Marcus: the Young Centurion Part 7

"Oh, Serge, this comes hard on me," cried the boy, pa.s.sionately.

"Nay, boy; it's all on my unfortunate head."

"It isn't, Serge," cried Marcus, "for, as I told father, it was all my doing. It was my stupid vanity and pride. I took it into my head that I wanted to be a soldier the same as father and you had been, and it has brought all this down upon you. I shall never forgive myself as long as I live."

"Nay, but you will, boy, when I'm gone and forgotten."

"Gone and forgotten!" cried Marcus, angrily. "You are not going, and you couldn't be forgotten. I shall never forget you, Serge, as long as I live."

"Shan't you, boy?" said the man, smiling sadly. "Well, thank ye. I don't think you will. I like that, boy, for you never seemed like a young master to me. I'm old and ugly, while you're young and handsome, but somehow we have always seemed to be companions like, and whatever you wanted me to do I always did."

"Yes, that you did, Serge," cried Marcus, laughing.

"I don't see nothing to laugh at, boy," said the old soldier, bitterly, as he half drew Marcus' blade from its scabbard, and then thrust it fiercely back with a sharp snap.

"No, but I do," said Marcus, "sad as all this is. It seems so droll."

"What does?" cried the man, fiercely.

"For you to talk about being old and ugly--you, such a big, strong, manly fellow as you are. Why, you are everything that a man ought to be."

"What!" cried the old soldier, gazing wonderingly at the boy, a puzzled look in his eyes as if he was in doubt whether the words to which he listened were mocking him.

"Why, look at you! Look at your arms and legs, and the way in which you step out, and then your strength! The way in which you lift heavy things! Do you remember that day when you took hold of me by the belt and lifted me up, to hold me out at arm's length for ever so long when I was in a pa.s.sion and tried to hit you, and the more I raged the more you held me out, and laughed, till I came round and thought how stupid I was to attack such a giant as you, when I was only a poor feeble boy?"

"Nay, nay, you were never a poor feeble boy, but always a fine, st.u.r.dy little chap, and strong for your years, from the very first. That was partly my training, that was, and the way I made you feed. Don't you remember how I told you that it was always a soldier's duty to be able to fast, to eat well when he had the chance, and go without well when he hadn't, and rest his teeth?"

"Oh, yes, I recollect you told me it was the way to grow up strong and hearty, and that some day I should be like you."

"Well, wasn't that true enough? Only it takes time. And so you thought I was quite a giant, did you?"

"Yes, and so I do now. Old and worn out! What stuff! Why, Serge, I have always longed and prayed that I might grow up into a big, strong, fine-looking man like you."

"Thank you, my lad," said the man, sadly, and with the beaming smile that had come upon his face dying out, to leave it cold and dull. "Then you won't forget me, boy, when--" He stopped short, with a suggestion of moisture softening his fierce, dark eyes.

"Forget you! You know I shan't. But what do you mean by 'when'?"

"When my well-picked, dry bones are lying out somewhere up the mountain side, scattered here and there."

"What!" cried Marcus, laughing merrily. "Who's going to pick them and scatter them to dry up in the mountains?"

"The wolves, boy, the wolves," said the man, bitterly, "for I suppose I shall come to that. You asked me what I was going to do. I'll tell you. I shall wander away somewhere right up among the mountains, for my soldiering days are over, and I can never serve another master now, and at last I shall lie down to die! The wolves will come, and," he added, with a sigh, "you know what will happen then."

"Oh yes," said Marcus, with mock seriousness. "The poor wolves! I shall be sorry for them. I know what will happen then. At the first bite you will jump up in a rage, catch them one at a time by the tail, give them one swing round, and knock their brains out against the stones. You wouldn't give them much chance to bite again."

A grim smile gradually dawned once more upon the old soldier's countenance, and, slowly raising one of his hands, he began to scratch the side of his thickly-grizzled head, his brow wrinkling up more deeply the while, as he gazed into the merry, mocking eyes that looked back so frankly into his.

"You are laughing at me, boy," he said, at last.

"Of course I am, Serge. Oh my! You are down in the dumps! I say, how many wolves do you think you could kill like that? But, oh nonsense!

You wouldn't be alone. If old Lupe saw you going off with your bundle he'd spring at you, get it in his teeth, and follow you carrying it wherever you went."

"Hah! Good old Lupe!" said the man, thoughtfully. "I'd forgotten him.

Yes, he'd be sure to follow me. You'd have to shut him up in the wine-press."

"And hear him howl to get out?" cried Marcus. "No, I shouldn't, because I shouldn't be there."

"Why, where would you be?" said Serge, wonderingly.

"Along with you, of course."

"Along o' me?"

"Yes. If you left home and went away for what was all my fault, do you think I should be such a miserable cur as to stop behind? No; I should go with you, Serge, and take my sword, and you and Lupe and I could pretty well tackle as many wolves as would be likely to come up at us on the mountain side."

"Ah," cried the man, "you are talking like a boy."

"And so are you, Serge, when you say such things as you did just now.

Now, look here; you are going to do as father said, pack up all the armour in the old chest, and then you are going to speak out and tell him that you are sorry that you listened to me, and then it will be all over and we shall go on again just the same as before. You and I will think out something that we can learn or do, and talk of something else besides fighting. There, let's have no more talking about going away.

Look sharp and get it over. I shan't be happy till I see you and father shaking hands again. Now promise me you will go and get it done."

"'Tis done, boy; I did speak and made myself humble, just as you want; but he wouldn't take it right, and you know what he said. I can't never forget it now. He wouldn't listen to me, and no words now, no shaking hands, will put it straight. I shall have to go."

"Oh!" cried Marcus. "What an obstinate old bull it is! Yes, I mean it, Serge; you are just like a human bull. Now, look here; do as I tell you. You have got to go and speak to father as I say."

"Nay, boy," said the man, solemnly, "not a word. I am going to do my bit of work, the last job I shall ever do here, and then it will be good-bye."

Marcus sprang up in a pa.s.sion.

"I can't bring you to your senses," he said. "You are too stubborn and blunt. If you won't promise me you will go and speak to father, I shall go myself and tell him all you say."

"Do, boy; that's right! I like to hear you turn like that. Hit me and kick me if you will. It will all make it easier for me to go away."

Marcus stood up before him, looking at him fiercely, and he was about to flash out a torrent of angry words, but, feeling that he would say something of which he might afterwards repent, he dashed out of the room and made for his father's study.

CHAPTER SIX.

MAKING THE BEST OF IT.

Cracis was deep in thought, seated by the open window, with the double roll of a volume in his hands, reading slowly line by line of the old papyrus Romano-Grecian writings of one of the philosophers, and, as he came to each line's end, it slowly disappeared beneath the upper roll, while the nether was opened out to leave the next line visible to the reader's eye.

Marcus dashed in loudly, but stopped short as he saw how his father was occupied, and waited for him to speak; but Cracis was deep in his studies and heard him not, so, bubbling over with impatience, the boy advanced and laid his hand upon the student's arm.

Cracis looked up, wonderingly, and seemed to be obliged to drag his attention from the book, smiling pleasantly in the flushed face of his son, and with every trace of anger missing from his own.

"Well, boy," he said, gently, "what is it? Something you can't make out?"