Marcus: the Young Centurion Part 16

"Yes," cried the boy, "but--"

He stopped short, for the words refused to come.

"Well, what were you about to say?" said Julius, frowning.

"Your father is not going to repent?"

"Repent? About me?" cried the boy, excitedly.

"About you, boy? Why should he repent about you?"

"And let me go with him," cried Marcus, excitedly, as, forgetting all his dislike, he caught his father's visitor by the robe and spoke eagerly and well. "I want to go with him to the war."

"You? To fight?"

"Yes; I know I am young and weak--Yes, I know, only a boy, but I shall grow strong, and it is not only to fight. I want to be there to help him. He might be sick or wounded. He says I must stay at home here, but I appeal to you. You can tell him how useful I could be. You will tell him, sir, for I feel that I ought not--that I cannot stay here and let him go alone."

"Well spoken, my brave boy!" cried Caius Julius. "Spoken like a man!

So you, young as you are, would go with us?"

"Yes, yes, of course," cried Marcus, in his wild excitement, as he listened to this encouraging reception of his appeal. "I think I could fight; but even if I could not there is so much that I could do."

"And you would not feel afraid?" cried Julius, catching the boy by the arm.

"No--yes--no--I do not know," said the boy, colouring. "I hope not."

"You do not know the horrors of a battlefield, boy," said Julius, fixing Marcus with his keen eyes.

"No," said Marcus, thoughtfully; "it must be very terrible, but I do not think I should shrink. I should be thinking so much of my father."

"Well, honestly and modestly spoken, boy," said Julius. "Why, you make me feel full of confidence in your becoming as brave and great a man as your father."

"Oh no, sir," replied Marcus, sadly. "No one could be so great and brave a man as he."

"But you would follow us into the middle of the battle's horrors?"

"Yes, sir, I would indeed; indeed I would," cried Marcus, eagerly.

"I believe you, my boy, and all the more for your simple honesty of speech."

"And you will prevail upon my father to let me go?" cried Marcus, appealingly.

"I do not know," said Julius, thoughtfully. "You say that you have begged hard and your father says that you must stay?"

"Yes," cried Marcus, "but you have the power, sir, and you will speak to him and tell him that he must take me?" cried Marcus.

Julius shook his head.

"Let me see," he said; "you told me that you would try to be brave."

Marcus felt that his hopes were vain, but he spoke out desperately:

"Yes, I would indeed try to be as brave and firm as I could."

"I know you would, boy, but remember this: it is very brave to be obedient to those who are in authority over you," said Julius. "A good son obeys his father, and Cracis has given you his commands to stay here, has he not?"

"Yes," cried Marcus, desperately; "but I was sure that I could be of the greatest help."

"I believe that you would try to be," said Julius, gravely; "but, my boy, I cannot fight for you in this and oppose your father's commands.

Be brave and do your duty here. Put up with the disappointment and wait. Time flies fast, boy, and you will be a man sooner than you expect--too soon perhaps for the golden days of youth. No, my boy, I cannot interfere. You must obey your father's commands."

"Oh," cried Marcus, pa.s.sionately, "and suppose he is stricken down, to lie helpless on the field?"

Julius shrugged his shoulders, and at that moment the voice of Cracis was heard summoning the boy, who turned away hanging his head in his despair. Marcus turned to meet his father, who looked at him wondering to see him there, and bringing the colour to the boy's cheeks, so guilty did he feel, as, with his cloak over his arm, Cracis drew his son to him to press him to his mailed breast, held out his hand to Serge, and then strode forward with heavy tread to join his old military companion, who was now slowly bending over the side of the fountain, into whose clear surface he kept on lowering the white tips of his fingers so that one or the other of the little fish that glided about within the depths might dart at them and apply its lips in the belief that something was offered to it fit for food.

Caius Julius rose up slowly as he heard the heavy tramp of his friend's armoured feet upon the paved floor, and took in his appearance with a smile of satisfaction.

"You are ready, then?" he said.

"Yes," was the laconic reply.

"Then nothing remains but for you to take your farewell of my brave young friend, your defender when I ventured to try his faith."

"That is done," said Cracis, gravely; "and as Rome awaits my coming, lead the way."

"But I have not said my valediction to your son, Cracis, and it is this: Wait, Marcus, my brave boy. Some day perhaps I may come to you as I have come to your father to ask your help. Better still, send him, full of the honours he has won, to bring his son to Rome. Till then, farewell."

Marcus felt the touch of their visitor's hands and heard his words, but he could not speak, only stand side by side with Serge, who looked older and more bent than when he first learned the truth that he was to stay behind; but the boy had no thought at the moment but of the father who was going away to face peril as well as to strike for glory and his country's welfare.

He could only follow the pair of Rome's great men as, side by side, they pa.s.sed out of the open court where the fountain played and the water that sparkled like diamonds in the bright sunshine fell back into the basin with a musical splashing sound.

A minute later and Cracis with his companion pa.s.sed out through the porched entry into the tree-shaded road, the grave, white-robed leader and the well-armed general with his shield, which flashed and turned off a shower of keen darts which came from on high, as he turned once to wave his hand to his son.

At that moment there was a low, deep bay, and the great wolf-dog, which had caught sight of his master, bounded from the shadow where he had crouched to avoid the flies, and, seeing the two strangers, as they seemed to him, he leaped forward, but crouched at his master's feet as he recognised his face and voice.

"Good dog!" cried Cracis. "No, go back and guard all here till I return."

If the dog did not grasp the words, he did the tone and gesture, replying by throwing up his muzzle and giving vent to a piteous howl full of protest, as he turned and walked slowly back to join Marcus and Serge, dropping at the former's feet just as the departing pair disappeared at a turn of the road.

Then there was a pause for a time, before the dog slunk off to his kennel; Serge hung his head and moved away in silence towards the back of the villa and the room that Marcus playfully called his den, while the boy, feeling that all was over and hope dead and buried in his breast, went slowly and sadly to his seat in the study, where his stylus and waxen tablets lay, to slowly scratch upon the smooth surface the words:

"Gone. Left behind."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

GOOD-BYE, OLD HOME.