“Ha!” cried the officer, looking at him searchingly. “Then why are you at the rear?”
Marcus’ spirits had been rising again, and his eyes were sparkling, lit up as they were by hope; but at that question down they went directly to the lowest point.
He tried hard to look firmly in the captain’s face, but his eyes would blench. He tried to speak, but he could not answer, and he stood quivering in every nerve, shamefaced and humbled, while his trouble increased and he turned his eyes upon Serge, looking appealingly at him for help, as the big officer suddenly exclaimed, as he caught him by the shoulder:
“Why, you young dog, it’s all written in your face! You’ve run away! Ha-ha! I don’t mean from the fight, but to it. Let me see. Am I right? You being a trained young soldier, wanted to go with your father to the war, and he told you to stay at home. You’ve run away to follow him. Am I right?”
Marcus looked at him firmly now. There was no shrinking in his eyes, for he was uttering the truth.
“Yes, sir,” he said, huskily; “quite right.”
“Well, but I say, captain,” growled Serge, “that’s all true enough, every word. But the boy aren’t a bit worse than me. The master said I was to stop at home and mind him and the swine and things about the farm; but I couldn’t do it with the smell of battle in the air, being an old soldier, don’t you see, and the master gone to lead. I felt like the boy did, ashamed to stop and let one’s armour rust when Rome’s enemies were waiting to be beaten. I felt obliged to come, and so did young Marcus here. A brave boy, captain, so don’t be hard.”
“Hah!” cried the captain, frowning severely. “A nice pair, both of you! It isn’t likely, but how could I meet Cracis or Julius by and by if I took you into my following?”
“Oh, we’d keep out of sight, captain,” growled Serge.
The captain pointed mockingly at Marcus.