The officer turned upon him angrily.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” he roared.
The old man pointed to Marcus and Serge.
“Two brave fighting men,” he cried; “volunteers, well-armed and trained, who want to join.”
“Oh, I’ve all I want,” cried the captain, roughly, “and—” He stopped short, for, as he spoke, he ran his eyes over the two strangers, resting them longest upon Serge, and he hesitated.
“Here, you,” he said, as he noted the way in which Marcus’ companion was caparisoned, “you’ve been in the army before?”
“Years, captain,” cried Serge, with military promptness. “I served with Cracis and Julius in the old war.”
“Hah! You’ll do,” cried the captain. “But I don’t want boys.”
Marcus’ spirits had been rising to the highest point, but the contemptuous tone in which these words were uttered dashed his hopes to the ground, and he listened despairingly as in imagination he saw himself rudely separated from his companion and left behind.
The thoughts were instantaneous, and he was consoling himself with the reflection that Serge would not forsake him, and anticipating the old soldier’s words, as Serge turned sharply upon his new commander.