man you are. How dare you speak to me like that! Go, sir!

Leave this house at once."

"Go, boy?" said the visitor, coldly, and with a look of suppressed anger gathering in his eyes. "And suppose that I refuse to go at the bidding of such a boy as you?"

"Refuse?" cried Marcus, fiercely. "You dare to refuse?"

"Yes, boy, I refuse. And what then?"

"This!" cried the boy, overcome with rage, and, raising his hand, he made a dash as if about to strike, just as a step was heard, and, calmly and thoughtfully, Cracis walked out into the piazza.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

THAT GREAT MAN.

For a few moments there was utter silence, Cracis looking as if stunned, and a slight colour beginning to appear in the visitor's pallid cheeks as he stood gazing at Marcus' father, waiting for him to speak, while Cracis after catching his son's wrist and s.n.a.t.c.hing him back, and without taking his eyes from their visitor, found words at last to speak.

"Are you mad, boy?" he exclaimed, hoa.r.s.ely. "Do you know who this is?"

"No, father," cried the boy, pa.s.sionately, "only that he is a man who has dared to speak ill of you."

"Ah!" said Cracis, slowly, and with his face softening, as he pressed the boy's arm; and then, in a voice full of dignity and pride: "May I ask why Caius Julius has condescended to visit my humble home?"

"I have come as a friend, Cracis," was the reply.

"To continue your old enmity, and in mine absence revile me to my son?"

"Revile? Nonsense!" cried his visitor. "It was by accident. I came, and found you away, and reviled you?--no! I was but speaking to try your brave and spirited boy. I never for a moment thought that he would fire up as he did with all his father's spirit and readiness to resent a wrong."

"Indeed?" said Cracis, coldly.

"Indeed," replied the visitor. "Only a few minutes ago I was telling your boy how that once we were the greatest of friends. Did I not?" he said quickly, turning to Marcus.

"Yes, father, that is right," cried Marcus. "He praised you very highly at first, and said he was your friend."