“Yes, sir,” cried Marcus, forcing him a little more back, and fixing him with his eyes, “what are you doing here?”
“Well, I—er—I—I’m here to take you back.”
“You old shuffler!” cried Marcus, in a rage. “I can see through you. My father’s orders, indeed! What were his orders to you, sir? Weren’t they to stop and take care of his house and belongings, and of me?”
“Well, they was something like that,” growled the man, softly; “but don’t drive your knuckles into my throat like that, my lad. You hurt.”
“Hurt! Yes, and you deserve it,” cried Marcus, growing stronger in his attack upon the old servant as the latter grew more confused and weak. “So this is the way you obey my father’s commands. You took upon yourself to go into his room and help yourself to the armour you have on. Confess, you did; didn’t you?”
“Well, if it comes to that, Master Marcus,” grumbled the man, “it was my armour, and wouldn’t fit no one else.”
“That’s shuffling again, Serge, and it’s no good. You took the armour, unknown to my father?”
“Course I did, my lad,” cried the man, recovering himself a little. “He wasn’t there, was he?”
“Pah!” ejaculated Marcus. “More shuffling. Now then, confess: you took the armour and disobeyed the orders given you. What is more, you forsook me and left me to myself. Speak out; you did, didn’t you?”
“Well, I s’pose it’s o’ no use to deny it, Master Marcus. I s’pose I did.”