Marcus: the Young Centurion Part 19

TURNING THE TABLES.

"Marcus, boy!" came back the next instant, as the old soldier dashed down his shield and his sword upon it with a clattering noise, before catching his deliverer in his arms and holding him to his breast.

"Well done!" he cried. "Well done, boy! Well done! Hah! Hurrah!

Think of it! Six on 'em! And you set 'em running. Hah!" he panted, breathlessly, as he freed the boy, took a couple of steps backward, planted his great fists upon his hips, gazed at him proudly, and then gave a sweeping look round as if addressing a circle of lookers-on instead of blocks of stone and trees; "Hah!" he exclaimed. "I taught him to fight like that!"

"Yes, Serge, you did--you did!" cried Marcus. "But you are covered with blood, and you are badly hurt. Those wretches must have stabbed you with their knives."

"Eh?" growled the old soldier, beginning to feel himself all over.

"Yes, how nasty! All over my breast. It's a long time since I have been in a mess like this. I felt a dig in the front, and another in my back, and another--" Serge ceased speaking as his hands were busy feeling for his wounds, and then he exclaimed: "Yes, it's blood, sure enough, but 'tain't mine, boy. Their knives didn't go through. I am all right, only out of breath. But you? Did you get touched?"

"Oh no," cried Marcus. "I escaped."

"But you made your marks on them, boy. My marks, I call 'em."

"Pick up your sword and shield, Serge," cried Marcus, excitedly.

"They'll be coming back directly perhaps."

"Well, yes, it would be wise, boy," said the old soldier, taking his advice. "Look yonder; that's the fellow I cut down," and he pointed with his sword to the man who had been bathing his wound and, after crossing the rivulet, was also in full retreat. "No, he's had enough of it, and if the others came back it wouldn't be six to one, but five to two--two well-armed warriors, you and me," said the old man, proudly, as he made Marcus' shield clatter loudly as he tapped it with his sword.

"You and me, boy," he repeated. "Tchah! They won't come on again.

Why, back to back, you and me--why, we are ready for a dozen of them if they came. Here, I had my wash, but I must go now and have another while you keep guard over me. Think of it!--While you keep guard over me, boy! No, I won't call you boy no more, for I have made you a fighting man, and here's been the proof of it this morning. There's only one thing wanted to make all this complete. Boy! Tchah! I can't call you a boy: you are a young Roman warrior."

"Oh, nonsense, Serge!" cried the boy, flushing.

"Nonsense, eh? Look at you and the way you handled that spear. Why, you are better with your sword, if you have to draw it, as I well know.

Do you remember how you nearly did for me?"

"Oh yes, I remember," replied Marcus.

"Yes, I had to jump that time; and lucky I did, or I shouldn't have been here for you to fight like this. But, as I was saying, it only wanted one thing, and that was for your father, who has come to his senses at last, to have been here to see, and--"

The old soldier stopped short, his big, ma.s.sive jaw dropped, and he stood staring as he took off his heavy helmet and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

"But I say," he cried, at last, staring at the boy with the puzzled expression upon his features growing more and more intense, "what are you doing here?"

Marcus' sun-browned face turned scarlet, and he stood silent, staring in reply, beginning almost to cower--he, the brave, young, growing warrior--before the old servant's stern eyes, and ready to shiver at the p.r.i.c.king of the conscience that was now hard at work.

"Look here," cried Serge, extending his shield and raising his short broadsword to punctuate his words with the taps he gave upon this armour of defence, "your father said that you were not to use that armour any more, and I left it, being busy getting his for him to go off to the war, lying upon his bed. It wasn't yours any longer. It was his'n.

You have been in and stole it; that's what you have done. Do you hear me?" continued the old soldier, fiercely. "You've been and stole it and put it on, when he said you warn't to. That's what you've done."

"Yes, Serge," said the boy, meekly.

"Hah!" cried the old soldier, gathering strength.

"And your father said you were to stop at home and take care of his house and servants, and the swine and cattle, and his lands, and, as soon as he's gone, you begin kicking up your heels and playing your wicked young pranks. That's what you've done, and been pretty quick about it too. Now then, out with it. Let's have the truth--the truth, and no excuses. Let's have the truth."

It was no longer punctuation, but a series of heavy musical bangs upon the shield, and once more, very meekly indeed, Marcus said, almost beneath his breath:

"Yes, Serge; that's quite right. Everything is as you say."

"Ah, well," growled the old soldier, a little mollified by his young master's frankness, "that don't make it quite so bad. Now then, just you answer right out. Where were you a-going to go?"

"To join father at the war."

"Hah! I thought as much," cried the old soldier, triumphantly, and looking as though he credited himself with a grand discovery. "And now you see what comes of not doing what you are told. I've just catched you on the hop, and it's lucky for you it's me and not the master himself. So, now then, it's clear enough what I've got to do."

"To do?" cried Marcus, quickly. "What do you mean, Serge?"

"What do I mean? Why, to make you take off that coat of armour on the spot. Well, no, I can't do that, because you aren't got nothing else to wear. Well, never mind; you must go as you are."

"Oh yes, Serge, never mind about the armour; I'll go as I am. But gather your things together--that bundle of yours."

"How did you know I'd got a bundle?" said the old soldier, suspiciously.

"I have seen you carrying it day after day."

"What! You've seen me day after day?"

"Oh yes. I don't know how long it's been, but I have often seen you right in front."

"Worse and worse!" cried the old soldier, angrily. "That shows what a bad heart you've got, boy. You've come sneaking along after me to find the way, and never dared to show your face."

"I did dare!" cried the boy, indignantly. "But I only saw your back. I didn't know it was you."

"Oh, you didn't know it was me?" growled Serge. "Well, that don't make it quite so bad. But you knew it was me that you came to help?"

"No."

"Oh! Then I might have been a stranger?"

"Yes, of course. I saw six men attacking one, and--"

"Oh, come, he ain't got such a bad heart as I thought," said the old soldier. "And you did behave very well. I did feel a bit proud of you.

But never mind that; we have got something else to talk about," said Serge, as he rearranged his armour and picked up his wallet and spear.

"Now then, let's get back at once, and mind this, if you attempt to give me the slip--"

"Give you the slip! Get back!" cried Marcus, excitedly. "What do you mean by get back at once?"

"Why, get back home to your books and that there wax scratcher to do as your father said. This is a pretty game, upon my word!"

"But I am not going back, Serge," cried the boy, firmly. "I am going to join my father."

"You are not going to join your father," said the old soldier, st.u.r.dily.

"You've run away like one of them village ragged-jacks, and I am ashamed of you, that's what I am. But 'shamed or no 'shamed, I've catched you and I am going to take you back."

"No!" cried Marcus, fiercely.

"Nay, boy, it's yes, so make no more bones about it."